Prince's Gambit (Captive Prince, #2)

by C.S. Pacat

Damen rose and gave Laurent a long look. ‘You look pleased.’ ‘I’m the type who takes a great deal of pleasure in small victories,’ Laurent said.

‘I thought that Volo was your contact,’ said Damen. ‘I just wanted to play him at cards,’ said Laurent.

After a moment, Laurent said, ‘I don’t think I would have arrived here without your help, at least not without being followed. I am glad you came. I meant that. You were right. I’m not used to…’ He broke off. His damp hair, pushed back as it was, exposed the elegantly balanced planes of his face. Damen gave him a look. ‘You’re in a strange mood,’ said Damen. ‘Stranger than usual.’ ‘I’d say I’m in a good mood.’ ‘A good mood.’ ‘Well, not as good a mood as Volo,’ said Laurent. ‘But the food’s decent, the fire’s warm, and no one’s tried to kill me in the last three hours. Why not?’ ‘I thought you had more sophisticated tastes than that,’ said Damen. ‘Did you?’ said Laurent. ‘I’ve seen your court,’ Damen reminded him gently. ‘You’ve seen my uncle’s court,’ said Laurent.

I don’t know. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I did to make him hate me as much as this. Why we couldn’t go as brothers to mourn— —our father—

‘Auguste was like you,’ said Laurent. ‘He had no instinct for deception; it meant he couldn’t recognise it in other people.’

‘Shy?’ said Damen. ‘If you want an answer, you’ll need to ask the question,’ said Laurent. ‘Half the men riding in your company are convinced you’re a virgin.’ ‘Is that a question?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m twenty years old,’ said Laurent, ‘and I’ve been the recipient of offers almost as long as I can remember.’ ‘Is that an answer?’ said Damen. ‘I’m not a virgin,’ said Laurent. ‘I wondered,’ Damen said, carefully, ‘if you reserved your love for women.’ ‘No, I—’ Laurent sounded surprised. Then he seemed to realise that his surprise gave something fundamental away, and he looked away with a muttered breath; when he looked back at Damen there was a wry smile on his lips, but he said, steadily, ‘No.’

POOKEMS 😭

‘He was a prince,’ said Damen. ‘He was a prince and I was just—’ He couldn’t do this. The muscles across his shoulders were knotted so hard they hurt. The past was coming into focus; he didn’t want to see it. Lying meant facing the truth of not knowing. Not knowing what he had done to provoke betrayal, not once, but twice, from beloved, and brother.

‘Because a kingmaker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.’

‘What makes you think Kastor is the weaker man? You don’t know him.’ ‘But I’m coming to know you,’ said Laurent.

Laurent was asleep on the bed. Damen could make out the shape of him, even in the darkness of the room. The moonlight that crept in the cracks of the balcony shutters revealed the spill of Laurent’s pale hair against the pillow. Laurent slept as though Damen’s presence in the room didn’t matter, as though Damen was no more threatening to him than a piece of furniture.

Everything was calculated. Laurent didn’t trust anyone.

Nikandros had drawn him from his father’s sickroom and said, in a low voice, Kastor has always believed that he deserved the throne. That you took it from him. He cannot accept fault for defeat in any arena, instead he attributes everything to the fact that he was never given his ‘chance’. All he has ever needed was someone to whisper in his ear that he should take it.

He remembered the first time he had unpinned Jokaste’s blonde hair, the feel of it falling over his fingers, and the memory tangled with a stirring of arousal, which a moment later became a jolt, as he found himself confusing long blonde hair with shorter, remembering the moment downstairs when Laurent had pushed forward almost into his lap.

Laurent was sleep-warm in the blanketed bed. He came awake instantly under Damen’s hand, though there was no overt start of panic or surprise.

‘This is becoming a habit,’ said Laurent, but he was already pushing himself up from the bed. While Damen threw open the shutters to the balcony, Laurent pulled on his own shirt and jacket—though he had no time to do up any of the lacings, because Veretian clothing was frankly useless in an emergency.

Laurent jumped; it was a long way, and things like height mattered, as did the propulsion that came from muscle power. He landed badly. Damen instinctively grabbed hold of him and felt Laurent surrender his weight to Damen’s grasp, clutching at him. He’d had the wind knocked out of him by the railing of the balcony. He didn’t resist when Damen hauled him up and over, nor did he immediately pull away, just stood breathless in Damen’s arms. Damen’s hands were on Laurent’s waist; his heart was hammering.

It was Damen’s turn to have the breath knocked from him as Laurent pushed him, hard. His back hit the wall beside the shuttered window. The shock of the impact was only slightly less than the shock that came from Laurent pressing against him, pinning him firmly to the wall with his body.

If Laurent moved back even a half-inch, he’d bump the shutter. To prevent this, he was plastered so tightly against Damen that Damen could feel every crease in the fabric of his garments, through which, the warm, transmitted heat of his body.

Laurent’s hair tickled his neck. Damen stoically endured it.

Damen suppressed the urge to groan. The whole length of Laurent’s body was flush against his own, thigh against thigh, chest against chest. Breathing was dangerous. Damen needed, increasingly, to interpose a safe distance between their bodies, to push Laurent forcefully away, and couldn’t. Laurent, oblivious, shifted slightly, to look behind himself and view the proximity of the shutter. Stop moving around, Damen almost said; only some thin thread of self-preservation prevented him from speaking aloud. Laurent shifted again, having seen, as Damen saw, no way for them to squeeze out of hiding without giving themselves away. And then Laurent said, in a very quiet, very careful voice, ‘This is…not ideal.’

Damen felt Laurent start shaking against him, and realised that, silently, helplessly, he was laughing.

The shaking, progressively, had worsened. ‘Stop enjoying yourself,’ Damen murmured. ‘We’re going to be killed, any minute.’ ‘Giant animal,’ said Laurent. ‘Stop it.’

‘I think we’re safe,’ said Damen. ‘Somehow, no one saw us.’ ‘But I told you. It’s the game I like,’ said Laurent, and with the toe of his boot he deliberately pushed a loose roof tile until it slid off the rooftop and shattered in the street below. ‘They’re on the roof!’ came the call from below.

Laurent sent another roof tile into the street, aimed this time. From below, a yelp of alarm. When they found themselves on another balcony on their way over a narrow street, Damen tipped over a flowerpot. Beside him, Laurent unpinned some hanging laundry and dropped it; they saw the ghostly white entangle someone below and become a writhing shape, before they sped on.

Damen found that he had caught Laurent’s arm, and was holding him back. ‘Wait. It’s too exposed. You stand out, in this light. Your mousy hair’s like a beacon.’ Wordlessly, Laurent pulled Volo’s woollen cap from his belt. Damen felt it then, the first dizzy edge of new emotion, and he let go his hold of Laurent like a man fearing a precipice; and yet was helpless.

‘I mean if the idea is to lead them on a merry chase through the town so that they don’t follow your messenger, it’s not working. They’ve split their attention.’ ‘I,’ said Laurent. He was gazing at Damen. ‘You have very good ears.’ ‘You should go,’ said Damen. ‘I can take care of it.’ ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘If I wanted to escape,’ said Damen, ‘I could have tonight. While you bathed. While you slept.’ ‘I know that,’ said Laurent. ‘You can’t be in two places at once,’ said Damen. ‘We need to separate.’ ‘It’s too important,’ said Laurent. ‘Trust me,’ said Damen. Laurent looked at him for a long moment without speaking. ‘We’ll wait for you for a day at Nesson,’ Laurent said, eventually. ‘After that, catch up.’

Damen could feel, as he had only begun to feel in the palace, the inexorable machinery of the Regent’s plans. For the first time, he had a glimpse of the effort and planning that it took to hold him back. That Laurent, serpent-minded as he was, might be all that stood between the Regent and Akielos was a chilling thought. Damen’s country was vulnerable, and he knew his own return would temporarily weaken Akielos even further.

‘No. The whole inn is in uproar. Rumours are flying. Is it true that the man you accompanied was,’ Charls lowered his voice, ‘the Prince of Vere? Disguised as a,’ his voice lowered again, ‘prostitute?’

I’ll wait for you for a day at Nesson, Laurent had said. He was going to be too late.

Laurent was alive. Laurent sidestepped everything he deserved. He was slippery and sly and he had escaped the attack in the town with chicanery and arrogance, as usual. Curse Laurent for this. The Laurent who had sprawled out by the fire seemed so far away, limbs unwound, relaxed, talking…Damen found that memory was inextricably tangled with the glint of Nicaise’s sapphire earring, the murmur of Laurent’s voice in his ear, the breathless brilliance of the chase, rooftop to rooftop, all of it woven into one long, mad, endless night.

‘You’re alive,’ Damen said, and the words came out on a rush of relief that made him feel weak. ‘I’m alive,’ said Laurent. They were gazing at one another. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come back.’ ‘I came back,’ said Damen.

Damen tried to stop looking at Laurent. He had a hundred questions. How had he escaped his pursuers? Had it been easy? Difficult? Had he suffered any injury? Was he all right?

Laurent was alive. The troop was intact. The messenger had survived. This day was a victory, except that the men didn’t feel it. They needed to feel it. They needed to fight something, and to win.

‘I prefer to think my way out of traps,’ said Laurent, ‘rather than use brute force to simply smash through.’ The words had the air of finality to them. Damen nodded and began to rise when Laurent’s cool voice stopped him. ‘That’s why I think we should fight,’ said Laurent. ‘It’s the last thing I would ever do, and the last thing that anyone, knowing me, would expect.’

Laurent said, ‘I have recently learned that sometimes it is better to simply smash a hole in the wall.’

Damen had been right. They wanted to fight. There was a determination among many of them now that was replacing weariness. Damen heard one of the men mutter that they would hit the ambushers before they knew what was coming. Another swore that he would strike a blow for his fallen comrade.

Asking the whereabouts of Orlant, he was told, simply: ‘Orlant’s dead.’ ‘Dead?’ said Damen. ‘He was killed by one of the insurgents?’ ‘He was one of the insurgents,’ he was told, shortly. ‘He attacked the Prince as he was returning to camp. Aimeric was there. He was the one who took Orlant down. Got cut up doing it.’

Jord put a hand on Aimeric’s back. ‘After the first few times, you stop throwing up,’ he heard Jord say. ‘I’m fine,’ said Aimeric. ‘I’m fine. I just, I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ll be fine.’ ‘It’s not an easy thing,’ said Jord. ‘For anyone.’ And then: ‘He was a traitor. He would have killed the Prince. Or you. Or me.’ ‘A traitor,’ Aimeric echoed hollowly. ‘Would you have killed him for that? He was your friend.’ And then he said it again in a different voice, ‘He was your friend.’ Jord murmured something that was too soft to hear, and Aimeric let himself be folded into Jord’s arms. They stayed that way for a long moment, under the swaying branches of the trees; and then Damen saw Aimeric’s hands slide into Jord’s hair, heard him say, ‘Kiss me. Please, I want—’ and he stepped away to give them privacy, as Jord tilted Aimeric’s chin up, as the branches of the trees moved back and forth, a gentle, shifting veil, covering them up.

Victory buoyed everyone. Not even the revelation that they must now dig out their supplies and see about making camp could dampen the happy spirits of the men. Those who had ridden with Damen were particularly proud; they hammered each other on the back and boasted to the others about their escape from the rockfall, which, when they returned to the site to see about unearthing the wagons, everyone agreed was impressive.

This time the men hammered Damen on the back. He had achieved new status among them as the quick thinker who had saved half the men and all of the wine. They made camp in record time, and when Damen looked out at the neat lines of the tents, he found himself smiling.

‘I’m not used to my uncle miscalculating,’ said Laurent, after a pause. ‘It’s because he’s working at a distance,’ said Damen. ‘It’s because of you,’ said Laurent. ‘What?’ ‘He doesn’t know how to predict you,’ said Laurent.

‘Instead, you have saved my life, more than once. You have made fighters of these men, trained them, honed them. Tonight you handed me my first victory. My uncle never dreamed you’d be this kind of asset to me. If he had, he would never have allowed you to ride out of the palace.’ He could see in Laurent’s eyes, hear in his words, a question that he did not want to answer.

He pushed away from the tree. He felt an odd dizziness, a sense of displacement, and to his surprise he was prevented from moving off by Laurent’s hand clasping his arm. He looked down at it. He thought for a strange moment that it was the first time Laurent had ever touched him, though of course it wasn’t; the grip was more intimate than the flutter of Laurent’s lips against his fingertips, the sting of Laurent striking his face, or the press of Laurent’s body in a confined space. ‘Leave the repairs,’ said Laurent. His voice was soft. ‘Get some sleep.’ ‘I’m fine,’ said Damen. ‘It’s an order,’ said Laurent. He was fine, but he had no choice but to do as he was told; and when he tumbled onto his slave pallet and closed his eyes for the first time in two long days and nights, sleep was there, heavy and immediate, drawing him down past the strange new feeling in his chest into oblivion.

‘Fantastic,’ Aimeric said. Good for you, thought Damen. Jord’s mouth quirked up a fraction, but he lifted his cup and drank without saying anything.

‘I’m not fucking him,’ he said, with deliberate crudity. It was perhaps the hundredth time he had said it since joining Laurent’s troop. The words were firm, intended to shut down the conversation. But of course they didn’t.

‘That,’ said Lazar, ‘is one mouth I’d love to ream out. A day of him ordering you around, you’d get to shut him up at the end of it.’ Jord gave a snort. ‘He’d take one look at you, and you’d piss your pants.’ Rochert agreed. ‘Yeah. I couldn’t get it up. You see a panther opening its jaws, you don’t get your dick out.’

‘He’s had suitors,’ said Jord. ‘Just none who got him into bed. Not for lack of trying. You think he’s pretty now, you should have seen him at fifteen. Twice as beautiful as Nicaise, and ten times more intelligent. Trying to tempt him was a game everyone played. If any of them had landed him, they’d have crowed about it, not kept quiet.’

Laurent would either survive, or he would not, and after that Damen, having discharged his obligation, would return to Akielos. It was everything Laurent had asked for.

Damen had woken from a cocoon of sleep this morning to the sound of a lazy, amused, ‘Good morning. No, I don’t need anything.’ And then: ‘Dress and report to Jord. We ride out when repairs are done.’ ‘Good morning,’ was all Damen had said, after sitting up and passing a hand over his face. He’d found himself simply gazing at Laurent, who was already dressed in riding leathers. Laurent had raised his brows and said, ‘Shall I carry you? It’s at least five paces to the tent flap.’

The men were experiencing camaraderie in the face of a common enemy, and it was natural that he was feeling it too, or something similar, after a night of chases and escapes and fighting alongside Laurent. It was a heady elixir, but he must not get swept up in it. He was here for Akielos not for Laurent. His duty only extended so far. He had his own war, his own country, his own fight.