‘It’s a sign of trust,’ said Laurent. ‘Do you know their culture? Of food and drink, accept anything that is offered to you. The woman beside you is Kashel, she has been appointed your attendant. The woman on the dais is named Halvik. When you are presented to her, go to your knees. Then you may sit on the ground. Do not accompany me onto the dais.’
He thought they had shown enough trust by coming here alone, under blindfold, without weapons. The dais was a fur-draped wooden structure set up beside the fire. It was half throne, half bed. Halvik sat on it, watching their approach with black eyes that reminded Damen of Arnoul.
Laurent calmly ascended the dais and arranged himself in a languid half-sprawl beside Halvik.
Damen by contrast was shoved to his knees, and a moment later was pulled back to the side of the dais, and made to sit. At least there were furs to sit upon, piled around the fire. And then Kashel came to sit beside him. She offered him a cup.
He was still annoyed, but recalled Laurent’s advice. He brought the cup to his lips warily. The liquid was milky white and harsh with the rasp of alcohol; one shallow sip, and he felt hot fire run down his throat into his veins.
On the dais, he saw Laurent wave away a similar cup when it was offered to him, despite the advice he had just given Damen.
Of course. Of course Laurent wasn’t drinking. Laurent surrounded himself with the opulent excesses of a courtesan, and lived in them like an ascetic. It was beyond Damen why anyone thought they were fucking. No one who knew Laurent would ever think that.
Damen drained the cup.
They watched a display fight—a wrestling match—and the woman who won was very good, subduing her opponent in a practised hold, and the fight indeed was worth watching.
He decided, after the third cup, that he liked the drink.
It was strong and rousing, and he found himself with a new appreciation of Kashel, who was refilling his cup. She was of a similar age to Laurent, and she was attractive, her body ripened and adult. She had warm brown eyes that glanced up at him through long lashes. She wore her hair in a long black plait that snaked over her shoulder, the tip resting on the firm mound of a breast.
Perhaps it was not such a terrible thing that they had come here, he thought. This was an honest culture, the women here were forthright, and the food was simple but hearty, good bread and spit-roasted meats.
Laurent and Halvik were engaged in talk. Their back-and-forth had the rhythm of a bargain being hammered out. Halvik’s flinty stare was returned by Laurent’s impassive blue gaze. It was like watching one stone negotiate with another.
He turned his attention away from the dais, and let himself enjoy, instead, the open exchange with Kashel, which was achieved without language, in a series of long, lingering looks. When she took the cup from his hands, their fingers slid together.
She rose and made her way over to the dais, murmuring something into Halvik’s ear.
Halvik sat back, and her attention fixed on Damen. She spoke words to Laurent, who also turned towards Damen.
‘Halvik inquires, respectfully, if you will perform a service for her girls,’ Laurent said to him in Veretian.
‘What service?’
‘The traditional service,’ said Laurent, ‘that Vaskian women claim from the dominant male.’
‘I’m a slave. You outrank me.’
‘It’s not a question of rank.’
It was Halvik who answered, in thickly accented Veretian, ‘He is smaller, and has the tongue of a cocotte. His seed will not breed strong women.’
Laurent looked entirely undisturbed by her description. ‘In fact, my bloodline does not throw girls at all.’
Damen was watching Kashel as she made her way back to him from the dais. He could hear the sound of drums from the other campfire, a low, constant thrumming.
‘Is this—are you ordering me to do this?’
‘Do you need orders?’ said Laurent. ‘I can direct you, if you lack proficiency.’
Kashel was looking at him with open intensity as she came to sit once more beside him. Her tunic had opened a little, and slipped down over one shoulder, so that it seemed that only the swell of her breast held it up. Her chest rose and fell with her breath.
‘Kiss her,’ said Laurent.
He didn’t need to be told what to do or how to do it by Laurent, and he proved that with a long, deliberate kiss. Kashel made a sweet, yielding sound, her fingers already following the path that her eyes had travelled moments before. His hands slid up her tunic and fit almost all the way around her small waist.
‘You can tell Halvik that it would be my honour to lie with one of her girls,’ said Damen when he drew back, his voice low with pleasure. His thumb brushed over Kashel’s mouth, and she tasted it with her tongu