The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 5

Sabre was elbow deep in dish suds when Laurent delivered the news.

“We have a client for your first night,” Laurent said, breezy as anything, waltzing through the kitchen like an actor in one of the open-air plays in the park. Rose walked like that, too, Sabre realized. Confident, yes, but calculated, every step designed for show. “Isiodore de Mortain will expect you in his suites at the palace in a month.”

Sabre dropped a plate in the sink with a clunk of ceramic. Rose, who had given him helpful advice while he fumbled in search of taps and soap and drain plugs, smiled and flipped a page in her script book. “De Mortain? I thought…I thought maybe it might be the king.”

Laurent raised his brows. “I don’t believe you’re his type.”

“Does that matter?” Sabre asked. He thought of Isiodore, barking commands as Sabre wrapped his fists in gauze to hide cracked knuckles from his mother, a hand on his back to guide him into the proper form. He’d always been so…impersonal, with Sabre. Like he didn’t know what it did to him, to be ordered around all afternoon.

“The king might request you, eventually,” Laurent said, like he was humoring Sabre. Like Sabre would want that, the king’s boot on his back again, holding him down.

“Laurent visited him, once,” Rose said. “They dressed him all in white, and a carriage came by with four horses.”

“Rose, a little discretion,” Laurent said.

“I can’t be discreet if I’m going to run my own opera house one day,” Rose said, narrowing her eyes at him.

Something ached in Sabre’s chest as Laurent narrowed his eyes back, and Rose smiled.

“I remember that,” Sabre said, scrubbing at the plate he dropped. “When the king tried for an heir, with the pleasure houses.”

“Do you?” Laurent gave him another one of his thoughtful looks, leaning against the wall.

“He hates them,” Adrien had said, fifteen and huddled up in Sabre’s bed with a book neither of them were supposed to read. He’d insisted on staying the night when he heard there was going to be a courtesan in the palace again. “He’s only doing this because he’s humoring his nobles. They say he needs to father a dominant son, and quick.” He’d smiled. “Which is why he’s making sure none of the courtesans he’s seeing can conceive.”

“That sounds awful,” Sabre had said. “Forcing yourself to be with someone you don’t love.”

“That’s how it is, though,” Adrien said, passing Sabre the book. “Nothing good ever comes from royalty who admit they love people. You’re lucky, Sabre. You never have to hide anything.”

Now, Sabre dried the plate with a cloth and dug through the sink for another.

“I don’t see him putting himself through the trouble in your case,” Laurent said, and glanced at Rose, who was trying to eat a slice of a cherry tart without scattering crumbs on the script.

“Oh.” Sabre nodded. “Right. Of course.”

“Hey, Rose,” Rose said, without looking up. “Can you kindly give us space so we can talk about sex in hushed voices, because gods forbid you learn that sex might happen in a pleasure house.”

“This is far worse,” Laurent said. “We might even cross the line into hand-holding.”

“Disgusting,” Rose said, shoving the rest of the tart in her mouth. She grabbed the script. “Immoral. I can’t bear to think of it. My own brother.”

She flounced off, and Sabre looked down at his hands rather than linger on the look Laurent gave her, fond and exasperated all at once.

“You won’t have much time,” Laurent said, after a minute of silence. He crossed to the sink, leaning against the counter. “I don’t need to tell you that de Mortain is not known for pity.”

“I know.” Sabre pulled the plug, watching dark water swirl down the drain. “He isn’t known for cruelty, either. I don’t think he would have done it, the way it happened.”

“Maybe not, but he won’t make it easy.”

Sabre nodded. “I don’t think he knows how. But thank you, for not accepting one of the others.”

Laurent kept his gaze on the door, and lowered his voice so that Sabre had to lean in, hands slippery on the edge of the sink.

“Is there a reason, then, that Prince Adrien would be one of the others?”

Sabre slipped, banging his arm on the sink, and hissed out a curse as Laurent grabbed him. “He wouldn’t. You’re lying.”

“Careful with your tone,” Laurent said.

“Sorry, my lord, he just, surely he knows what that looks like?”

“That did cross my mind,” Laurent said, still in a low voice. “You’re close, then?”

“Not as close as anyone else…” Sabre caught Laurent’s eyes, the hard dominance there, a warning. “Yes. Close enough.”

“Will he stop, then, if it’s known you’ve already found a client for your first night?”

Sabre sighed. “No. He’s too much like his father.”

Laurent stared at him, brows lowered. “Like his father? The court’s always saying he’s the spitting image of the late queen.”

“Yes, but he’s loyal. He feels very strongly, when he cares for someone. He can be a little reckless.”

“Prince Adrien,” Laurent said. “The crown prince, Adrien. That is who you mean.”

“Yes, I said he was like his father, didn’t I?” Sabre winced at the sharpness in his voice. “Sorry, my lord, but the king, he doesn’t show his true feelings to anyone. You know that.”

Laurent was oddly silent for a moment, arms crossing slowly over his chest. “He felt powerfully enough to kill his own wife for treason,” he said. “His cousin. Her daughter.”

“His wife was different,” Sabre said. Laurent’s eyes widened.

“He was found with her blood on his hands,” Laurent said. “There have been ballads about it. And you don’t deny that he’s killed others. Friends. Courtiers. An entire squad of guards.”

“Yes,” Sabre said, before Laurent could bring up the queen again. “But he had reason—oh, I’m defending him. I used to defend him.”

“And he held you down,” Laurent said. His voice was soft, relentless. Impossible to escape. “While your family was hanged.”

“Because he thought they betrayed him. It’s all loyalty again,” Sabre said. He could feel the bile in his throat. “And Adrien, he’s the same. He knows I’m loyal. I’ve always been loyal.”

“And now?” Laurent tightened his grip on Sabre’s arm.

“Adrien can trust me,” Sabre said. “If he thinks he can’t, tell him nothing’s changed, but he can’t come here.”

“Do you love him?”

Sabre frowned. “What?”

“It’s a valid question,” Laurent said. “Are you lovers? Tell me now, so I know what I’ve signed up for, bringing you here.”

“No,” Sabre said. “No, we’re not lovers.”

Laurent released him. “But you're loyal to him, you said. Not to the king,” he added, when Sabre looked away. “This isn’t about the king. Does anyone else know this?”

“No,” Sabre said. “My mother and sister are dead.”

“And the king? Does he know?”

“He doesn’t even know what the prince looks like, these days,” Sabre said.

Laurent flapped a hand, like a father ignoring his own son for ten years was nothing of import. “But does he know.”

“No,” Sabre said, carefully. “But if Adrien keeps trying to find me, he probably will.”

* * *

The storm hit a week later,low and heavy with rain that flooded the lower circles of the city and washed the upper streets clean. It was a cool rain, so thick no one could see more than a few inches in the dim of twilight, and it took only half a minute for it to soak into Sabre’s skin.

“You’re mad,” he said, as Yves, also drenched but far more fashionable about it than Sabre’s brand of wet cat chic, ran a length of leather from Sabre’s cuffed hands and under the back door to the House. “We can’t do this inside?”

“No,” Yves said. “Because you’re not desperate enough.”

“There has to be a better way than—” Sabre groaned as Yves slammed the door shut between them. “Yves!”

“Beg like you mean it and I’ll let you in!” Yves shouted back.

Sabre groaned. Lessons with Yves we’re continuing to be an unmitigated disaster. He could kneel well enough, but he couldn’t pretend not to be bored when Yves asked him to moan and whine like he was writhing in someone’s lap. Even actually writhing on one of Margritte’s far too inventive phalluses wasn’t enough. He was just a terrible liar, and there was no getting around it.

“Yves,” Sabre said. “Let me in.”

“That doesn’t sound like, Please, my lord, let me come,” Yves said. “Or I’m a dirty slut who needs your cock. Either or.”

“But I’m not one,” Sabre said. “And I don’t want to come, I want to come in.”

“Not unless you’re a dirty slut who wants to come!” Yves shouted.

“Oh, no,” Sabre heard someone say on the other side of the door. “I do not want to know.”

Sabre tugged at the leash. It was attached to something on the other side of the door, possibly the handle. “Please,” he said, as rain rolled down his back. “Please, let me come.”

“Please, my lord,” Yves called out. “And I don’t believe you!”

“Are you sure you aren’t a sadist in disguise?” Sabre asked.

Yves laughed.

Sabre spent almost ten minutes trying, with wildly varying degrees of enthusiasm, to convince Yves that he was, actually, about to die if he didn’t come. After a long period of silence, though, Sabre tugged at the leash and realized no one had answered him for at least five minutes.

“You left me,” he said to the door. “You bastard.”

Rain pummeled the gravel at his feet, making the stones rattle, and Sabre sighed and sat down. Above him, lights flickered on in the House as the dark set in, and shadows crossed the windows, tugging at curtains and sealing gaps.

“Oh, please,” Sabre said, kicking at the door. “Let me come.”

“Sabre?”

Sabre froze. The rain obscured the buildings around him, darkening the narrow alleys and surrounding the House with a gray curtain.

A darker shadow appeared through the rain, draped in an oiled black cloak. They were a little taller than Sabre, with the fine boots of a noble and expensive leather gloves, and Sabre stood, dragging at the cuffs. The door rattled dangerously.

Whoever it was had come from one of the alleys. There wasn’t another exit out of the House so far as Sabre knew, and every inch of them screamed noble. A noble who knew Sabre’s name. And Sabre, left outside while Yves fucked off to prove a point about applying himself, was cuffed to a fucking door.

Sabre placed a foot on the door and dragged at the lead. Leather ripped at the seams. The door groaned alarmingly, and Sabre pulled away with about a foot of lead still hanging from his cuffs, just in time to swing his fists into the stranger’s stomach.

The man went down like a sack of bricks, and Sabre pushed him over with a foot, revealing a wheezing, wide-eyed Prince Adrien.

“Shit.” Sabre fell clumsily to his knees as Adrien clutched his side with both hands. “What were you doing? Why are you here?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Adrien said, in his soft, cultured voice. “And I forgive you, of course.”

“You came out of the rain like a ghost,” Sabre said. He tried to peel back Adrien’s cloak to get a look at his ribs, but it was difficult with his hands cuffed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” Adrien said. He grabbed Sabre’s wrists. “Look at you. They tied you up here in the rain? Do you sleep here? Is this why you’re dressed so terribly?”

Sabre sighed as Adrien gingerly got to his knees, fumbling with the latches on his cuffs. “Adrien. It’s good to know that you don’t hate me, but this is a little excessive.”

“Why on earth would I hate you?” Adrien asked. “Iknow you wouldn’t lay a hand against me. Well, you did, but you didn’t know it was me. You would never betray us.” He took Sabre’s face in his hands. Adrien had his mother’s red hair and dark eyes, and if Sabre hadn’t seen him drinking out of a horse trough at age eight on a dare, he would have found him achingly beautiful.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save them, Sabre,” Adrien said. Sabre took a shivery breath. “Father locked me in my room when it happened. But I can save you.”

“Adrien.”

“I’m your prince, and you’re not even a lord, now, so you have no choice,” Adrien said, in a quavering voice. The door opened, spilling light over the yard, and he tried to drag Sabre behind him. It wouldn’t have done much good—Adrien always was a little too willowy for a proper Starian prince.

“The fuck did you do to the door?” Yves asked. “The fuck is he?”

“You’ll turn around if you know what’s best for you,” Adrien said. Yves looked at Sabre and mouthed, What?

“Can my friend come in?” Sabre asked, and Adrien looked at him in open alarm. “It’s really coming down, at the moment.”

Storms always unsettled Adrien. He used to cry and lock himself away when he was young, and only his mother could coax him out long enough to close the curtains and light a lamp.

“I see things, sometimes,” Adrien had told him, once, when the queen was still alive and Sabre was staying the night in the royal suites, making blanket forts while the storm thundered outside. “Flashes. Little things. I saw you break your arm on the window.”

“How do you break an arm on a window?” Sabre had asked. Adrien just shrugged.

“No, I saw it in the rain, when it hit the window,” he said. “It was sunny, and your father was on a horse, and you broke your arm.”

It wasn’t until months later, when Sabre was lying in bed with a splint and his father was telling funny stories about falling off a horse, that Sabre remembered what Adrien had said.

He’d been sworn to secrecy, later, when the Misli, whose magic was inherent rather than infused in everyday crafts like Starian magic, were pushed out of the city limits and chased to the sea. It wasn’t safe, Sabre decided, for a Starian prince to see the future in patches of rainwater, so he cut his thumb to swear, and Adrien had burst into soft, gasping tears and bandaged him up again. The only thing that upset Adrien more than rain, it seemed, was blood.

The fact that he chose to stage his daring rescue during a storm made Sabre unsure if he wanted to hug him or punch him again.

“Don’t tell them who you are,” Sabre whispered, guiding Adrien through the door.

“One of them, um…one of them might know already,” Adrien whispered back. Sabre raised his brows, and Adrien blushed furiously. “I can’t tell you everything I get up to, you know.”

“A little warning this time would have been nice,” Sabre said. He took off Adrien’s cloak while Yves ran off down the hall, probably to fetch half the House. “You know if I run, that will look like an admission of guilt.”

“Yes, but I’m the prince,” Adrien said, tugging off his gloves. “And you’re, you know, like Isiodore is to my father. I can’t very well be king without you.”

“Adrien, we are not in private,” Sabre hissed.

Adrien frowned slightly. “You’re trembling.”

“What?” Sabre pushed wet hair out of Adrien’s face, an old habit. He was always playing the older brother, even if Adrien was only younger by a few months. It came with the territory. Adrien was so quiet, most of the time, so strange, that it was Sabre’s first instinct. “It’s cold, of course I’m trembling.”

“I’m not,” Adrien said. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re scared. I thought you might be, when I saw you.”

Sabre met Adrien’s dark gaze. “How.”

“We aren’t in private,” Adrien whispered. He clutched at Sabre’s hand. “I wish…Sabre, I wish I could have—”

“I know,” Sabre said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Laurent, turning the corner at the end of the hall. Yves hovered behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, staring from Adrien to Sabre and back again.

“My lord,” Sabre said, keeping a hand placed firmly on Adrien’s shoulder. “If I could introduce my cousin.”

* * *

Laurent briefly considered screaming.

It wasn’t dignified, it wasn’t even all that necessary and still, it was so very tempting. The house was always somewhat less crowded when it rained, but it was still a pleasure house, and the man standing in the back hallway was the crown prince. “You—yes. Of course.” He bowed. “Your Highness. What a surprise, to see you in the hallway.”

“Oh, wow,” Yves said, from behind him. “You’re so hot, Prince Adrien. I’ve only ever seen you from a distance, and wow. Look at you. And you two are friends?”

The Crown Prince of Staria did look like his late mother, and he had none of his father’s dominance, but he was still the heir to the throne. He drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and said with a polite bow, “Sabre is my cousin, and yes, a dear friend.”

“I need to go lie down,” Yves whispered.

“Yes, you do,” Laurent said, threading his voice with dominance. “On your bed. For the noble who will be here in forty-five minutes to fuck you on it.”

“Oh, no, it’s Lord Lafleur. He likes to fuck me over the—”

“Yves,” Laurent said. “I will put you on laundry duty for a week and gag you for longer if you don’t stop talking.”

“As my lord commands. But, Prince Adrien, I’m available for—”

Laurent turned, gave him a look and said, “Two weeks. Go.”

“This is where you are, now,” Adrien said, and god help him, but Laurent heard a thread of something wistful in the prince’s soft voice.

“Yes,” Sabre said. “And I heard you offered for me, for my First Night.”

He stared up at the ceiling. “Neither of you have the sense given a bedbug, so go to my office, now. Sabre, practice your service and fetch His Highness some tea and a blanket, and get yourself in dry clothes before you kneel.”

“Oh,” Adrien interrupted. “That’s not necessary. Sabre doesn’t need to. He’s—”

“He is in training to serve this house, Your Highness,” Laurent said, wondering if he was going to end up in the gallows, now, for interrupting a prince. “It would be the best for everyone if you allowed me to do that.”

“Of course, I didn’t intend to disrupt your—anything,” Adrien said, wet and dripping on the floor, his eyes wide and locked on his friend. There was something there, maybe, despite what Sabre said. Maybe unrequited, and how tragic, there were Katoikos melodramas with less plot twists than this situation.

“Come with me,” Laurent said, and tried not to sigh as he heard the Crown Prince of Staria’s boots squelch on the tile floor as they walked to Laurent’s office.

“I do promise, Lord de Rue, that my intention coming here is not to put Sabre in danger, or your house,” Adrien assured him. He was so earnest, their future king, even though Laurent would eat his top hat and Yves’ sparkly shorts if he really believed Adrien would take the throne of Staria.

“I understand, Your Highness, but you must understand that I am, actually, trying to keep Sabre safe.”

“Yes. And it’s Adrien, please,” he said, wringing his hands. He wouldn’t sit down in the chair, though perhaps it was because he was still wet from the rain. Even de Mortain hadn’t told Laurent to use his given name, and here the crown prince was standing in front of his desk, allowing a former pleasure slave to use his name. “Thank you for what you did for him. I know you took a risk.”

“Your Highness,” Laurent said, settling behind his desk. “Please have a seat. Before Sabre returns, I want you to understand why I decided to, ah…decline your offer, to take Sabre’s First Night.”

Prince Adrien did sit, eventually, but he said, “I do understand, Lord de Rue.” There was an odd smile on his face that Laurent couldn’t quite place. “You are trying to keep him safe. But are you sure my father’s closest friend is the best choice?”

“You’re aware Sabre is a submissive, and a masochist?”

Prince Adrien blushed hot, and Laurent, who didn’t often think about the night he spent in the king’s bed for many reasons, could not find any shade of Adrien’s father in his awkward sincerity. “Of course, being friends, we’ve discussed such things. May I, before he comes back, ask you something of a personal nature?”

Adrien could, if he wanted, murder him right here with a vase and nothing would happen to him. “If you wish.”

“You are not, are you, a submissive? Or a masochist.” Adrien whispered it to the floor.

For a horrible moment, Laurent wondered where this was going. If the prince wanted to hire him—

No. Laurent was no longer for hire. It was fucking with his equilibrium to be around the royal family, apparently. “No, I’m not.”

“You were lying, before? With your…past clients?”

“I was surviving, Your Highness. May I ask why this is relevant?” If Adrien asked about Laurent’s night with the king, he was going to lie and tell him they’d read a book or taken a bath or something.

Adrien shook his head. “Not yet. But sometime, you probably won’t have to.”

Before he could figure that out, Sabre returned. He was in dry clothes, hair hastily braided with ribbons and his eyes lined—Yves, probably—and had a warm blanket and a tea tray that he carried into the room.

Adrien looked horrified and uncomfortable, but Laurent didn’t stop Sabre from draping the blanket around his shoulders or serving the tea. Sabre was not a noble, not anymore, and the sooner these two ridiculous young men got this through their minds, the better.

“If you two promise not to go anywhere, or plot something that will end badly,” Laurent said, voice heavy with command. “I will let you speak alone, for a time.”

“You have my word, Lord de Rue,” Adrien promised.

Laurent walked over to where Sabre was kneeling with at least a modicum of grace—his posture was still too lax, he was going to have to have a word with Yves—and grabbed Sabre by the hair, pulling his head back. “You are representing this house. Your First Night belongs to someone, and you belong to me, and this House, until your debt is paid.”

“As for his debt, I could—”

“Prince Adrien,” Laurent said, again interrupting him. “Your father would simply raise it and you know it. Sabre, tell me you understand what I am saying to you.” He pulled Sabre’s hair, harder, and saw the flash in his eyes, something hot and desperate.

He should, maybe, have Charon see to him after Adrien took his leave. But Charon was busy that evening, and the thought of doing it himself made Laurent’s blood heat. He shouldn’t. But he wanted to.

“I understand, m-my lord,” Sabre murmured.

“And please see to it that the Crown Prince understands why he might want to think a bit more, before visiting unannounced.” He pulled harder, and then smacked Sabre across the face. “Well?”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre said, swaying, and he didn’t need to look down to know his cock was probably growing hard.

Good. That got the point across well enough; both who Sabre was, and who he belonged to, now. Laurent bowed. “Your Highness. If you’ve a mind to hire any of my courtesans, we would welcome your patronage, as always.”

“Yes, all right, thank you, Lord de Rue, I shall keep that in mind.”

Laurent gave Sabre another hard look, then went into the hallway. Where he immediately turned, slid open a panel, and ducked into a hidden area cleverly built behind his office. Laurent hadn’t built it, but this wasn’t the first time he’d found it useful, and he doubted it would be the last.

“He’s, ah…quite something. Does he do that often, strike you like that? Would you like me to see if I can have you moved to the House of Gold, Sab?”

Laurent rolled his eyes. He was certain that if that smack bothered Sabre, it was only because Laurent hadn’t done it hard enough.

“No, Asa, it’s fine.”

Gods help him, but Sabre was domming the crown prince.

“I saw you with him,” Adrien said. “Izzy. He was hurting you, Sab, so much, and you were sobbing.”

For a moment, Laurent didn’t understand what he was hearing. Who was Izzy? He knew Sabre had been with others, of course, but—Izzy? That wasn’t. There was no way—

“Asa, you know that’s what I like,” Sabre said, soothing. “It’s going to be okay. Is that why you didn’t press it, when Lord de Rue said he’d be my first?”

For the—was Izzy Isiodore de Mortain? But that hadn’t happened yet. Or—was this some kind of trick?

“I could still talk to him, you know. Maybe I could—”

“Asa, no, you can’t,” Sabre said, and what a horrifying realization to know that Sabre was the voice of reason here. “It’s all right. I know him, and he’ll tell me the truth about my family.”

“And you’ll sob for it,” Adrien said. “I saw it.”

But how?

“I cried for Charon, and it was...oh, Asa. It was like it’s supposed to be. What we’re told it would be.”

“Maybe what you were told,” Adrien said. “I’m not supposed to be a submissive. And what about Lord de Rue?”

“What? What is that look, Asa, what.”

“I saw you when he smacked you,” the prince said. “Here, I mean. Not in my...you know.”

Wait, his what? Laurent was still not over the fact Prince Adrien called Isiodore de Mortain Izzy.

“It’s fine, really, you need to not worry about me.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” said Adrien, softly. “I don’t understand why I can see so many things, and I missed this. I missed them. Maybe you shouldn’t ask him, Sabre. Maybe it’s better not to know.”

“If I’m ever going to get over it, I have to,” Sabre said.

Laurent figured he’d heard enough. He sighed, left the hallway, and went to find Charon. He knew he had a gap in his schedule, and maybe he could do the Prince a good turn—and give himself a decent excuse if the crown prince was caught visiting that had nothing to do with Sabre. “Have time to entertain the Crown Prince tonight?”

Charon smiled. “I think so, yes.”

“Good,” said Laurent. “Let’s go get the subs out of my office, then.”

“Where is Sabre to go, if you wish me to take care of the prince?”

“I’ll take care of Sabre,” Laurent said, and ignored Charon’s low chuckle as they headed toward the office.