‘You mean bribes,’ he said, later, frowning.
He knew that Vere was on better terms with the mountain people than Akielos or even Patras. If you believed Nikandros, Vere maintained these relations through an elaborate system of payments and bribes. In exchange for funding from Vere, Vaskians raided where they were told. It was probably done exactly like this, thought Damen, eyes raking over the packs. Certainly if the bribes that flowed from Laurent’s uncle were anything like this generous, they could buy enough raiders to henpeck Nikandros forever.
Damen watched as the woman accepted a king’s ransom in silver and jewellery. Safety. Passage. Leader. A lot of the same words were exchanged.
It was dawning on Damen that the first woman had not come to deliver a dress either.
The next night, alone in the tent, Laurent said:
‘As we draw closer to the border, I think it would be safer—more private—to hold our discussions in your language rather than mine.’
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He said it in carefully pronounced Akielon.
Damen stared at him, feeling as though the world had just been rearranged.
‘What is it?’ said Laurent.
‘Nice accent,’ said Damen, because despite everything, the corner of his mouth was beginning helplessly to curve up.
Laurent’s eyes narrowed.
‘You mean in case of eavesdroppers,’ said Damen, mostly just to see if Laurent knew the word ‘eavesdroppers’.
Steadily: ‘Yes.’
And so they talked. Laurent’s vocabulary hit its limits when it came to military terms and manoeuvres, but Damen filled in the gaps. It was of course no surprise to find that Laurent had a well-stocked armoury of elegant phrases and bitchy remarks, but could not talk in detail about anything sensible.
Damen had to keep reminding himself not to grin. He didn’t know why listening to Laurent pick his way through the Akielon language had him in good spirits, but it did. Laurent did indeed have a pronounced Veretian accent, which softened and blurred consonants and added a lilt, with stresses on unexpected syllables. It transformed the Akielon words, gave them a hint of exoticism, of luxuriousness that was very Veretian, though that effect was at least partially combatted by the precision of Laurent’s speaking. Laurent spoke Akielon as a fastidious man might pick up a soiled handkerchief, between thumb and forefinger.
For his own part, being able to speak freely in his own language was like having a weight lifted from his shoulders that he had not realised he was carrying. It was late when Laurent called a halt to the discussion, pushing a half-drunk goblet of water away from himself, and stretching.
‘We’re done for the night. Come here and attend me.’
Those words rattled around in his mind. Damen stood, slowly. Responding felt more servile when the command came in his own language.
He was presented with a familiar view of straight shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. He was used to stripping Laurent of his armour, his outer clothes. It was a normal evening ritual between them. Damen took a step forward, and put his hands on the fabric above Laurent’s shoulder blades.
‘Well? Begin,’ said Laurent.
‘I don’t think we need a private language for this,’ he said.
‘You don’t like it?’ said Laurent.
He knew better than to say what he did or didn’t like. Laurent’s voice held a hint of interest at his discomfort that was always dangerous. They were still speaking in Akielon.
‘Perhaps if I were more authentic,’ said Laurent. ‘How does an owner command a bed slave in Akielos? Teach me.’
Damen’s fingers were tangled in laces; they went still over a first sliver of white shirt. ‘Teach you how to command a bed slave?’
‘You said in Nesson that you had used slaves,’ said Laurent. ‘Don’t you think I should know the words?’
He forced his hands to move. ‘If you own a slave, you may command him however you like.’
‘I haven’t found that necessarily to be the case.’
‘I would prefer you to talk to me as a man,’ he heard himself say. Laurent turned under his hands.