Pet: A Captive Prince Short Story (Captive Prince Short Stories Book 4) by C. S. Pacat

Author:C. S. Pacat [Pacat, C. S.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Gatto
Published: 2018-01-06T00:00:00+00:00

Ancel could be useful to Berenger in other ways, that was a pet’s role too. When Councillor Herode entered the crowded great hall a few nights later, Ancel saw Berenger’s eyes follow him, before Berenger looked up at the dais where the Regent sat and frowned slightly.

‘What is it?’ said Ancel.

He said it quietly, his hand on Berenger’s arm, drawing him away from the scattering of courtiers and pets. Ancel had just filched a sweetmeat from Lord Droet, saying, ‘Your pet is too slow!’ to the delight of Lord Droet and the anger of the pet he had with him, a storm cloud in blue silk.

After a moment, Berenger answered him in a low voice, ‘I would like to speak privately to the Councillor. I wish I could arrange it.’

Berenger’s eyes were still on the grey-haired man across the hall. Eventually, he looked back at Ancel.

‘I can arrange it,’ said Ancel.

He raised his brows when Berenger gave him a sceptical look.

‘I can make everyone look at me.’

There was the familiar frown, like an old friend. ‘Ancel, I told you I don’t want—’

Ancel was already moving to pick up one of short banner poles that decorated the hall. Unhooking the banner, he twirled the stick in his hand.

‘Oh, do you do tricks as well?’ said Lord Droet.

‘Would you like to see one?’ said Ancel. He threw the stick to Lord Droet, who caught it adeptly.

A few heads began to turn towards him. ‘I think every man here wants to see what you can do,’ said Lord Droet.

‘Take off your jacket,’ said Ancel.

More heads turned. He saw Berenger nod once, briefly, then melt into the crowd. Lord Droet was laughing, but he was also gesturing to his own pet to come and unlace his jacket. Ancel could feel the attention, like bright sunlight on his skin.

‘You don’t need it back do you?’ said Ancel.

‘I suppose not.’

Ancel tore the jacket right down the middle. There were a few gasps, and laughter again from Lord Droet, who said, ‘I hope there’s more to this trick.’

‘Throw me back the stick,’ said Ancel.

By now, a small crowd had gathered. Ancel caught the stick one-handed. Deftly, he wrapped the torn fabric of Lord Droet’s jacket around each end. He stepped back, tipping a lamp and soaking the wads of Lord Droet’s jacket with lamp oil. Then he touched each end to the fire.

Gasps as they burst into flame, and Ancel tossed the stick high, a spinning wheel of dangerous light.

He saw: faces lit up with flame, shock and delight at his audacity, childlike pleasure at the spectacle. He saw: Berenger moving across to the far side of the hall, Councillor Herode leaning in to murmur to him. He knew how he looked: red and red and red.

It was not so different to a planned performance, the ends of the sticks alight with fire. He caught his first toss, compensating for the different weight of the jacket. He knew what happened when sticks dropped in performance: the

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