There were those among the Regent’s men who simply worked hard because work needed to be done, but it was an impulse that came out of their own natures rather than through any external discipline or commands. There was little order among them, and no hierarchy, so that one man might shirk as he pleased with no repercussions except the growing resentment of the others around him.
There was going to be a fortnight of this, with a fight at the end of it. Damen set his jaw, kept his head down and got on with the work he had been assigned. He saw to his horse and his armour. He pitched the Prince’s tent. He moved supplies and hauled water and wood. He washed with the men. Ate. The food was good. Some things were done well. The sentries were posted promptly, and so were the outriders, taking up position with the same professionalism as the guards who had watched him in the palace. The site of the camp was well chosen.
He was making his way through the camp to Paschal when he heard from the other side of a canvas:
‘You should tell me who did it, so we can take care of it,’ said Orlant.
‘It doesn’t matter who did it. It was my fault. I told you.’ Aimeric’s stubborn voice was unmistakable.
‘Rochert saw three of the Regent’s men coming out of the armoury. He said one of them was Lazar.’
‘It was my fault. I provoked the attack. Lazar was insulting the Prince—’
Damen sighed, turned and went to find Jord.
‘You might want to go see Orlant.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I’ve seen you talk him down from a fight before.’
The man Jord had been speaking to gave Damen an unpleasant look after Jord left. ‘I heard you were good at carrying tales. And what will you be doing while Jord stops that fight?’
‘Getting massaged,’ said Damen, succinctly.
He reported, ludicrously, to Paschal. And from thence to Laurent.
The tent was very large. It was large enough for Damen, who was tall, to walk freely inside without having to glance nervously upwards to avoid obstructions. The canvas walls were covered in draperies of rich blue and cream, shot through with gold thread, and high above his head the ceiling hung suspended in scalloped folds of twilled silk.
Laurent was seated in the entrance area, which was arranged for visitors with chairs and a receiving table, much like a warfield tent. He was talking to one of the scruffier-looking servants about armaments. Except that he wasn’t talking, he was mostly listening. He waved Damen inside to wait.
The tent was warmed with braziers, and further lit by candles. In the foreground, Laurent continued speaking to the servant. Screened away at the back of the tent was the sleeping area, a tumble of cushions, silks and swathed bedding. And, emphatically separate, his own slave pallet.
The servant was dismissed, and Laurent rose. Damen turned his eyes from the bedding to the Prince, and found a silence stretching out in which Laurent’s cool blue gaze was on him.
‘Well? Attend me,’ said Laurent.
‘Attend,’ said Damen.
The word sank into him. He felt as he had in the training arena when he had been unwilling to go near the cross.
‘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.