It was a sharp knife, made for cutting meat. Damen felt his pulse quicken as Laurent came forward. Only a handful of nights ago, he had watched Laurent slit a man’s throat, spilling blood as red as the silk that covered this room’s bed. He felt shock as Laurent’s fingers touched his, pressing the hilt of the knife into his hand. Laurent took hold of Damen’s wrist below the gold cuff, firmed his grip, and drew the knife forward so that it was angled towards his own stomach. The tip of the blade pressed slightly into the dark blue of his prince’s garment.
‘You heard me tell Orlant to leave,’ said Laurent.
Damen felt Laurent’s grip slide down his wrist to his fingers, and tighten.
Laurent said, ‘I am not going to waste time on posturing and threats. Why don’t we clear up any uncertainty about your intentions?’
It was well placed, just below the rib cage. All you would have to do was push in, then angle up.
He was so infuriatingly sure of himself, proving a point. Damen felt desire come hard upon him: not wholly a desire for violence, but a desire to drive the knife into Laurent’s composure, to force him to show something other than cool indifference.
He said: ‘I’m sure there are house servants still awake. How do I know you won’t scream?’
‘Do I seem like the type to scream?’
‘I’m not going to use the knife,’ said Damen, ‘but if you’re willing to put it in my hand, you underestimate how much I want to.’
‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘I know exactly what it is to want to kill a man, and to wait.’
Damen stepped back and lowered the knife. His knuckles remained tight around it. They gazed at one another.
Laurent said, ‘When this campaign is over, I think—if you are a man and not a worm—you will attempt to gain retribution for what has happened to you. I expect it. On that day, we roll the dice and see how they fall. Until then, you serve me. Let me therefore make one thing above all clear to you: I expect your obedience. You are under my command. If you object to what you are told to do I will hear reasoned arguments in private, but if you disobey an order once it is made, I will send you back to the flogging post.’
‘Have I disobeyed an order?’ said Damen.
Laurent gave him another of those long, oddly searching looks. ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘You have dragged Govart out of the stables to do his duty, and rescued Aimeric from a fight.’
Damen said, ‘You have every other man working until dawn to prepare for tomorrow’s departure. What am I doing here?’
Another pause, and then Laurent indicated once again to the chair. This time Damen followed his prompt and sat. Laurent took the chair opposite. Between them, unfurled on the table, was all the intricate detail of the map.
‘You said you knew the territory,’ Laurent said.
CHAPTER 2
Long before they rode out the next morning, it was obvious that the Regent had chosen the worst standard of men he could find to send out with his nephew. Also obvious was the fact that they had been stationed at Chastillon to conceal their poor quality from the court. They were not even trained soldiers, they were mercenaries, second- and third-rate fighters, most of them.
With a rabble like this, Laurent’s pretty face wasn’t doing him any favours. Damen must have heard a dozen slurs and sly insinuations before he’d even saddled his horse. No wonder Aimeric had been furious: even Damen, who had frankly no objection to men slandering Laurent, was finding himself annoyed. It was disrespectful to speak that way of any commander. He’d loosen up for the right cock, he heard. He pulled too sharply on the girth strap of his horse.
He was out of sorts, perhaps. Last night had been strange, sitting across a map from Laurent, answering questions.
The fire had burned low in the hearth, warm-embered. You said you knew the territory, Laurent had said, and Damen had found himself confronted with an evening spent dispensing tactical information to an enemy he might expect to face one day, country against country, King against King.
And that was the best possible outcome: it assumed that Laurent would beat his uncle, and that Damen would return to Akielos, claiming his throne.
‘You have some objection?’ Laurent had said.
Damen had drawn in a deep breath. A strong Laurent meant a weakened Regent, and if Vere was distracted by a familial squabble over the succession, that only benefitted Akielos. Let Laurent and his uncle duke it out.
Slowly, carefully, he had started talking.
They had talked about the terrain on the border and about the route they would travel to get there. They would not be riding in a straight line south. Instead, it was to be a two-week journey southwest through the Veretian provinces of Varenne and Alier, their route hugging the Vaskian mountain border. It was a change from the direct route that had been planned by the Regent, and Laurent had already sent out riders to inform the keeps. Laurent, Damen thought, was buying himself time, extending the journey as much as was plausibly possible.
They had talked about the merits of Ravenel’s defences when compared to Fortaine. Laurent hadn’t seemed to show any inclination to sleep. He had never once glanced at the bed.
As the night wore on, Laurent had abandoned his deliberate comportment for a relaxed, youthful pose, drawing one knee up to his chest and slinging an arm around it. Damen had found his gaze drawn to the easy arrangement of Laurent’s limbs, the balance of wrist on knee, the long, finely articulated bones. He had been aware of a diffuse but growing tension, a sensation almost like he was waiting . . . waiting for something, unsure what it was. It was like being alone in a pit with a snake: the snake could relax, you could not.
About an hour before dawn, Laurent had risen. ‘We’re done for tonight,’ he had said briefly. And then, to Damen’s surprise, he had left to begin preparations for the morning. Damen had been brusquely informed that he would be summoned when he was needed.