‘The barracks,’ said Damen, and weathered the impact of Govart’s shoulder against his own as Govart strode out.
The stableboy stared at Damen, breathing hard. He was braced against the wall with one hand; the other was between his legs in furious modesty. Wordlessly, Damen picked up the boy’s pants and tossed them at him.
‘He was supposed to pay me a copper sol,’ said the stableboy, sullenly.
Damen said, ‘I’ll take it up with the Prince.’
* * *
And then it was time to report to the castellan, who led him up steps and all the way into the bedchamber.
It was not as ornate as the palace chambers in Arles. The walls were thick hewn stone. The windows were frosted glass, criss-crossed with lattice. With the darkness outside, they did not offer a view, but instead reflected the shadows of the room. A frieze of twining vine leaves ran around the room. There was a carved mantle and a banked fire; and lamps, and wall hangings, and the cushions and silks of a separate slave pallet, he noticed, with a feeling of relief. Dominating the room was the heavy opulence of the bed.
The walls around the bed were panelled in dark, carved wood, depicting a hunting scene in which a boar was held at the end of a spear, pierced through the neck. There was no sign of the blue and gold starburst. The draperies were blood red.
Damen said, ‘These are the Regent’s chambers.’ There was something uneasily transgressive about the idea of sleeping in the place meant for Laurent’s uncle. ‘The Prince stays here often?’
The castellan mistook him to mean the keep, not the rooms. ‘Not often. He and his uncle came here a great deal together, in the year or two after Marlas. As he grew older, the Prince lost his taste for the runs here. He now comes only rarely to Chastillon.’
At the order of the castellan, servants brought him bread and meat and he ate. They cleared away the plates, and brought in a beautifully shaped pitcher and goblets, and left, perhaps by accident, the knife. Damen looked at the knife and thought about how much he would have given for an oversight like that when he was trussed up in Arles: a knife that he might take and use to prise his way out of the palace.
He sat himself down to wait.
On the table before him was a detailed map of Vere and Akielos, each hill and crest, each town and keep meticulously recorded. The river Seraine snaked its way south, but he already knew they were not following the river. He put his fingertip on Chastillon and traced one possible path to Delpha, south through Vere until he reached the line that marked the edge of his own country, all the place names written jarringly in Veretian: Achelos, Delfeur.
In Arles, the Regent had sent assassins to kill his nephew. It had been death at the bottom of a poisoned cup, at the end of a drawn sword. That was not what was happening here. Throw together two feuding companies, put them under a partisan, intolerant captain, and hand the result to a green commander-prince. This group was going to tear itself apart.
And likely there was nothing Damen could do to stop it happening. This was going to be a ride of disintegrating morale; the ambush that surely awaited them at the border would devastate a company already in disarray, ruined by in-fighting and negligent leadership. Laurent was the only counterweight against the Regent, and Damen would do all he had promised to keep him alive, but the stark truth of this ride to the border was that it felt like the last play in a game that was already over.
Whatever business Laurent had with Govart kept him deep into the night. The sounds from the keep grew quiet; the fluttering of the flames grew audible in the hearth.
Damen sat and waited, his hands loosely clasped. The feelings that freedom—the illusion of freedom—stirred in him were strange. He thought of Jord and Aimeric and all Laurent’s men working through the night to prepare for an early departure. There were house servants in the keep, and he was not eager for Laurent’s return. But as he waited in the empty rooms, the fire flickering in the hearth, his eyes passing over the careful lines of the map, he was conscious, as he had seldom been during his captivity, of being alone.
Laurent entered, and Damen rose from his seat. Orlant could be glimpsed in the doorway behind him.
‘You can go. I don’t need a guard on the door,’ said Laurent.
Orlant nodded. The door closed.
Laurent said, ‘I have saved you till last.’
Damen said, ‘You owe the stableboy a copper sol.’
‘The stableboy should learn to demand payment before he bends over.’
Laurent calmly helped himself to goblet and pitcher, pouring himself a drink. Damen couldn’t help glancing at the goblet, remembering the last time they had been alone together in Laurent’s rooms.
Pale brows arched a fraction. ‘Your virtue’s safe. It’s just water. Probably.’ Laurent took a sip, then lowered the goblet, holding it in refined fingers. He glanced at the chair, as a host might offering a seat, and said, as though the words amused him, ‘Make yourself comfortable. You are going to stay the night.’
‘No restraints?’ said Damen. ‘You don’t think I’ll try to leave, pausing only to kill you on the way out?’
‘Not until we get closer to the border,’ said Laurent.
He returned Damen’s gaze evenly. There was no sound but the crack and pop of the banked fire.
‘You really do have ice in your veins, don’t you,’ said Damen.
Laurent placed the goblet carefully back on the table, and picked up the knife.