Shadow War Part 22

"Agel!" he shouted. "Agel!"

But his cousin did not respond.

Chapter Twelve.

Enraged, knowing his arrest was imminent, Caelan went on a rampage in the tiny room, smashing and destroying. When at last he heard a commotion of voices outside and the tramping of boots, he straightened and faced the door. Breathing hard, he held a broken chair leg in his hand for a club. Slaves could not offer a defense when accused of crimes, however falsely. He would be considered guilty as charged. So he had nothing to lose by fighting. By Gault, he would not go tamely to his doom.

The outer door opened with a bang.

Caelan expected a pair of common foot soldiers under the command of an arrest sergeant. Instead, five armored men in the helmets and red cloaks of the Imperial Guard rushed inside with drawn swords and war clubs. Yelling, Caelan swung his club, only to see it splintered by a sword. Caelan dived at the guardsman's knees, bringing him down. Throwing himself bodily against the struggling guardsman, who was hindered by his own armor, Caelan caught his wrist and wrenched his sword away.

A club thudded into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. Caelan struggled up, but before he could completely turn around, another blow drove him down. Surrounding him, the guardsmen bludgeoned him to his knees.

Stunned and knowing he was in trouble, Caelan slashed with his sword and cut a man in the leg. That guardsman stumbled back, yelling in pain as blood splashed across the floor. Caelan grinned to himself and tried again to regain his feet.

They closed in on him. A numbing blow crashed into his forearm, and he dropped his sword from nerveless fingers. He scrambled to pick it up with his right hand, but a guardsman kicked it out of reach. Caelan lunged after it, but he was kicked back.

Black stars danced across his vision. Shaking his head to clear it, he struggled up only to be slapped by a heavy net that settled over his head and shoulders.

"No!" he shouted furiously, but the net was already over him.

A swift jerk pulled him over onto his side. They had him then, trussing him expertly with thick ropes before he could scramble free.

Struggling still, consumed with rage and intense fear, Caelan cursed them in Trau. Sweat and blood were running into his left eye, half blinding him. He heaved himself up, despite his bound arms, and rolled to his knees.

The guardsman working the net jerked again, expertly, and sent Caelan crashing onto his side again. The world grew dark and blurred, and by the time he managed to blink things back into focus the officer had come up and planted his boot on Caelan's neck.

"Have done, man. You're caught," he said.

Caelan lay there with his sweat and blood smearing across the polished floor. Shame flooded him, and he would have wept in humiliation had his pride not burned all his tears away.

Around him the guardsmen put up their weapons and wiped their perspiring faces with looks of relief.

"Murdeth, what a fighter," one said.

The man whose leg was still bleeding freely looked up from his efforts to staunch the wound. "What do you expect? He's a gladiator."

"Still, five against one-"

"Silence," the officer said sharply. "You, see to the wagon. You, get that wound bound up quickly."

Saluting, the men a.s.signed moved to obey. The rest stood alert, as though aware that Caelan would fight again at the first opportunity.

The household servants crowded into the doorway. Craning their necks, they chattered among themselves. Caelan saw Orlo among them with his blocky shoulders and shaven head, looking like a thundercloud.

"Orlo!" Caelan called out, but the trainer only glared at him and shook his head in pity.

"Orlo, for Gault's sake-"

"Silence!" The officer ground his foot harder into Caelan's neck, almost choking him. His gold rank stripes glittered on the shoulders of his crimson cloak. His eyes were as brutal as the desert. "Caelan E'non-slave and property of his imperial highness, Prince Tirhin-you are arrested on charges of willfully turning upon your master with intent to harm, on charges of striking your master's face and person, and on charges of-"

"No!" Caelan shouted. Wildly he looked around, but he saw condemnation on every face. "Who makes these charges?" he demanded. "Who claims these lies?"

"As a slave you have no rights, not even the right to know who has accused you," the officer said.

"If it was not my lawful master, I demand to know," Caelan insisted defiantly. "You cannot arrest me without the knowledge and consent of the prince."

But Agel's voice rose over his. "I laid the charge," he said, appearing at the doorway. He looked composed and stern as he stood there in his white robes. His eyes held nothing at all. "His highness lies unconscious, grievously injured. The servants will testify that this slave brought the prince home in such a state. It proves his guilt."

"No!" Caelan said, the denial bursting from him. "I did not hurt his highness, as he will tell you once he is recovered. Orlo, speak for me. Tell the officer the truth."

But Orlo did not come forward, and the officer ignored Caelan's protests.

His gaze locked on Agel. "Your name?"

"I am Agel, a healer newly appointed to the imperial court." Agel spoke calmly and with dignity.

"You are prepared to swear to the extent of Prince Tirhin's injuries?" the officer asked.

"I am prepared to swear."

"No!" Caelan said, horrified. "He was-"

He broke off, aware of how fantastic the truth would sound. The prince's reputation was impeccable. Who would believe he had gone to Sidraigh-hal Sidraigh-hal to strike an evil bargain with representatives from Madrun? Who would believe he had been attacked by to strike an evil bargain with representatives from Madrun? Who would believe he had been attacked by shyrieas shyrieas on his way home? on his way home?

Caelan realized he had been foolish to bring the prince back. He should have left him on the scorched hillside, perhaps to die. By bringing the prince home, he had left himself open to misinterpretation and outright lie.

Caelan's desperate gaze collided with Agel's cold one, and Agel's eyes did not waver. Caelan knew he had been a fool, an utter fool, to trust Agel at all. There had been plenty of warning signs, and he'd ignored them all.

This, he thought bitterly, was the result of his ambition. He'd wanted to be named protector of a future emperor, and so he'd tagged after Tirhin, willingly involving himself as a witness to treason. And now he lay here accused himself, the reward of having served an unworthy master, the reward of having trusted his own kinsman. As a slave, he would not even get a trial.

Even as cold fear washed through him, the guardsmen dragged him bodily out into the s.p.a.cious atrium. Bile rose in Caelan's throat. He remembered lying rolled in a net while the Thyzarenes burned and looted his home. He couldn't submit to this again. He would rather fight and be killed than submit.

Panicking, he kicked and struggled, but he was helpless and the guardsmen were experienced. One of them gave a vicious twist to the ropes binding him, and another kicked him hard in the kidney.

The world tilted a moment, and Caelan's only fight was against blacking out. He coughed a little, trying to regain the air that had been knocked out of him.

"There'll be no trouble from you, gladiator."

Biting back a moan, Caelan sagged against the stone floor. Nothing to lose, he told himself. But he must fight with his wits to have any chance at all. He must not panic, must not lose his temper. He must think if he was to have any hope of getting out of this. Besides, the more he fought, the more guilty he would appear.

They loosened the net and put shackles on his hands and feet. Shame burned Caelan. He hadn't worn chains since before he won his first season championship.

The servants watched in silence. Their eyes reflected the lamplight like mirrors. Not one spoke up for him.

He was pulled to his feet. "Walk," a guardsman commanded him, prodding him with a dagger. "And remember, I know every trick you do, so don't try anything."

Caelan stumbled out past Prince Tirhin's collection of priceless statuary and busts. Tapestries and fine paintings hung on the walls. His feet trod priceless carpets.

The officer waited by the doorway leading outside. His gaze took in the fine furnishings, the beauty of the house, without expression. He was all business, alert and watchful as though he fully understood how dangerous Caelan could be.

Caelan drew a deep breath, well aware of the dagger pressed to his ribs. "Lieutenant," he said quietly, trying to sound educated and civilized. "My master has not laid these charges. Take care you do not make a mistake tonight."

The guardsman at his side struck him hard, nearly knocking him down the steps outside. Stumbling, Caelan caught himself against one of the dragon statues. As he straightened, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of something in the lieutenant's eyes.

"I am valuable property," he said quickly. "Too valuable for quick disposal or illegal sale on the block."

"Silence!" The guardsman shoved him down the steps.

The lieutenant watched Caelan go by and said nothing.

Despair rose in Caelan. He had done all he could. Now his life hung in the balance. If these men had been bribed to dispose of him, they would do it.

The servants followed, coming outside to stand between the stone dragons. Caelan could hear their murmurs, both sad and condemning. Even they believed his guilt.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Caelan saw Orlo. He wanted to call out to the man, wanted to tell him he was sorry. Orlo had been right, while he was wrong. He wanted to ask Orlo to believe in his innocence. But he held his tongue, aware that no appeal would help him now.

Under the portico, a wagon supporting an iron cage stood waiting next to the guardsmen's horses.

Caelan's spirits sank. Yesterday he had been a champion. His name had been on everyone's lips. They had cheered him and praised him. Now-on the lie of one unscrupulous man-he was considered a villain. Condemned already, he would die unheard and unseen.

Agel came down the steps, his robe moth-pale in the moonlight. "Where are you taking him?" he asked.

Caelan knew the options. He could be sold directly to the galleys, where he'd been once before. He could be taken to the city executioner, who would behead him. His head would be placed on a spike above the city walls to warn other slaves of the penalties for rebellion.

The guardsman laughed, and one of them spat on the steps.

"Why, to the dungeons of the palace, of course. This man has an appointment with the torturer, who is very interested in taking his confession."

Caelan's blood ran cold, but Agel turned pale. "The palace?" he said. "A confession?"

The lieutenant stepped between him and Caelan, whom the guards prodded into the cage. The barred gate was slammed shut and locked.

"But he is not a political figure," Agel protested. "He is merely a slave."

"He's the most famous slave in this city," the lieutenant said impatiently. "And he belongs to the prince. Until his highness is recovered enough to lay blame against his own property, no one has the authority to dispose of this wretch. No, he'll rot in the prison, and he'll make his confession or go mad from the instruments."

"But-"

"Get back now," the lieutenant said. "This matter is no longer in your hands."

Turning from Agel, he shouted an order. The wagon lurched forward, rolling through the gates and out onto the road.

Clutching the bars of his cage, Caelan pressed his face against them and glared at the diminishing figure of Agel for as long as he could. Inside he knew the cold satisfaction of having thwarted his cousin's attempt to silence him quickly. He'd give his warning now. He'd bray it for the confession, and it would have to be believed.

But under the bleakness of his satisfaction lay raw fear.

Gault help him, but he knew of the dungeons. He knew that once a man entered them, he did not emerge alive. Only Prince Tirhin could order his release, but once his confession was made Caelan would have no help from that quarter. Truly, his doom was being spun around him like a shroud.

In the temple of the Vindicants, the air lay thick with incense. Crimson smoke curled from the flared nostrils of two enormous bronze dogs flanking the stone altar. Lamplight flickered about the circular chamber, and oppressive silence hung like a shroud.

The bronze doors leading into the sanctuary were bolted from the inside. No one could disturb the lone occupant of the chamber.

Lord Sien, high priest of the Vindicant order, knelt on the floor before the altar with his head bowed and his hands pressed tightly together.

He was stripped to the waist, and although the sanctuary was chilly a light coating of perspiration covered his skin. He was breathing hard, as though he had been running a long distance. His eyes were closed.

On the floor beside him stood an emptied cup. The flat taste of blood, ashes, and wine still lingered on his tongue.

The air around him felt charged with gathering energy. Opening his eyes, Sien faced the altar with his arms spread wide. Above him on the wall hung the dread visage of the shadow G.o.d. Empty eyes stared down at him, but he knew he was watched. He knew that Beloth sensed him from far away, and stirred, and was aware.

Some day, when Beloth was free, the shadow G.o.d would remember his loyal servant. Reward would be great.

Sien shivered and closed his eyes to regain his concentration. His arms were leaden with exhaustion. His body swayed, but he held onto the threads he had sent forth. It was almost time, almost time. He must not falter.

A whisper touched his hearing, faint yet unmistakable.

He turned his head slightly, acknowledging the sound with a slight curl of his lips.

Ah, they came.

The first shadow appeared, sliding under the doors and racing across the floor. It was a man's shadow, short and square, but it came alone. When it overlapped Sien's own elongated shadow, he shuddered and felt a moment of elemental pain before the joining.

"Speak," he commanded.

The shadow belonged to Hovet, protector of the emperor. "He has gone to bed. I am free to roam a short time."

"Tell me," Sien commanded.

"The wasting sickness returns. The emperor will send soon for his new healer. He is unhappy tonight. He is lonely and afraid. He counts the number of his years. He feels the weight of his sins. He mourns the destruction of his throne. He fears tomorrow, when he must put the crown on the woman's head."

"Will he name her sovereign?" Sien asked impatiently. That was the only important bit. Sien had no interest in the aches and tremblings of an old man who had lived too long. "What is his decision?"

"He wavers first one way, then the other. He schemes and forgets. He schemes and forgives. He is angry at Tirhin. He is angry at the woman."

"Tell me more," Sien commanded.

The shadow writhed across Sien's. "Let me go," it wailed. "I am too far. I will die alone."