‘I know what you think of my uncle, but he is not—’ Laurent spoke after a pause.
‘Not?’
‘He won’t hurt the child,’ said Laurent. ‘Whether it is your son or Kastor’s, it is leverage. It is leverage against you, against your armies, and against your men.’
‘You mean that it hurts me more that my son is alive and whole than it would if he were maimed or dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Laurent.
He said it seriously, looking into Damen’s eyes. Damen felt every muscle in his body ache with the effort of not thinking of it. Of not thinking the other, darker thought, the one that at all costs must be avoided. He tried to think instead of a way forward, though it was impossible.
He had an entire army gathered, Veretians and Akielons alike, ready to march south. He had spent months with Laurent assembling their forces, establishing a base of power, setting up supply lines, winning soldiers to their cause.
In one stroke, the Regent had rendered his army useless, unable to move, unable to fight, because if they did—
‘My uncle knows you won’t move against him while he holds the child,’ said Laurent. And then, calmly, steadily, ‘So we get him back.’
* * *
He looked for changes in her, but the cool, untouchable air was the same, as was the particular way that her eyes regarded him. She had the same colouring as Laurent. She had the same mathematical mind. They were like a matched pair, except that her presence was different. There was a part of Laurent that was always in tension, even when he affected calm. Jokaste’s unassailable composure seemed like serenity, until you knew she was dangerous. A similar core of steel, perhaps, existed in both.
She was waiting for him in her solar, where he’d allowed her to be reinstated, under heavy guard. She sat elegantly, with her ladies arranged around her, like flowers in a garden. She didn’t seem perturbed by her incarceration, or even really to notice it.
After his long, scrolling look around the room, he sat himself in the chair opposite her, and as if the soldiers who had entered behind him didn’t exist.
He said, ‘Is there a child?’
‘I have told you that there is,’ said Jokaste.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Damen.
The attending women seated around Jokaste were of varying ages, from the eldest of perhaps sixty to the youngest, Jokaste’s age, around twenty-four. He guessed tha
t all seven had been in her household a long time. The woman with the braided black hair was someone he vaguely recognised (Kyrina?). The two slaves were also faintly familiar. He didn’t recognise the older maidservant, or the remaining ladies of good birth. He let his eyes pass over them slowly. All were silent. He returned his gaze to Jokaste.
‘Let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to be executed. You are going to be executed whatever you say or do. But I will spare your women, if they agree to answer my questions.’
Silence. Not one of the women spoke or came forward.
He said to the soldiers behind him, ‘Take them.’
Jokaste said, ‘This plan of action will mean the death of the child.’
He said, ‘We haven’t established that there is a child.’
She smiled, as if pleased to discover a pet capable of a trick. ‘You’ve never been very good at games. I don’t think you have what it takes to play against me.’
He said, ‘I’ve changed.’
The soldiers had halted, but there was a ripple among the ladies now at their presence, as Damen sat back in his chair.
She said, ‘Kastor will kill it. I will tell Kastor that the child is yours, and he’ll kill it. Sophisticated thoughts about using it as leverage won’t enter his mind.’
He said, ‘I believe Kastor will kill any child he believes is mine. But you have no means of getting a message to Kastor.’
‘The child’s wet nurse,’ said Jokaste, ‘will tell Kastor the truth if I am killed.’
‘If you are killed.’