Captive Prince: Volume Two (Captive Prince 2)

‘Have you forgotten how?’ Laurent said.

He said, ‘The last time, this did not end pleasantly.’

‘Then I suggest you behave better,’ said Laurent.

Laurent turned his back on Damen calmly and waited. The lacing of Laurent’s brocade outer garment began at his nape, and ran in a single line all the way down his back. It was ridiculous to . . . fear this. Damen stepped forward.

In order to begin unlacing the garment, he had to lift his fingers and brush to one side the ends of the gilt hair, soft as fox fur. When he did so, Laurent tipped his head very slightly, offering better access.

It was the normal duty of a body servant to dress and undress his master. Laurent accepted the service with the indifference of one long used to attendance. The opening in the brocade widened, revealing the white of an undershirt pressed warm against skin by the heavy outer fabric, and by armour atop that. Laurent’s skin and the shirt were the exact same delicate shade of white. Damen pushed the garment over Laurent’s shoulders and just for a moment felt, beneath his hands, the hard, corded tension of Laurent’s back.

‘That will do,’ said Laurent, stepping away and tossing the garment to one side himself. ‘Go and sit at the table.’

On the table was the familiar map, weighted by three oranges and a cup. Arranging himself in the chair opposite Damen, casual in pants and undershirt, Laurent picked up one of the oranges and started peeling it. One corner of the map rolled up.

‘When Vere fought Akielos at Sanpelier, there was a manoeuvre that broke through our eastern flank. Tell me how that worked,’ Laurent said.

* * *

In the morning, the camp woke early, and Jord asked Damen to the impromptu practice field by the armoury tent.

It was, in theory, a good idea. Damen and the Veretian soldiers were proponents of different styles, and there were many things that they could learn from one another. Damen certainly liked the idea of returning to steady practice, and if Govart was not organising drills, an informal gathering would substitute.

When he arrived at the armoury tent, he took a moment to survey the field. The Prince’s men were doing sword work, and his eye caught on Jord and Orlant, and then Aimeric. Not many of the Regent’s men were there with them, but one or two were, including Lazar.

There had been no explosion last night, and Orlant and Lazar were within a hundred paces of each other without any sign of bodily harm, but that meant that Orlant had a grievance that had not yet been expressed to his satisfaction, and as Orlant stopped what he was doing and came forward, Damen found himself face to face with a challenge that he should have predicted.

He caught the wooden practice sword instinctively when Orlant tossed it to him.

‘You any good?’

‘Yes,’ said Damen.

He could see from the look in Orlant’s eyes what he intended. People were beginning to take notice, pause in their own practice.

‘This isn’t a good idea,’ said Damen.

‘That’s right. You don’t like fights,’ said Orlant. ‘You prefer going behind people’s backs.’

The sword was a practice weapon, wood from pommel to blade-tip, with leather wound around the hilt to provide a grip. Damen felt the weight of it in his hand.

‘Afraid to spar?’ said Orlant.

‘No,’ said Damen.

‘Then what? Can’t fight?’ said Orlant. ‘You’re only here to fuck the Prince?’

Damen swung. Orlant parried, and they were immediately caught up in the to-and-fro of a hard exchange. Wooden swords were unlikely to deal fatal blows but they could bruise and break bone. Orlant fought with that in mind: his attacks held nothing back. Damen, having launched the first assault, now gave a step of ground.

It was the kind of fighting that was done in battle, fast and hard, not in a duel, where the first few engagements were usually exploratory, cautious and testing, especially when the opponent was unknown. Here sword clashed against sword, and the flurry of blows ceased only for a moment here and there, to be taken up, quickly, again.

Orlant was good. He was among the best of the men on the field, a distinction he shared with Lazar, Jord, and one or two of the other Prince’s men, each of whom Damen recognised from his weeks of captivity. Damen supposed he should feel flattered that Laurent had set his best swordsmen to guard him in the palace.

It was over a month since Damen had last used a sword. It felt like longer since that day—that day in Akielos, when he had been naive enough to ask to see his brother. A month, but he was used to hours of hard daily training, a schedule begun in early childhood, into which a month’s break meant nothing. It was not even long enough for sword calluses to soften.

He had missed fighting. It satisfied something deep within him to ground himself in physicality, to focus on one art, on one person, move and countermove at a speed at which thought became instinct. Yet the Veretian fighting style was different enough that responses could not be purely automatic, and Damen experienced a feeling that was partly release and partly simple enjoyment with a great deal held, carefully, in check.

A minute or two more and Orlant disengaged, and swore. ‘Are you going to fight me or not?’