‘While you were camped at Nesson, I thought there was a chance your messenger would come,’ said the man, standing.
‘He was detained. We were followed from the keep as far as the eastern quarter. I think the roads in and out will be watched.’
‘I know a way. I can leave as soon as we’re done.’
The man drew a piece of sealed parchment from inside his jacket. Laurent took it, broke the seal, and read the contents. He read it slowly. From the glimpse Damen caught, it looked like it was written in a cipher. When he was done, he dropped the parchment into the fire, where it curled up and blacked over.
Laurent took out his signet ring, and pressed it into the man’s hand.
‘Give him this,’ said Laurent, ‘and tell him that I will wait for him at Ravenel.’
The man bowed. He left by the door and made his way out of the sleeping inn. It was done.
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.
‘You weren’t sure he’d be here,’ said Damen.
‘I didn’t think he would be. Two weeks is a long time to wait.’ Laurent unpinned the earring. ‘I think we’ll be safe on the road in the morning. The men who followed us seemed more interested in finding him than harming me. They didn’t attack us when they had the chance tonight.’ And then, ‘Does that door lead to the bath?’ And then, halfway to the door, ‘Don’t worry, your services aren’t required.’
When he was gone, Damen wordlessly picked up an armful of bedding and dumped it on the floor by the hearth.
Then there was nothing to do. He went downstairs. The only patrons now remaining were Volo and the house boy, who weren’t paying any attention to anyone else. The house boy’s sand-coloured hair was a tousled mess.
He went all the way outside the inn and stood for a moment; the cool night air was calming. The street was empty. The messenger was gone. It was very late.
It was peaceful here. He couldn’t stay out here all night. Recalling that Laurent had eaten nothing but a few fraught mouthfuls of bread, he stopped by the kitchens on his way back upstairs and requisitioned a plate of bread and meats.
When he went back into the room, Laurent had emerged from the bath and was half clothed and sitting drying his damp hair by the fire, taking up the majority of the space on Damen’s impromptu bed.
‘Here,’ said Damen, and passed him the plate.
‘Thank you,’ said Laurent, looking at the plate with a blink. ‘The bath is free. If you like.’
He bathed. Laurent had left him clean water. The towels that were hung over the side of the copper basin were warm and soft. He dried off. He chose to clothe himself once again in pants rather than towels. He told himself that this was no different from two dozen nights together inside of a warfield tent.
When he returned, Laurent had carefully eaten half of everything on the plate, and had placed it on the chest where Damen could get at it if he wanted it. Damen, who had eaten his fill downstairs and who didn’t think Laurent should be able to take over his bed when he had left untouched the vast comfort of his own, ignored the plate and came to stake his claim beside Laurent, on the blankets by the hearth.
‘I thought that Volo was your contact,’ said Damen.
‘I just wanted to play him at cards,’ said Laurent.
The fire was warm. Damen enjoyed the feel of it against the bare skin of his torso.
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.
Would yours be any different? He didn’t say it. Maybe he didn’t need to know the answer. The king that Laurent would be, he was becoming with every passing day, but the future was another life. Laurent would not then be leaning back on his hands, lazily drying his hair before an inn-room fire, or climbing in and out of brothel windows. Nor would Damen.
‘Tell me something,’ said Laurent.
He spoke after a long and surprisingly comfortable silence. Damen looked over at him.