by C. S. Pacat
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2013 by C. S. Pacat.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pacat, C. S.
Prince’s gambit / C. S. Pacat. — Berkley trade paperback edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-425-27427-9
eBook ISBN 978-0-698-15510-7
1. Princes—Fiction. 2. Trust—Fiction. 3. Monarchy—Fiction. 4. War stories. I. Title.
PS3616.A323P75 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014035474
publishing history
Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2015
Cover images: Heraldic Shield © AZ / Shutterstock; Castle Wall © Pedrosala / Shutterstock.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Map design by Guy Holt, guyholt.com.au.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_2
Prince's Gambit is dedicated to all the original readers and supporters of the story. It’s you who made the continuation of this story possible.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgements
CHARACTERS
AKIELOS
KASTOR, King of Akielos
DAMIANOS (Damen), heir to the throne of Akielos
JOKASTE, a lady of the Akielon court
NIKANDROS, Kyros of Delpha
MAKEDON, a commander
NAOS, a soldier
VERE
The court
THE REGENT of Vere
LAURENT, the heir to the throne of Vere
NICAISE, the Regent’s pet
GUION, Lord of Fortaine, member of the Veretian Council and the former Ambassador to Akielos
VANNIS, Ambassador to Vask
ANCEL, a pet
The Prince’s men
GOVART, Captain of the Prince’s Guard
JORD
ORLANT
ROCHERT
HUET
AIMERIC
LAZAR, one of the Regent’s mercenaries, now fighting with the Prince’s men
PASCHAL, a physician
At Nesson
CHARLS, a merchant
VOLO, a cardsharp
At Acquitart
ARNOUL, a retainer
At Ravenel
TOUARS, Lord of Ravenel
THEVENIN, his son
ENGUERRAN, Captain of Ravenel’s troops
HESTAL, advisor to Lord Touars
GUYMAR, a soldier
GUERIN, a blacksmith
At Breteau
ADRIC, a member of the minor nobility
CHARRON, a member of the minor nobility
PATRAS
TORGEIR, King of Patras
TORVELD, younger brother of King Torgeir and Ambassador to Vere
ERASMUS, his slave
VASK
HALVIK, a clan leader
KASHEL, a clanswoman
From the past
THEOMEDES, former King of Akielos and Damen’s father
EGERIA, former Queen of Akielos and Damen’s mother
HYPERMENESTRA, former mistress of Theomedes and Kastor’s mother
EUANDROS, former King of Akielos, founder of the house of Theomedes
ALERON, former King of Vere and Laurent’s father
AUGUSTE, former heir to the throne of Vere and Laurent’s older brother
CHAPTER 1
The shadows were long with sunset when they rode up, and the horizon was red. Chastillon was a single jutting tower, a dark round bulk against the sky. It was huge and old, like the castles far to the south, Ravenel and Fortaine, built to withstand battering siege. Damen gazed at the view, unsettled. He found it impossible to look at the approach without seeing the castle at Marlas, that distant tower flanked by long red fields.
‘It’s hunting country,’ said Orlant, mistaking the nature of his gaze. ‘Dare you to make a run for it.’
He said nothing. He was not here to run. It was a strange feeling to be unchained and riding with a group of Veretian soldiers of his own free will.
A day’s ride, even at the slow pace of wagons through pleasant countryside in late spring, was enough by which to judge the quality of a company. Govart did very little but sit, an impersonal shape above the swishing tail of his muscled horse, but whoever had captained these men previously had drilled them to maintain immaculate formation over the long course of a ride. The discipline was a little surprising. Damen wondered if they could hold their lines in a fight.
If they could, there was some cause for hope, though in truth, his wellspring of good mood had more to do with the outdoors, the sunshine and the illusion of freedom that came with being given a horse and a sword. Even the weight of the gold collar and cuffs on his throat and wrists could not diminish it.
The household servants had turned out to meet them, arraying themselves as they would for the arrival of any significant party. The Regent’s men, who were supposedly stationed at Chastillon awaiting the Prince’s arrival, were nowhere to be seen.
There were fifty horses to be stabled, fifty sets of armour and tack to be unstrapped, and fifty places to be readied in the barracks—and that was only the men at arms, not the servants and wagons. But in the enormous courtyard, the Prince’s party looked small, insignificant. Chastillon was large enough to swallow fifty men as though the number was nothing.
No one was pitching tents: the men would sleep in the barracks; Laurent would sleep in the keep.
Laurent swung out of the saddle, peeled off his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt, and gave his attention to the castellan. Govart barked a few orders, and Damen found himself occupied with armour, detailing and care of his horse.
Across the courtyard, a couple of alaunt hounds came bounding down the stone stairs to throw themselves ecstatically at Laurent, who indulged one of them with a rub behind the ears, causing a spasm of jealousy in the other.
Orlant broke Damen’s attention. ‘Physician wants you,’ he said, pointing with his chin to an awning
at the far end of the courtyard, under which could be glimpsed a familiar grey head. Damen put down the breastplate he was holding, and went.
‘Sit,’ said the physician.
Damen did so, rather gingerly, on the only available seat, a small three-legged stool. The physician began to unbuckle a worked leather satchel.
‘Show me your back.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘After a day in the saddle? In armour?’ said the physician.
‘It’s fine,’ said Damen.
The physician said, ‘Take off your shirt.’
The physician’s gaze was implacable. After a long moment, Damen reached behind himself and drew his shirt off, exposing the breadth of his shoulders to the physician.
It was fine. His back had healed enough that new scars had replaced new wounds. Damen craned for a glimpse but, not being an owl, saw almost nothing. He stopped before he got a crick in his neck.
The physician rummaged in the satchel and produced one of his endless ointments.
‘A massage?’
‘These are healing salves. It should be done every night. It will help the scarring to fade a little, in time.’
That was really too much. ‘It’s cosmetic?’
The physician said, ‘I was told you would be difficult. Very well. The better it heals, the less your back will trouble you with stiffness, both now and later in life, so that you will be better able to swing a sword around, killing a great many people. I was told you would be responsive to that argument.’
‘The Prince,’ said Damen. But of course. All this tender care of his back, like soothing with a kiss the reddened cheek you have slapped.
But he was, infuriatingly, right. Damen needed to be able to fight.
The ointment was cool, and scented, and it worked on the effect of a long day’s ride. One by one, Damen’s muscles unlocked. His neck bent forward, his hair falling a little about his face. His breathing eased. The physician worked with impersonal hands.
‘I don’t know your name,’ Damen admitted.
‘You don’t remember my name. You were in and out of consciousness, the night we met. A lash or two more, you might not have seen morning.’
Damen snorted. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
The physician gave him an odd look. ‘My name is Paschal,’ was all he said.
‘Paschal,’ said Damen. ‘It’s your first time to ride with troops on campaign?’
‘No. I was the King’s physician. I tended the fallen at Marlas, and at Sanpelier.’
There was a silence. Damen had meant to ask Paschal what he knew of the Regent’s men, but now he said nothing, just held his bunched shirt in his hands. The work on his back continued, slow and methodical.
‘I fought at Marlas,’ said Damen.
‘I assumed you had.’
Another silence. Damen had a view of the ground under the awning, packed earth instead of stone. He looked down at a scuffmark, the torn edge of a dry leaf. The hands on his back eventually lifted and were done.
Outside, the courtyard was clearing; Laurent’s men were efficient. Damen stood, shook out his shirt.
‘If you served the King,’ said Damen, ‘how is it you now find yourself in the Prince’s household, and not his uncle’s?’
‘Men find themselves in the places they put themselves,’ Paschal said, closing his satchel with a snap.
* * *
Returning to the courtyard, he couldn’t report to Govart, who had vanished, but he did find Jord, directing traffic.
‘Can you read and write?’ Jord asked him.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Damen. Then stopped.
Jord didn’t notice. ‘Almost nothing’s been done to prepare for tomorrow. The Prince says, we’re not leaving without a full arsenal. He also says, we’re not delaying departure. Go to the western armoury, take an inventory, and give it to that man.’ Pointing. ‘Rochert.’
Since taking a full inventory was a task that would take all night, Damen assumed what he was to do was check the existing inventory, which he found in a series of leather-bound books. He opened the first of them searching for the correct pages, and felt a strange sensation pass over him when he realised that he was looking at a seven-year-old list of hunting weaponry made for the Crown Prince Auguste.
Prepared for His Highness the Crown Prince Auguste, garniture of hunter’s cutlery, one staff, eight tipped spear-heads, bow and strings.
He was not alone in the armoury. From somewhere behind shelves, he heard the cultured voice of a young male courtier saying, ‘You’ve heard your orders. They come from the Prince.’
‘Why should I believe that? You his pet?’ said a coarser voice.
And another: ‘I’d pay to watch that.’
And another: ‘The Prince has got ice in his veins. He doesn’t fuck. We’ll take orders when the Captain comes and tells us them himself.’
‘How dare you speak about your Prince like that. Choose your weapon. I said choose your weapon. Now.’
‘You’re going to get hurt, pup.’
‘If you’re too much of a coward to—’ said the courtier, and before he was even halfway through that sentence, Damen was folding his grip around one of the swords and walking out.
He rounded the corner just in time to see one of three men in the Regent’s livery draw back, swing, and punch the courtier hard in the face.
The courtier wasn’t a courtier. It was the young soldier whose name Laurent had dryly mentioned to Jord. Tell the servants to sleep with their legs closed. And Aimeric.
Aimeric staggered backwards and hit the wall, sliding halfway down its length as he opened and closed his eyes with stupefied blinks. Blood poured from his nose.
The three men had seen Damen.
‘That’s shut him up,’ said Damen, equitably. ‘Why don’t you leave it at that, and I’ll take him back to the barracks.’
It wasn’t Damen’s size that stopped them. It wasn’t the sword he held casually in his hand. If these men really wanted to make a fight out of it, there were enough swords, flingable armour pieces, and teetering shelves to turn this into something long and ludicrous. It was only when the leader of the men saw Damen’s gold collar that he shoved out an arm, holding the others back.
And Damen understood, in that moment, exactly how things were going to be on this campaign: the Regent’s men in ascendancy. Aimeric and the Prince’s men were targets because they had no one to complain to except Govart, who would slap them back down. Govart, the Regent’s favourite thug, brought here to keep the Prince’s men in check. But Damen was different. Damen was untouchable, because Damen had a direct line of reportage to the Prince.
He waited. The men, unwilling to openly defy the Prince, decided on discretion; the man who had laid out Aimeric nodded slowly, and the three moved off and out, Damen watching them go.
He turned to Aimeric, noting his fine skin and elegant wrists. It wasn’t unheard of for younger sons of the highborn to seek out a position in the royal guard, making what name for themselves they could. But as far as Damen had seen, Laurent’s men were of a rougher sort. Aimeric was probably exactly as out of place among them as he looked.
Damen held out his hand, which Aimeric ignored, pushing himself up.
‘How old are you? Eighteen?’
‘Nineteen,’ said Aimeric.
Around the smashed nose, he had a fine-boned aristocratic face, beautifully shaped dark brows, long dark lashes. He was more attractive up close. You noticed things like his pretty mouth, even dripping with nosebleed.
Damen said, ‘It’s never a good idea to start a fight. Particularly against three men when you’re the type who goes down with one punch.’
‘If I go down, I stand back up. I’m not afraid to be hit,’ said Aimeric.
‘Well, good, because if you insist on pr
ovoking the Regent’s men, it’s going to happen a lot. Tip your head back.’
Aimeric stared at him, hand clasped to his nose, holding a fistful of blood. ‘You’re the Prince’s pet. I’ve heard all about you.’
Damen said, ‘If you’re not going to tip your head back, why don’t we go find Paschal? He can give you a scented ointment.’
Aimeric didn’t budge. ‘You couldn’t take a flogging like a man. You opened your mouth and squealed to the Regent. You laid hands on him. You spat on his reputation. Then you tried to escape, and he still intervened for you, because he’d never abandon a member of his household to the Regency. Not even someone like you.’
Damen had gone very still. He looked at the boy’s young, bloody face, and reminded himself that Aimeric had been willing to take a beating from three men in defence of his Prince’s honour. He’d call it misguided puppy love, except that he’d seen the glint of something similar in Jord, in Orlant, and even, in his own quiet way, in Paschal.
Damen thought of the ivory and gold casing that held a creature duplicitous, self-serving and untrustworthy.
‘You’re so loyal to him. Why is that?’
‘I’m not a turncoat Akielon dog,’ said Aimeric.
* * *
Damen delivered the inventory to Rochert, and the Prince’s Guard began the task of preparing arms, armour and wagons for their departure the following morning. It was work that should have been done before their arrival, by the Regent’s men. But of the hundred and fifty Regent’s men set to ride out with the Prince, fewer than two dozen had turned out to help them.
Damen joined the work, where he was the only man to smell, expensively, of ointments and cinnamon. The sole knot remaining in Damen’s back concerned the fact that the castellan had ordered him to report to the keep when he was done.
After an hour or so, Jord approached him.
‘Aimeric’s young. He says it won’t happen again,’ said Jord.
It will happen again, and once the two factions in this camp start retaliating against one another your campaign is over, he didn’t say. He said, ‘Where’s the Captain?’
‘The Captain is in one of the horse stalls, up to his waist in the stableboy,’ said Jord. ‘The Prince has been waiting for him at the barracks. Actually . . . I was told to have you fetch him.’
