Laurent said, ‘Yes, that was the idea.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Damen, catching Nikandros as he stepped forward again. And then, ‘Leave us. Now. Now, Nikandros.’
Angry as he was, Nikandros wouldn’t disobey a direct order. His training was too deeply ingrained. Damen stood in front of Laurent with most of his clothing bunched in his hand.
‘Why would you do that? He’ll defect.’
‘He’s not going to defect. He is your most loyal servant.’
‘So you push him to breaking point?’
‘Should I have told him I didn’t enjoy it?’ said Laurent. ‘But I did enjoy it. I liked it most near the end, when you broke down.’
They were alone. He could count the number of times they had been alone together since the alliance. Once in the tent, when he’d learned that Laurent was alive. Once at Marlas, outside in the night. Once inside, over swords.
Damen said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to collect you,’ said Laurent. ‘Nikandros was taking too long.’
‘You didn’t have to come here. You could have sent a messenger.’
In the pause that followed, Laurent’s gaze shifted involuntarily sideways. A strange prickling passing over his skin, Damen realised that Laurent was looking at the polished mirror behind him at the reflection of his scars. Their eyes met again. Laurent wasn’t often caught out, but a single glance had betrayed him. They both knew it.
Damen felt the hard ache of it. ‘Admiring your handiwork?’
‘You’re due back in the stands.’
‘I’ll join you after I’ve dressed. Unless you want to step closer. You can help stick in the pin.’
‘Do it yourself,’ said Laurent.
* * *
The course for the okton was almost fully marked out by the time they returned, seating themselves side by side, wordlessly.
The fever pitch of the crowd was bloodthirsty. The okton brought that out in them, the danger, the threat of maiming. The second of two targets was hammered onto its struts, and the attendants gave the all clear. In the heat of the day, anticipation was an insect buzz, rising to a commotion on the south-western side of the field.
Makedon’s arrival, mounted, armed, with a cadre of men behind him, caused a burst of activity in the stands. Nikandros was half rising from his seat, three of his guards placing their hands on the hilts of their swords.
Makedon wheeled his horse in front of the stands, to face Damen directly.
Damen said, ‘You missed the javelin.’
‘A village was attacked in my name,’ said Makedon. ‘I want the chance for requital.’
Makedon had a voice made for generalship that echoed across the stands, and he used it now, making sure he was heard by every spectator gathered for the games.
‘I have eight thousand men who will fight with you in Karthas. But we won’t fight under a coward or a green leader who has yet to prove himself on the field.’
Makedon looked across at the course laid out on the field for the okton, and then he looked right back at Laurent.
‘I will pledge,’ said Makedon, ‘if the Prince will ride.’
Damen heard the reaction of those around him. The Veretian Prince was, at a glance, Damen’s athletic inferior. Certainly, he avoided the training fields. No Akielon had ever seen him fight, or take exercise. He had not participated in any of today’s contests. He had done nothing more than sit, elegant and relaxed, as now.
‘Veretians do not train in the okton,’ said Damen.
‘In Akielos, the okton is known as the sport of kings,’ said Makedon. ‘Our own King will take the field. Does the Prince of Vere lack the courage to ride against him?’