by C. S. Pacat
He had to be cautious—not only for Laurent’s sake, but also his own. He was wearing Veretian clothing. Under normal circumstances, an encounter with an Akielon outrider would not be a threat to a Veretian. At worst, there would be some unpleasant posturing. But this was Makedon, and among his forces were the men who had destroyed Breteau. To men like that, Laurent would be a prize beyond measure.
But because there were things that he needed to know, he left his horse in the best hiding place he could find, a dark, quiet gap between outcroppings of rock, and went on foot. It took perhaps an hour before he knew the pattern of their riding, and all he needed of the main troop, their number, intent and direction.
It was at least a thousand men, armed and provisioned, and travelling west, which meant that they were being sent to supply a garrison. These were the sorts of war preparations that he had not seen at Ravenel, the filling of storehouses, the recruitment of men. War happened like this, with an arrangement of defences and strategy. The news of the attacks on the border villages would not have reached Kastor yet, but the northern lords knew well enough what to do.
Makedon, whose attack on Breteau had thrown down the gauntlet for this conflict, was likely presenting these troops to his Kyros, Nikandros, who must be in residence in the west, maybe even at Marlas. Other northern men would follow suit.
Damen returned to his horse, mounted, and picked his way carefully along the wide, rocky stream bank to the shallow cave that, to his searching eyes, appeared empty at first. It was a well chosen spot: the entrance was hidden from most angles, and the danger of discovery was low. An outrider’s job was simply to ensure the terrain was clear of any obstacles that might impede an army. It was not to check every crack and crevasse on the unlikely chance a prince might be squeezed in there.
There was the dull rattle of hooves moving on stone; Laurent emerged from the shadows of the cave on horseback, his manner carefully casual.
‘I thought you’d be halfway back to Breteau by now,’ said Damen.
The negligent posture didn’t change, though somewhere in it was a well-hidden hint of wariness, of a man en guarde, as though Laurent was ready at any moment to bolt. ‘I think the chances that those men would kill me are fairly low. I’d be too valuable as a political game-piece. Even after my uncle disavowed me, which he would, though I’d quite like to see his reaction when he heard the news. It would not present an ideal situation for him at all. Do you think I’d get on well with Nikandros of Delpha?’
The idea of Laurent let loose on the political landscape of northern Akielos did not make for appealing thoughts. Damen frowned.
‘I wouldn’t have to tell them you were a prince to sell you to that troop.’
Laurent held his ground. ‘Not really? I would have thought twenty was a little grown up for that. Is it the blond hair?’
‘It’s the charming temperament,’ said Damen.
Though the thought existed: If I took him with me to Akielos, he wouldn’t be given as a prisoner to Nikandros. He’d be given to me.
‘Before you carry me off,’ said Laurent, ‘tell me about Makedon. Those were his standards. Is he riding with the sanction of Nikandros? Or did he break orders when he attacked my country?’
‘I think he broke orders.’ After a moment, Damen answered truthfully. ‘I think he was angry and struck out at Breteau in independent action. Nikandros would not retaliate like that, he would wait for an order from his King. That is his way as Kyros. But now that it’s done, you can expect Nikandros to support Makedon. Nikandros is like Touars. He would be well pleased by a war.’
‘Until he lost one. The northern provinces are destabilising to Kastor. It would be in Kastor’s best interests to sacrifice Delpha.’
‘Kastor wouldn’t—’ He stopped. The tactic, sprung from Laurent’s brain, might not immediately occur to Kastor, as it would mean sacrificing something he had worked hard to gain. If the tactic didn’t occur to Kastor, it would certainly occur to Jokaste. Damen had known, of course, for a long time, that his own return would destabilise the region even further.
Laurent said, ‘To get what you want, you have to know exactly how much you are willing to give up.’ He was regarding Damen steadily. ‘You think your delightful Lady Jokaste doesn’t know that?’
Damen drew in a steadying breath, and let it out. He said, ‘You can stop stalling for time. The outriders have passed by now. Our way is clear.’
* * *
It should have been clear. He had been so careful.
He had watched for the pattern of the outriders, and he had made certain of their retreat, following the lines of the army. But he had not accounted for mistakes or disruption, for a single outrider who had come off his horse and was making his way back to the troop on foot.
Laurent had reached the opposite bank; but Damen was only halfway across the stream when he saw a hint of red in the undergrowth close to Laurent’s horse.
That was all the warning he had. Laurent had none at all.
The man lifted a crossbow and shot a bolt straight at Laurent’s unprotected body.
In the awful blur of motion that followed, several things happened at once. Laurent’s horse, sensitive to sudden motion, to the hiss of air, the rustle and swish, violently shied. There was no sound of a bolt thudding into a body, but that would not be heard anyway over the horse’s scream as its hoof skidded wrongly on one of the slippery, water-smooth river stones, so that it foundered and went down.
The sound of a horse hitting wet stony ground was a crash of flesh, heavy and terrible. Laurent was lucky enough, or knew well enough how to fall, that he was not crushed by the horse’s weight, as might easily have happened, smashing his legs or back. But he had no time to get up.
Even before Laurent had hit the ground, the man had drawn his sword.
Damen was too far away. He was too far to get between the man and Laurent, he knew that, even as he drew his sword—even as he wheeled his horse, felt the powerful bunch of the animal beneath him. There was only one thing he could do. As the spray of water sheared up from under his horse, he hefted his sword, changed his grip, and threw.
It was, emphatically, not a throwing weapon. It was six pounds of Veretian steel, forged for a two-handed grip. And he was on a moving horse, and many feet away, and the man was moving too, towards Laurent.
The sword drove through the air and took the man in the chest, ramming him into the ground and pinning him there.
Damen swung off his horse, and landed on one knee on the wet stones beside Laurent.
‘I saw you fall.’ Damen heard the rough sound of his own voice. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘No, you got to him.’ He had pushed himself up into a splayed sitting position. ‘Before.’
Damen was passing a hand from the join of Laurent’s neck and shoulder down over his chest, frowning. But there was no blood, no protruding bolt or fletching. Had the fall injured him? Laurent sounded dazed. Damen’s attention was all on Laurent’s body. Concerned with the possibility of injury, he was only distantly aware of Laurent looking back at him. Laurent’s body was very still under his hands as the water from the stream soaked into his clothes.
‘Can you stand? We need to move out. It’s not safe for you here. Too many people want to kill you.’
After a moment, Laurent said, ‘Everyone to the south, but only half the people to the north.’
He was staring at Damen. He had clasped the forearm that Damen had extended to him, and used it to lever himself up, dripping.
Around them, there was no sound but the rushing of the stream, and a slight rattle of river stones; Laurent’s gelding, who with a massive push of its hindquarters had heaved itself up minutes ago, saddle askew, was now moving a few paces off favouring its left foreleg ominously.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Laurent. Then he said, ‘We can’t leave him here.’
/> He wasn’t talking about the horse.
Damen said, ‘I’ll do it.’
When it was finished, he walked out of the undergrowth and found a place to clean his sword.
‘We have to go,’ was all he said when he returned to Laurent. ‘They will notice when he doesn’t report back.’
* * *
It meant sharing a horse.
Laurent’s gelding had a limp, which Laurent, on one knee, drawing a steady hand down its lower leg until it pulled its hoof up sharply, pronounced a sprained ligament. It could follow on a lead carrying the packs, he said. It couldn’t carry a rider. Damen brought his own horse over, then paused.
‘My proportions are better suited to riding pillion than yours are,’ said Laurent. ‘Mount. I will mount behind.’
So Damen swung into the saddle. A moment later he felt Laurent’s hand on his thigh. Laurent’s toe nudged into the stirrup. Laurent pushed up behind him, shifting until he was snug in position. His hips fitted unselfconsciously to Damen’s. Once he had settled, he clasped his arms around Damen’s midsection. Damen knew this about riding pillion: closer, it was easier on the horse.
He heard Laurent’s voice from behind him, a little more oddly strapped-down than usual, ‘You have me over the back of your horse.’
‘It’s not like you to give up the reins,’ Damen couldn’t help saying.
‘Well, I can’t see the way over your shoulders.’
‘We could try some other arrangement.’
‘You’re right: it should be me in front and you carrying the horse.’
Damen closed his eyes briefly, then spurred the horse forward. He was aware of Laurent behind him, damp, which could not be comfortable. They were lucky to be in riding leathers rather than armour, or they would not be able to do this easily, jabbing and poking into one another. The horse’s rolling gait pushed their bodies together in constant rhythm.
They had to follow the stream to hide their tracks. It would be an hour perhaps before it was noticed that the outrider was missing. Another interval before they found the man’s horse. They would not find the man. There were no tracks to follow and no obvious place to start searching. They would decide: was a search worthwhile, or should they keep on their way? Where to search and what for? That decision would also take time.
Even riding double with a pack horse, evasion was therefore possible, although it was pushing them far out of their way. Damen took them up out of the stream bed several hours later, where the thick undergrowth would mask their passing.
By dusk they knew that they did not have an Akielon army following them, and slowed. Damen said: ‘If we stop here, we can build a fire without too much fear of discovery.’
‘Here, then,’ said Laurent.
Laurent saw to the horses. Damen saw to the fire. Damen was aware that Laurent was taking more time with the horses than was necessary or usual. He ignored it. He built the fire. He cleared the earth, gathered fallen branches and broke them down to the correct size. And then sat down beside it and said nothing.
He would never know what had provoked that man to attack. Maybe he’d been thinking of the safety of his troop. Maybe whatever he had lived through at Tarasis or Breteau had stirred violence in him. Maybe he had just wanted to steal the horse.
A third-rate soldier from a provincial troop; he would not have expected to meet his Prince, a commander of armies, and face him in a fight.
It was a long time before Laurent brought the packs over and began to strip out of his wet clothes. He hung his jacket on an overhanging branch, toed off his boots, and even partially unlaced his shirt and pants, loosening everything. Then he sat on one of the rolls from the packs, close enough to the fire to dry the rest of himself—trailing laces, dishabille, and steaming lightly. His hands were lightly clasped before him.
‘I thought killing was easy for you,’ said Laurent. His voice was rather quiet. ‘I thought you did it without thinking.’
‘I’m a soldier,’ said Damen, ‘and I have been for a long time. I’ve killed on the sawdust. I’ve killed in battle. Is that what you mean by easy?’
‘You know it isn’t,’ said Laurent, in that same quiet voice.
The fire was burning steadily now. The orange flames had begun hollowing out the base of the wide centre log.
‘I know your feelings towards Akielos,’ said Damen. ‘What happened at Breteau . . . it was barbaric. I know it must mean very little to you to hear me say that I’m sorry for it. And I don’t understand you, but I know that war will bring worse, and you are the only person I have seen working to stop it. I couldn’t let him hurt you.’
‘In my culture, it is customary to reward for good service,’ said Laurent, after a long pause. ‘Is there something you want?’
‘You know what I want,’ said Damen.
‘I am not going to release you,’ said Laurent. ‘Ask for something short of that.’
‘Take off one of the wrist-cuffs?’ said Damen, who was learning—he realised somewhat to his surprise—what Laurent liked.
‘I give you too much leeway,’ said Laurent.
‘I think you give no more or less than you want to give, with anyone,’ said Damen, because Laurent’s voice had not been at all displeased. Then Damen looked down and away.
‘There is something I want.’
‘Go on.’
‘Don’t try to use me against my own people,’ said Damen. ‘If it comes to—I can’t do this again.’
‘I would never have asked that of you,’ said Laurent. Then, when Damen looked at him with flat disbelief: ‘Not out of sweetness. There is little sense in pitting a lesser sense of duty against a greater one. No leader could expect loyalty to hold under those circumstances.’
Damen said nothing to that, but looked back at the fire.
‘I’ve never seen a throw like that,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Every time I see you fight, I wonder how it is Kastor got you in chains and onto a ship to my country.’
‘It was . . .’ He stopped. It was more men than I could handle, he almost said. But the truth was simpler, and tonight he was honest with himself. He said, ‘I didn’t see it coming.’
He had never, in those days, sought to put himself inside the mind of Kastor, of the men around him, their ambitions, their motivations; those who were not openly his enemies, he’d believed, were basically like himself.
He looked at Laurent, at the controlled pose, the cool, difficult blue eyes.
‘I’m sure you would have sidestepped it,’ said Damen. ‘I remember the night your uncle’s men attacked you. The first time he tried to kill you. You weren’t even surprised.’
There was a silence. Damen felt from Laurent a careful immanence, as though he was deciding whether or not to speak. Around them night was falling, but the fire kept the light warm.
‘I was surprised,’ said Laurent, ‘the first time.’
‘The first time?’ said Damen.
Another silence.
‘He poisoned my horse,’ said Laurent. ‘You saw her, the morning of the hunt. She was already feeling it, even before we rode out.’
He remembered the hunt. He remembered the horse, fractious and covered in sweat.
‘That . . . was your uncle’s doing?’
The silence stretched out.
‘It was my doing,’ Laurent said. ‘I forced his hand when I had Torveld take the slaves to Patras. I knew when I did it . . . it was ten months to my ascension. Time was running out for him to make a definitive move against me. I knew that. I provoked him. I wanted to see what he would do. I just—’
Laurent broke off. His mouth twisted in a small smile that had no humour in it at all.
‘I didn’t think he’d really try to kill me,’ he said. ‘After everything . . . even after everything. So you see I can be surprise
d.’
Damen said, ‘It’s not naive to trust your family.’
‘I promise you, it is,’ said Laurent. ‘But I wonder, is it less naive than the moments when I find myself trusting a stranger, my barbarian enemy, whom I do not treat gently.’
He held Damen’s gaze, as the moment lengthened.
‘I know you’re planning to leave when this border fight is done,’ said Laurent. ‘I wonder if you’re still planning to use the knife.’
‘No,’ said Damen.
‘We’ll see,’ said Laurent.
Damen looked away, his gaze raking the dark beyond the campsite. ‘You really think it’s still possible to stop this war from happening?’
When he looked back, Laurent nodded, a slight but steady and deliberate movement, the answer clear, unmistakable and impossible: Yes.
‘Why didn’t you call a halt to the hunt?’ said Damen. ‘Why ride and cover up your uncle’s treachery, if you knew your horse had been poisoned?’
‘I—assumed it had been made to look as though one of the slaves had done it,’ said Laurent, a little quizzically, as though the answer was so obvious that he wondered if he had misunderstood the question.
Damen looked down, and let out a breath of what might have been laughter except that he was not sure what emotion provoked it. He thought of Naos, who had been so certain. He wanted to lay the blame for what he felt on Laurent, but what he felt had no easy name, and in the end he said nothing at all, but banked the fire in silence, and when the time came he lay down on his roll to sleep.
* * *
He woke with a crossbow bolt in his face.
Laurent—who had been on watch—was standing a few feet off, with a clan rider’s hand gripped hard around his bicep. His blue eyes were narrowed, but he was not making any of his usual enunciated remarks. Damen now knew the precise number of arrows Laurent needed to have trained on him in order to shut him up. It was six.
The man standing over Damen gave him a curt order in Vaskian dialect, his thick fingers ready on the crossbow. The order sounded like, ‘Get up.’ With their camp overrun by the clans and his attention fixed on the crossbow bolt, Damen realised he was going to have to bet his life on it.
