CHAPTER 5
IT WAS A little too ambitious of Laurent to think that he could extricate himself, easily and discreetly, from a court gathering of which his own censure had been the centrepiece.
Damen, held at the end of a leash, watched as Laurent's progress was thwarted again and again by those who wished to commiserate. There was a press of silk and cambric and solicitude. For Damen, it was not a reprieve, just a delay. He felt at every moment Laurent's hold on the leash, like a promise. Damen felt a tension that wasn't fear. Under different circumstances, without guards or witnesses, he might relish the chance to be alone in a room with Laurent.
Laurent was indeed good at talking. He accepted sympathy gracefully. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously.
But even to Damen, who had no great knowledge of the politics of this court, it was significant that all five councillors had left with the Regent. It was a sign of the Regent's comparative power: he had the full backing of the Council. Laurent's faction, left here griping in the audience chamber, did not like it. They did not have to like it. They could do nothing about it.
This, then, was the time for Laurent to do his best to shore up support, not disappear off somewhere for a private tête-à-tête with his slave.
And yet, despite all of this, they were leaving the audience chamber, and moving through a series of interior courtyards large enough to contain trees, geometric greenery, fountains and winding paths. Across the courtyard, glimpses of the continuing revelry could be seen; the trees moved and the lights from the entertainment across the way winked, brightly.
They were not alone. Following at a discreet distance were two guards for Laurent's protection. As always. And the courtyard itself was not empty. More than once, they passed couples promenading on the paths, and once, Damen saw a pet and courtier twining around one another on a bench, sensuously kissing.
Laurent led them to an arbour, vine-bowered. Beside it was a fountain and a long pool tangled with lilies. Laurent tied Damen's leash to the metalwork of the bower, as he might tie a horse's lead to a post. He had to stand very close to Damen in order to do it, but gave no sign that he was bothered by the proximity. The tether was nothing more than an insult. Not being a dumb animal, Damen was perfectly capable of untying the leash. What kept him in place was not the thin golden chain casually looped around the metal, it was the liveried guard, and the presence of half the court, and a great many men besides that, between him and freedom.
Laurent moved off a few steps. Damen saw him lift a hand to the back of his own neck, as if to release tension. Saw him do nothing for a moment but stand and be quiet and breathe the cool air scented with night flowers. It occurred to Damen for the first time that Laurent might have his own reasons for wanting to escape the attention of the court.
The tension rose, surfacing, as Laurent turned back to him.
'You don't have a very good sense of self-preservation, do you, little pet? Bleating to my uncle was a mistake,' said Laurent.
'Because you got your hand slapped?' said Damen.
'Because it's going to anger all those guards you've taken so much trouble cultivating,' said Laurent. 'They tend to dislike servants who place self-interest above loyalty.'
Expecting a direct assault, he was unprepared for one that came at him obliquely, sideways. He set his jaw, let his gaze rake up and down Laurent's form.
'You can't touch your uncle, so you lash out where you can. I'm not afraid of you. If there's something you're going to do to me, do it.'
'You poor, misguided animal,' said Laurent. 'Whatever made you think I came here for you?'
Damen blinked.
'Then again,' said Laurent, 'maybe I do need you for one thing.' He wound the thin chain once around his own wrist, and then, with a sharp jerk, he snapped it. The two ends slithered away from his wrist and dropped, dangling. Laurent took a step backwards. Damen looked at the broken chain in confusion.
'Your Highness,' said a voice.
Laurent said, 'Councillor Herode.'
'Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,' began Herode. Then he saw Damen and hesitated. 'Forgive me. I . . . assumed you would come alone.'
'Forgive you?' said Laurent.
A silence opened up around Laurent's words. In it, their meaning changed. Herode began, 'I—' Then he looked at Damen, and his expression grew alarmed. 'Is this safe? He's broken his leash. Guard!'
There was the shrill sound of a sword drawn from a sheath. Two swords. The guards pushed their way into the arbour and interposed themselves between Damen and Herode. Of course.
'You've made your point,' Herode said, with a wary eye on Damen. 'I hadn't seen the slave's rebellious side. You seemed to have him under control in the ring. And the slaves gifted to your uncle are so obedient. If you attend the entertainments later, you'll see that for yourself.'
'I've seen them,' said Laurent. There was a little silence.
'You know how close I was to your father,' said Herode. 'Since his death, I have given my loyalty unswervingly to your uncle. I'm concerned that in this case it may have led me to make an error of judgement—'
'If you're concerned that my memory for wrongs against me is longer than ten months,' said Laurent, 'there's no need for anxiety. I am sure you can persuade me you were genuinely mistaken.'
Herode said, 'Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden. The slave can avail himself of the garden seat and rest his injuries.'
'How thoughtful of you, Councillor,' said Laurent. He turned to Damen and said in a melting voice, 'Your back must hurt terribly.'
'It's fine,' said Damen.
'Kneel on the ground, then,' Laurent said.
A hard grip on his shoulder forced him down; as soon as Damen's knees hit the ground, a sword was held to his throat to dissuade him from rising. Herode and Laurent were disappearing away together, just one more couple wandering the perfumed garden paths.
The revelry across the way began to spill out into the garden, and, steadily, its population increased, and lanterns were hung, and servants began to wander about with refreshments. The place where Damen knelt remained reasonably out of the way, but occasionally courtiers passed him, and remarked on him: look, there is the Prince's barbarian slave.
Frustration curled in him like a lash. He was once again tied up. The guard was less nonchalant about restraining him than Laurent. He was chained to the metal bower by his collar, and this time it was a real chain, not something he could snap.
Little pet, thought Damen with disgust. From Herode's fraught exchange with Laurent he picked the only salient piece of information.
Somewhere inside, not far away, were the other Akielon slaves.
Damen's mind returned to them. His concern for their wellbeing persisted, but their proximity raised perturbing questions. What was the provenance of these slaves? Were they palace slaves, trained by Adrastus, and brought as Damen had been directly from the capital? Held in solitary confinement aboard the ship, Damen had not yet seen the slaves, nor had they seen him. But if they were palace slaves, handpicked from the best of those who served royalty in Akielos, there was a chance that they would recognise him.
In the unfolding quiet of the courtyard, he heard the soft chime of small bells.
Chained up in an obscure part of the garden away from the courtly entertainments, it was just sheer bad luck that one of the slaves was brought to him.
On the end of a leash, led by a Veretian pet. The slave wore a petite version of Damen's gold collar and wrist-cuffs. The pet was the source of the bells. He was belled like a cat, at his throat. He was wearing a great deal of paint. And he was familiar.
It was Councillor Audin's pet, the child.
Damen cheerlessly supposed that to those susceptible to little boys, this pet probably had charms in abundance. Under the paint, he had a child's fine clear skin. If his features had been possessed by a girl of the same age, they would have promised, given half a dozen years, a superlatively beautiful young woman. A learned grace disguised, for the most part, the limitations of his undersized child's limbs. Like Damen, he had precious stones woven into his hair, though in his case they were seed pearls, glinting like stars in a tumble of brown curls. His best feature was a pair of amazing blue eyes, unmatched by any Damen had ever seen, except for the ones he had recently been staring into.
The boy's pretty bow lips formed the shape of a kiss, and he spat, right into Damen's face.
'My name is Nicaise,' he said. 'You're not important enough to refuse me. Your master had all his land and money taken away. Even if he hadn't, you're just a slave. The Regent sent me to find the Prince. Where is he?'
'He went back to the audience chamber,' Damen said. To say that he was taken aback by Nicaise was an understatement. The lie just came out.
Nicaise stared at him. Then he tugged brutally on the slave's leash. The slave was wrenched forward and almost overbalanced, like a colt on over-long legs. 'I'm not going to drag you around all night. Wait here for me.' Nicaise tossed the slave's leash onto the ground and turned on his heel, bells chiming.
Damen lifted his hand to his wet face. Instantly, the slave was on his knees beside him, and a soft hand was on his wrist, drawing it back.
'Please, let me. You will smudge the paint.'
The slave was looking right at him. Damen saw no recognition in his face. The slave simply lifted the hem of his tunic and used it to dab gently at Damen's cheek.
Damen relaxed. He thought, a little ruefully, that it was probably arrogant of him to have assumed that the slave would know him. He supposed that he looked rather unlike a prince, in gold shackles and gold paint, shackled to an arbour in the middle of a Veretian garden.
He also felt sure that this slave was not from the palace in Akielos; Damen would have noticed him. The slave's colouring was eye-catching. His skin was fair and his curling light brown hair was burnished with gold. He was exactly the type that Damen could have drawn down onto the sheets and spent a very pleasant couple of hours enjoying.
The slave's careful fingers touched his face. Damen felt a moment of obscure guilt for having sent Nicaise off on a wild goose chase. But he was also glad for this unexpected moment alone with a slave from his homeland.
'What's your name?' said Damen, softly.
'Erasmus.'
'Erasmus, it's good to talk to another Akielon.'
He meant it. The contrast between this demure, lovely slave and the spiteful Nicaise made him crave the straightforward simplicity of home. At the same time, Damen felt a throb of concern for the Akielon slaves. Their sweet-natured obedience was hardly a blueprint for survival in this court. Damen guessed Erasmus to be about eighteen or nineteen, yet he would be eaten alive by thirteen-year-old Nicaise. Let alone Laurent.
'There was a slave who was kept drugged and bound aboard the ship,' Erasmus said, tentatively. From the first, he had spoken Akielon. 'They said he was given to the Prince.'
Damen nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. As well as tousled light brown curls, Erasmus had a pair of the most hopelessly artless hazel eyes Damen had ever seen.
'What a charming picture,' said a woman's voice.
Jerking back from Damen, Erasmus instantly prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the ground. Damen stayed where he was. Kneeling and shackled was quite submissive enough.
The woman who had spoken was Vannes. She was strolling the garden paths with two noblemen. One of the men had a pet with him, a red-haired youth who Damen also faintly recognised from the ring.
'Don't stop on our account,' said the redhead, tartly.
Damen glanced sideways at Erasmus, who hadn't moved. It was unlikely that Erasmus could speak Veretian.
His master laughed: 'Another minute or two and we might have caught them kissing.'
'I wonder if the Prince could be persuaded to have his slave entertain with the others?' said Vannes. 'It's not often you get to see a really powerful male perform. It was a shame to pull him out of the ring before he had a chance to mount anyone.'
'I'm not sure I'd care to watch him, after what we saw tonight.' The master of the redhead spoke.
'I think it's more exciting now that we know he's really dangerous,' said the red-headed pet.
'It's a shame his back is ruined, but the front is very nice,' said Vannes. 'We saw more of it at the ring, of course. As for the danger . . . Councillor Guion suggested that he wasn't trained to perform as a pleasure slave. But training isn't everything. He might have natural talent.'
Damen was silent. To react to these courtiers would be madness; the only possible course of action was to stay quiet and hope they would grow bored and drift off; and that was what Damen was determinedly doing, when the one thing happened that was guaranteed to make any situation spectacularly worse.
'Natural talent?' said Laurent.
He strolled into the gathering. The courtiers all bobbed respectfully, and Vannes explained the subject under consideration. Laurent turned to Damen.
'Well?' Laurent said. 'Can you couple adequately, or do you just kill things?'
Damen thought that given the choice between the lash and a conversation with Laurent, he might actually choose the lash.
'He's not very talkative,' remarked Vannes.
'It comes and goes,' said Laurent.
'I'd happily perform with him.' It was the pet with the red hair. Ostensibly, he spoke to his master, but the words carried.
'Ancel, no. He could hurt you.'
'Would you like that?' said the pet, sliding his arms around his master's neck. Just before he did so, he glanced sideways at Laurent.
'No. I wouldn't.' His master frowned.
But it was obvious that Ancel's provocative question had been aimed not at his master, but at Laurent. The boy was angling for royal attention. Damen was sickened by the idea of some nobleman's boy offering himself up to be hurt on the assumption that it would play to Laurent's tastes. Then he thought of all he knew of Laurent, and only felt sicker, because of course the boy's assumptions were probably correct.
'What do you think, Your Highness?' said Ancel.
'I think your master would prefer you intact,' said Laurent, dryly.
'You could tie the slave up,' said Ancel.
It was a testament to Ancel's lacquered skill that it came out teasing and seductive, rather than what it was, a last attempt of a climber to catch and hold a prince's attention.
It almost didn't work. Laurent seemed unmoved by Ancel's flirtatiousness, even bored by it. He had tossed Damen into the ring, but in the sex-drenched atmosphere of the stands, Laurent's pulse had not even appeared to flicker. He had been singularly immune to the carnality of what the Veretians called 'performance', the only courtier without a pet fawning all over him.
They say he's frigid, Jord had said.
'What about something small, while we wait for the main entertainment?' said Vannes. 'Surely it's past time for the slave to learn his place?'
Damen saw Laurent absorb those words. Saw him stop and give the idea his full attention, turning the decision over in his mind.
And saw him make it, his mouth curling, his expression hardening.
'Why not?' Laurent said.
'No,' said Damen, a surge in his chest, half-stymied as he felt hands on him. Fighting in earnest against armed guards, in front of witnesses and in the middle of a crowded court, was an act of self-destruction. But his mind and body rebelled, dragging instinctively at the handling.
A lovers' bench nestled inside the bower, creating two curved semi-circles. The courtiers made themselves at ease on it, occupying one side. Vannes suggested wine and a servant was fetched with a tray. One or two other courtiers wandered over, and Vannes struck up a conversation with one of them about the embassy from Patras, due to arrive in a few days.
Damen was lashed to the seat on the other side, facing them.
There was an air of unreality about what was happening. Ancel's master was delineating the encounter. The slave would be tied up, and Ancel would use his mouth. Vannes protested that it was so rare for the Prince to agree to a performance, they should make the most of it. Ancel's master would not be swayed.
This was really going to happen. Damen gripped the metalwork of the bower, his wrists cuffed to it above his head. He was going to be pleasured for a Veretian audience. He was probably just one of a dozen discreet entertainments that would unfold in this garden.
Damen's eyes fixed on Ancel. He almost told himself that this was not the pet's fault, except that, in a large part, it was.
Ancel dropped to his knees and found his way into Damen's slave garments. Damen looked down at him and could not have felt less aroused. Even under the best of circumstances, green-eyed, red-haired Ancel was not his type. He looked about nineteen, and though his was not the obscene youth of Nicaise, his body was delicately boyish. His beauty was in fact polished, self-conscious prettiness.
Pet, thought Damen. The word fit. Ancel pushed his long hair to one side, and began without any formality. He was practised, and manipulated Damen expertly with mouth and hands. Damen wondered if he should feel sympathetic or pleased that Ancel was not going to have his moment of triumph: not even half hard under Ancel's ministrations, Damen doubted he would be able to come for the pleasure of an audience. If there was anything explicit on view, it must be the absence of all desire to be where he was.
There was a faint rustle, and, cool as the water beneath the lily, Laurent came to sit beside him.
'I wonder if we can do better than this,' Laurent said. 'Stop.'
Ancel detached himself from his endeavours and looked up, lips wet.
'You're more likely to win a game if you don't play your whole hand at once,' said Laurent. 'Start more slowly.'
Damen reacted to Laurent's words with inevitable tension. Ancel was close enough for Damen to feel his breath, a hot, focused cloud of heat that rolled in place, a susurration over sensitive skin. 'Like this?' Ancel asked. His mouth was an inch from its destination, and his hands slid softly up Damen's thighs. His wet lips parted slightly. Damen, against his will, reacted.
'Like that,' said Laurent.
'Shall I . . . ?' said Ancel, leaning forward.
'Don't use your mouth yet,' said Laurent. 'Just your tongue.'
Ancel obeyed. He tongued the head, an elusive touch, barely the suggestion of itself. Not enough pressure. Laurent was watching Damen's face with the same cerebral attention that he might apply to a strategic problem. Ancel's tongue pressed into the slit.
'He likes that. Do it harder,' said Laurent.
Damen swore, a single Akielon word. Unable to resist the flickering lures being played across its flesh, his body was awakening, and beginning to crave rhythm. Ancel's tongue curled lazily around the head.
'Now lick him. The whole length.'
Cool words preceded a long, hot lick, wet from base to tip. Damen could feel his thighs tighten, then, minutely, spread, his breath quickening in his chest. He wanted out of the restraints. There was a metallic sound as he pulled against the cuffs, his hands fists. He turned towards Laurent.
It was a mistake to look at him. Even in the shadows of evening, Damen could see the relaxed arrangement of Laurent's body, the marmoreal perfection of his features, and the detached unconcern with which he gazed at Damen, not bothering to so much as glance down at Ancel's moving head.
If you believed the Prince's Guard, Laurent was the impregnable citadel, and took no lovers at all. Right now Laurent gave the impression of a mind somewhat engaged, and a body wholly aloof, untouched by ardour. The ribald fancy of the Prince's Guard held a kernel of plausibility.
On the other hand, the aloof, untouched Laurent was at this moment delivering a precise treatise on cocksucking.
And Ancel obeyed instruction, his mouth doing what it was told. Laurent's commands were leisurely, unhurried, and he had the refined practice of suspending his engagements at the very moment they began to get interesting. Damen was used to taking pleasure where he wished, touching where he wanted, coaxing responses from his partners as he pleased. Frustration peaked as gratification was stymied, relentlessly. Every part of him suffused with thwarted sensation, the cool air over his hot skin, the head in his lap just one part of a whole that included the awareness of where he was and who was sitting beside him.
'Push down on it,' Laurent said.
Damen felt the breath release shatteringly from his chest at the first long wet slide, down onto his cock. Ancel couldn't quite take it all, though his throat was exquisitely trained, lacking a gag reflex. Laurent's next order came like a tap on the shoulder, and Ancel drew obediently back up to do no more than suckle the head.
Damen could hear the sound of his own breathing now, even over the clamouring of his flesh. Even without rhythmical attention, diffuse pleasure was beginning to coalesce into something more urgent; he could feel the shift, the orientation of his body towards climax.
Laurent uncrossed his legs, and rose.
'Finish him off,' said Laurent, incidentally and without a backwards glance, returning to the other courtiers to make a few remarks about the subject currently under discussion, as though he had no particular need to see out the conclusion now that it was inevitable.
The image of Ancel absorbing his erection was joined in his fragmenting thoughts by the sudden harsh desire to get his hands on Laurent's body and exact revenge—both for his actions and for his airy absence. Orgasm rolled up like flame over a hot surface, striping out seed that was, professionally, swallowed.
'A little slow in the beginning, but quite a satisfactory climax,' said Vannes.
Damen was unshackled from the lovers' seat and pushed back down onto his knees. Laurent was seated opposite, legs crossed. Damen's eyes fixed on him, and looked nowhere else; his breathing was still noticeable, and his pulse rapid, but anger produced all the same effects.
The musical sound of bells intruded on the gathering; Nicaise interrupted without any sign of deference to those of higher rank at all.
'I'm here to speak to the Prince,' said Nicaise.
Laurent lifted his fingers minutely, and Vannes, Ancel and the others took it as a signal to make a brief obeisance, and depart.
Nicaise came to stand in front of the bench and stared at Laurent with an expression of hostility. Laurent, for his part, was relaxed, one arm spread out over the back of the bench.
'Your uncle wants to see you.'
'Does he? Let's make him wait.'
One pair of unlikeable blue eyes stared at another. Nicaise sat down. 'I don't mind. The longer you wait the more trouble you'll be in.'
'Well, as long as you don't mind,' said Laurent. He sounded amused.
Nicaise lifted his chin. 'I'm going to tell him you waited on purpose.'
'You can if you like. I just assumed he'd guess, but you can save him the effort. Since we're waiting, shall I call for refreshments?' He gestured to the last of the tray-bearing servants, who stopped his retreat and approached. 'Do you take wine, or aren't you old enough yet?'
'I'm thirteen. I drink whenever I like.' Nicaise scorned the tray, pushing at it so hard it almost overbalanced. 'I'm not going to drink with you. We don't need to start pretending politeness.'
'Don't we? Very well: I think it is fourteen by now, isn't it?'
Nicaise turned red, under the paint.
'I thought so,' said Laurent. 'Have you thought about what you're going to do, after? If I know your master's tastes, you have another year, at most. At your age the body begins to betray itself.' And then, reacting to something in the boy's face: 'Or has it started already?'
The red grew strident. 'That isn't any of your business.'
'You're right, it isn't,' said Laurent.
Nicaise opened his mouth, but Laurent continued before he could speak.
'I'll offer for you, if you like. When the time comes. I wouldn't want you in my bed, but you'd have all the same privileges. You might prefer that. I'd offer.'
Nicaise blinked, and then sneered. 'With what?'
A breath of amusement from Laurent. 'Yes, if I have any land left at all, I may have to sell it to buy bread, never mind pets. We will both have to navigate the next ten months on the tips of our toes.'
'I don't need you. He's promised. He's not going to give me up.' Nicaise's voice was smug and self-satisfied.
'He gives them all up,' said Laurent, 'even if you're more enterprising than the others have been.'
'He likes me better than the others.' A scornful laugh. 'You're jealous.' And then it was Nicaise's turn to react to something he saw in Laurent's face, and he said, with a horror Damen didn't understand, 'You're going to tell him you want me.'
'Oh,' said Laurent. 'No. Nicaise . . . no. That would wreck you. I wouldn't do that.' Then his voice became almost tired. 'Maybe it's better if you think that I would. You have quite a good mind for strategy, to have thought of that. Maybe you will hold him longer than the others.' For a moment it seemed as if Laurent would say something else, but in the end he just stood up from the bench, and held his hand out to the boy. 'Come on. Let's go. You can watch me get told off by my uncle.'
