Damen threw the latch and then for good measure pushed the chest in front of the door.
There was indeed a window. It was small, and it was covered by metal grillework that was bolted into the plaster.
Laurent was staring at it, nonplussed. ‘This isn’t what I had in mind.’
‘The plaster’s old,’ said Damen. ‘Here.’ He took hold of the grille, and gave it a tug. Bits of plaster rained down from the edges of the window, but it wasn’t enough to detach the grille from the frame. He changed his grip, braced his stance and put his shoulder into it.
On the third attempt, the whole grille came away from the window. It was surprisingly heavy. He placed it carefully on the floor. The thick carpet muffled any sound, as it had done when he had moved the chest.
‘After you,’ he said to Laurent, who was staring at him. Laurent almost looked as though he was going to speak, but then he just nodded, pulled himself through the window and dropped soundlessly into the alley behind the brothel. Damen followed.
They crossed the alley under the projecting eaves, and found a dank space between two houses to push through, then went down a short series of steps. The faint sounds of their own footsteps were not echoed. Their pursuers had not flanked the house.
They had lost them.
*
‘Here. Take this,’ said Laurent when they were half the town away, tossing Damen his coin purse. ‘It’s better if we’re not recognised. And you should do up the collar on your jacket.’
‘I’m not the one who has to hide his identity,’ said Damen, though he obligingly laced his jacket closed, hiding the gold collar from view. ‘It’s not just the streetwalkers who know you’re camped at the keep. Anyone seeing a young blond man of noble birth is going to guess it’s you.’
‘I brought a disguise,’ said Laurent.
‘A disguise,’ said Damen.
They had reached an inn that Laurent claimed was their destination, and were standing beneath the upper-storey overhang, two steps from the doorway. There was no place to change into a disguise, and there was little besides that could be done about Laurent’s telltale yellow hair. And Laurent was empty handed.
Until he drew something delicate and glittering out of a fold in his clothing. Damen stared at him.
Laurent said, ‘After you.’
Damen opened his mouth. Closed it. He put his hand on the inn door, and pushed it open.
Laurent followed him, after a moment spent affixing the long hanging sapphires of Nicaise’s earring to his own ear.
The sound of voices and music mingled with the smell of roast venison and candle smoke to form a first impression. Damen looked around at a wide open room with trestle tables adorned with plates and pitchers, and a fire at one end with a spit roasting over it. There were several patrons, men and women. No one wore clothing as fine as his own, or Laurent’s. To one side, a set of wooden stairs led to a mezzanine, off which opened private rooms. An innkeeper with rolled up sleeves was approaching them.
After no more than a brief, dismissive glance at Laurent, the innkeeper gave Damen his full attention, greeting him respectfully.
‘Welcome, my lord. Will you and your pet require lodgings for the evening?’
CHAPTER 6
‘I want your best room,’ said Laurent, ‘with a big bed and a private bath, and if you send up the house boy, you’ll find out the hard way that I don’t like sharing.’
He delivered the innkeeper a long, cool look.
‘He’s expensive,’ said Damen to the innkeeper, by way of apology.
And then watched as the innkeeper sized up the cost of Laurent’s clothes, and his sapphire earring—a royal gift to a favourite—and the likely cost of Laurent himself, the face, the body. Damen realised that he was about to be charged three times the going rate for everything.
He decided with good humour that he didn’t mind being generous with Laurent’s coin.
‘Why don’t you find us a table. Pet.’ Enjoying the moment. And the sobriquet.
Laurent did as directed. Damen took the time to pay bountifully for the room, thanking the innkeeper.
He kept one eye on Laurent, who even at the best of times could not be predicted. Laurent made straight for the best table, close enough to the fire to enjoy its warmth but not so close as to be overwhelmed by the scent of the slow-roasting venison. Being the best table, it was occupied. Laurent emptied it with what appeared to be a glance, or a word, or the simple fact of his approach.
The earring was not a discreet disguise. Every man in the common room of the inn was taking the time to have a good look at Laurent. Pet. Laurent’s cool-eyed arrogance proclaimed that no one could touch him. The earring said that one man could. It transformed him from unattainable to exclusive, an elite pleasure no one here could afford.
But that was an illusion. Damen sat down across the table from Laurent on one of the long benches.
‘What now?’ said Damen.
‘Now we wait,’ said Laurent.