He’d known, but to hear it was another matter, and the confirmation sent a shock down into him. In the warmth of the late afternoon, he felt himself turn cold.
‘Then . . . war
was the aim,’ he said. ‘A confession like that—if your uncle heard it, he would have no choice but to retaliate. If you’d been found—’ Raped by an Akielon slave. Murdered by Akielon knives. ‘Someone is trying to provoke war between Akielos and Vere.’
‘You have to admire it,’ said Laurent, in a detached voice. ‘It’s the perfect time to attack Akielos. Kastor is dealing with factional problems from the kyroi. Damianos, who turned the tide at Marlas, is dead. And the whole of Vere would rise up against a bastard, especially one who had cut down a Veretian prince. If only my murder weren’t the catalyst, it’s a scheme I would wholeheartedly support.’
Damen stared at him, his stomach churning in distaste at the casual words. He ignored them; ignored the final honeyed tones of regret.
Because Laurent was right: the timing was perfect. Pit a galvanised Vere against a fractured, feuding Akielos, and his country would fall. Worse, it was the northern provinces that were unstable—Delpha, Sicyon—the very provinces that lay closest to the Veretian border. Akielos was a powerful military force when the kyroi were united under a single king, but if that bond dissolved, it was no more than a collection of city states with provincial armies, none of which could stand against a Veretian attack.
In his mind’s eye he saw the future: the long train of Veretian troops moving southward, the provinces of Akielos falling one by one. He saw Veretian soldiers streaming through the palace at Ios, Veretian voices echoing in his father’s hall.
He looked at Laurent.
‘Your welfare hinges on this plot. If only for your own sake, don’t you want it stopped?’
‘I have stopped it,’ said Laurent. The astringent blue gaze was resting on him.
‘I meant,’ said Damen, ‘can’t you put aside whatever family quarrel you have, and speak honestly to your uncle?’
He felt Laurent’s surprise, transmitting itself through the air. Outside, the light was just beginning to turn orange. The fair face did not change.
‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ said Laurent.
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ said Laurent, ‘my uncle is the murderer.’
CHAPTER 13
‘BUT—IF THAT’S true—’ Damen began.
It was true; it was somehow not even a surprise, more like a truth that had grown for some time on the edge of his awareness, now brought into sharp relief. He thought: two thrones for the price of a few hire swords and a dose of pleasure drug. He remembered Nicaise, appearing in the hallway with his huge blue eyes, wearing bed clothes.
‘You can’t go to Delfeur,’ Damen said. ‘It’s a death trap.’
The moment he said it, he understood that Laurent had always known this. He recalled Laurent avoiding border duty again, and again, and again.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t take tactical advice from a slave, scant moments after he is dragged back from a failed attempt to escape.’
‘You can’t go. It isn’t just a matter of staying alive. You forfeit the throne as soon as you set foot outside the city. Your uncle will hold the capital. He has already—’ Casting his mind back over the Regent’s actions, Damen saw the series of moves that had led to this, each one played out precisely, and far in advance. ‘He has already cut off your supply lines through Varenne and Marche. You don’t have finances or troops.’
The words were an unfolding realisation. It was clear now why Laurent had worked to exonerate his slave and obfuscate the attack. If war was declared, Laurent’s life expectancy would be even shorter than it was going to be in Delfeur. To actually ride out to the border with a company of his uncle’s men was madness.
‘Why are you doing this? Is it a forced move? You can’t think of a way around it?’ Damen searched Laurent’s face. ‘Is your reputation so far in the dirt that you think the Council will choose your uncle for the throne anyway, unless you prove yourself?’
‘You are right on the edge of what I will allow from you,’ said Laurent.
‘Take me with you to Delfeur,’ said Damen.
‘No.’
‘Akielos is my country. Do you think I want her overrun by your uncle’s troops? I will do anything in my power to prevent war. Take me with you. You will need someone you can trust.’
Speaking those last words, he almost winced, immediately regretting them. Laurent had asked him for trust last night, and he had thrown the words back in his face. He would receive the same treatment.
Laurent just gave him a blankly curious look. ‘Why would I need that?’