Shadow War Part 8

Tonight, Tirhin went forth beautifully dressed, and his friends were select companions of high birth and respectability, but he was making less than minimal effort to honor his young stepmother. And according to servants' gossip, he had not yet attended any of the palace functions. That in itself was a plain insult.

Caelan whistled silently to himself. The prince played with fire. Would the emperor let his son get away with such behavior? Would he send Tirhin off to the war as he had done before? Would he banish his one and only heir for a time to teach him better manners? Kostimon was infamous for not tolerating any disrespect. He had killed sons before. He could again.

In honor of the empress, every house in Imperia looked alight with guests and merriment. High in the western hills r.i.m.m.i.n.g the city, the villas of the n.o.bility stood secluded and separate within their own gardens and groves. It was to one of these exclusive homes that the prince rode now. He was welcomed by his hosts, and the prince and his friends spent an hour among staid surroundings with mostly middle-aged guests of eminent respectability. Having been left in the hall under the sharp eye of the porter, Caelan saw nothing of the house except a few pieces of statuary and a hard bench to sit on. He could hear the sedate strains of lute music, and well-modulated laughter. It was not Tirhin's usual sort of party, but in the past year Caelan had learned that a prince with ambition did not always seek pleasure but instead worked to purposes unexplained to mere gladiators.

The porter had nothing to say to Caelan. Presumably he had no interest in betting on the arena games. Or perhaps his owner did not permit him to gamble. If he even knew who Caelan was, he looked completely unimpressed. It was a long, silent hour of boredom. Caelan had never been one to stand much inactivity.

Just before he rose to his feet to go outside and prowl about in the darkness, the prince emerged with the well wishes of his host, a gray-haired man looking much gratified by the honor that had been conferred on him by Tirhin's visit.

They rode to another villa, staying only a short time before leaving again. The prince did this twice more until at last they arrived at the exquisite home of Lady Sivee.

Caelan had been here before, and he found himself grinning with antic.i.p.ation. Now that social obligations had been satisfied, they could enjoy themselves. The lady was a youngish widow of considerable beauty and fortune. She spent her money on lavish entertainments, and threw the best parties in Imperia. Her personal notoriety did not keep people away, and she delighted in mixing people of different social cla.s.ses and standing. As a champion gladiator, even Caelan was welcome in her home, for he provided additional entertainment for her guests, especially the female ones who invariably cl.u.s.tered about to admire his muscles. It was rumored the lady had hopes of marrying Prince Tirhin, but while the prince dallied, he did not propose. Politically, he could do better.

The rooms were crowded with guests, but Lady Sivee came fluttering through to greet the prince warmly.

"Sir, we are honored indeed by your graciousness," she said with a radiant smile.

The prince kissed her hand. "My lady, how could I even think of forgoing your invitation? You knew I would come."

"I could only hope," she replied.

Her gaze swept to the others, and when they had been suitably greeted and directed onward to the tables of food and drink, she turned to Caelan.

"Welcome, champion," she said with kindness. "There were rumors that you had suffered grievous wounds. I am glad to see them false. You look particularly well."

"Thank you, my lady," he said, pleased by the courtesy she extended to him. "Your hospitality shines above the rest."

Her brows arched, and she seemed surprised by his gallantry. "Well, well," she said. "You are gaining polish. Soon you will have a charm equal to your master's."

"Never, if I may contradict a lady's p.r.o.nouncement," he said, drawing on his boyhood lessons in etiquette. Gladiator or not, he wasn't a barbarian and he didn't intend to be taken for one. "My master surpa.s.ses most men in ability, wit, and graciousness. Together, those qualities create a charm I could never approach."

Lady Sivee laughed. "Truly I am amazed by this speech. You sound like a courtier instead of a gladiator."

Caelan bowed, accepting the compliment.

"But I must question you," she continued. "You say the prince surpa.s.ses most most men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpa.s.s such a man whom the G.o.ds have favored so completely?" men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpa.s.s such a man whom the G.o.ds have favored so completely?"

As she spoke, her gaze followed the prince, who had reached the opposite side of the room. Everyone was vying for a chance to speak to him or to attract his notice. Prince Tirhin acted graciously, nodding to some, speaking to others.

Caelan watched him too, aware of the ears listening to his conversation with the hostess, aware of those who stared at him as though they could not believe him capable of opening his mouth intelligently. He was not going to fall into any trap. Yet here was one small chance for a dig at the prince's expense, a temptation impossible to resist.

"Who?" Lady Sivee persisted, her eyes shining merrily. "Who is his better? Who? I would know this paragon, this man without peer."

"Only the emperor, my lady," Caelan said in a mild voice. "I meant no disparagement of my esteemed master; only the truth do I speak."

Someone laughed, and Lady Sivee flushed.

"Very clever," she said, and tossed her head. Turning her back on Caelan, she walked away to link arms with a friend.

The man who laughed gave Caelan a mock salute. "Well done," he said. "An articulate fighter is a curiosity indeed. A witty one is a rarity. Who taught you repartee?"

Another man joined the first, saving Caelan from having to answer. This one leaned forward, his cheeks bulging with honeyed dates.

"Didn't expect to see Giant here," he said, poking at Caelan's tunic with his forefinger. "Word on the streets was that he died."

"Obviously he didn't," the first man replied.

While they were busy talking to each other, Caelan bowed to them and seized the chance to melt away into the crowd. He towered over most of the other men, and his broad shoulders were constantly colliding with others in the general crush. Caelan disliked such close quarters. Living a life of constant combat, he had difficulty switching off his alert instincts. To be crowded like this meant anyone could attack with little or no warning. Caelan tried to tell himself no one had such intentions, but every brush of a sleeve against him made his muscles tense.

Remembering his instructions, Caelan wandered into other rooms away from the eye of his master. He found himself recognized and greeted by some, and stared at by others who seemed insulted by the unfettered presence of a thug in their midst.

Deeply tanned from constant exposure to the outdoors and considered exotic because of his blue eyes, light hair, and height, Caelan found himself ogled and watched by both men and women. Many asked him to discuss his victory over the Madrun. Giggling maidens approached him, begging to feel his biceps. Grinning house servants with admiration in their eyes offered him spiced wine and honeyed smiles. Caelan did his best to be gracious; there was always another room to escape to.

He strolled through sumptuously appointed rooms filled with priceless art. He stood in the company of lords and ladies. He watched; he sampled delectable sweetmeats and pastries; he drank as he willed. Normally, he would have spent the time pretending he was a free man. After all, with the prince's leash so loose tonight this was in one way a mark of his trust in his champion. In another way it was Tirhin's silent boast to his friends. His champion could not only kill the strongest, fiercest fighters owned by anyone in the empire, but his champion was also civilized, educated, and trustworthy.

But tonight, fantasy held no appeal.

Eventually Caelan found himself in a quiet enclave where a poet stood reciting his literary creations. The room was dramatically lit. A few women sighed over the phrases; the men looked half-asleep. It was dull indeed, but Caelan picked up a ewer of wine and helped himself to a cupful while no one was looking.

He sipped his drink, standing in the back where no one need notice his presence. The poetry was well crafted, but staid and unimaginative.

Here, Caelan felt his bitterness return. With a grimace he lowered his cup. Yes, he could walk about his house as he willed, but he was not a guest. He could reply if someone spoke to him, but he could not initiate conversation. He could watch, smile, and pretend, but he did not belong among these people. His clothes were made of fine and costly fabric, but the garments were plain compared to the tailoring of the others. He wore a gold chain worth a small fortune, but it was still a chain chain.

To a man who had been born free, slavery-no matter how privileged-remained a galling sore that could not heal. What good were possessions, money, and finery when they were only a subst.i.tution for civil rights and a free will?

Worse, he had admired his master enough to serve him with honor and complete loyalty. Now he felt like a fool. How many times had Orlo warned him? But he hadn't listened. From his own stubbornness, he had let himself be used and manipulated. When the Madrun's sword and pierced his side, he had felt a fierce satisfaction-almost joy-at having succeeded in serving his master so well. Now he understood just how deluded he had been.

It was not easy to look into one's own heart and realize one was a fool.

As though magically sensing Caelan's dark thoughts, a man robed in green and brown turned h s head sharply away from the droning poet and stared hard at Caelan.

At once Caelan put down his cup and retreated from the room.

The man followed, emerging into the pa.s.sageway with Caelan's cup in his hand.

"Wait a moment," he said. "You left your wine behind. Here."

Reluctantly Caelan took the cup from his fingers. He had left it nearly empty. Now it had been refilled. Out of politeness Caelan took a token sip, but in his present mood the wine tasted as sour as vinegar.

The man sipped from his own cup and smacked his lips appreciatively. "Delicious, is it not?"

"Very fine."

"You appreciate a good vintage?"

Caelan felt as though he'd been trapped in a mad play where he did not know the lines. "I have not the training of a connoisseur," he replied politely. "If it tastes good, I drink it."

"Ah. A simple man, with simple tastes."

As he spoke, the aristocrat smiled toothily. He was not a member of Prince Tirhin's circle, and Caelan did not recognize him. The man had perhaps been good-looking in his youth, but now his square face had jowls and his body was going soft. He was sweating in the heat, and his expensive clothes looked stiff, too new, and uncomfortable.

"I am Fuesel," he said.

It was the plain, unadorned way in which true aristocrats introduced themselves, although there could be only one reason such a man would speak to a slave.

Even as Caelan bowed, inwardly he sighed. The man would make an offer to buy him, which he would then ask Caelan to take to Prince Tirhin. The prince would be displeased by the interruption and would send Caelan back with a curt refusal. It happened all the time, no matter how emphatically the prince said he would never sell his champion, and Caelan found it an embarra.s.sment. Only tonight he did not think he would carry an accurate offer to his master. Tonight he did not think he would cooperate at all.

He sipped more of his wine to avoid the intense way Lord Fuesel was staring at him.

"You're the famous arena champion ... Caelan, aren't you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I thought so." Fuesel's eyes were small and dark. They gleamed. "I saw you fight yesterday. Masterful. It was thrilling."

"Thank you."

"Tell me something. Do you enjoy the act of killing?"

Frowning, Caelan tried not to recoil. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked such a distasteful question, but he never got used to it. Fuesel was obviously one of the ghoulish supporters of the games, addicted to the perversions of watching death. There were cults in the city of these people-called Expirants-who were said to raid brothels and poor districts in search of victims to torture and study. Expirants always wanted blow-by-blow descriptions, graphic details and some kind of indication that Caelan shared their own twisted excitement.

"The fatal blow. The moment when life fades ... you feel it the moment you inflict it, do you not?" Fuesel asked intensely. "You know." know."

"Yes."

"Ah." Fuesel inched closer so that his sleeve brushed Caelan's. "And when it happens, you feel that indescribable thrill. It is like joy, I think. Am I correct?"

Holding back a sigh, Caelan said, "No, my lord. I do not enjoy killing."

Fuesel's smile only widened. "You lie. Success in any endeavor is based on enjoyment."

And sometimes fear, Caelan thought to himself. Refusing to reply, he kept a respectful stance, his gaze focused slightly to the left of the man's shoulder. He was suddenly very thirsty, and he finished his wine in a quick gulp. Caelan thought to himself. Refusing to reply, he kept a respectful stance, his gaze focused slightly to the left of the man's shoulder. He was suddenly very thirsty, and he finished his wine in a quick gulp.

"Well," Fuesel said when Caelan remained silent. "Like many successful men, you maintain your greatness by keeping mysteries within yourself. Too much chatter destroys the mystique, does it not? Yes. But everyone has chattered about you. To actually execute the Dance of Death with such boldness, such courage ... even now, it steals my breath to remember the sight." He shivered ecstatically and gripped Caelan's wrist with clammy fingers. "You have seen death. You have felt it within yourself. That That I would love to discuss with you." I would love to discuss with you."

"I must go," Caelan said. He felt uneasy and overly warm. The pa.s.sageway seemed dark and stuffy. He needed air.

Fuesel released his arm but did not move aside. "Ah, of course. This is not the time. This is a party, is it not? Not a time to discuss the dark sides of death and savagery. No. And I have kept you from the poetry reading. Will you return?" He gestured at the room they had both exited.

Caelan shook his head.

"Ah," Fuesel said. "Then perhaps we might find something more entertaining to occupy our time. If your master does not request your presence elsewhere?"

Strange as he was, this man seemed genuinely interested in talking to Caelan as a human being. Although Caelan tried to remain aloof, a part of him felt flattered.

"I have no commands to serve at this time," he said formally.

Fuesel smiled. "Splendid. Let us walk in this direction." As he spoke, he started down the pa.s.sageway, and Caelan fell into step beside him.

"Now," Fuesel said. "You are a natural compet.i.tor. I have won many wagers because of you."

Caelan nodded. He still felt too warm. Perhaps the wine had been stronger than he thought. He said with a touch of arrogance, "Bet on me to win, and you take money home in your pockets."

Fuesel laughed and slapped him on the back. "Yes, indeed! Well spoken, my tall friend. Tell me, do you enjoy other kinds of compet.i.tions?"

"It depends."

"Such a cautious answer!" Fuesel reached into his pocket to produce a pair of dice. "I, like yourself, am a lover of risk. But my arena does not shed blood. Interested?"

Caelan's suspicions relaxed. He returned the man's smile, aware that he had money of his own through his master's generosity. And although no one of Fuesel's rank had ever asked him to play before, Caelan knew how to dice. He had learned from Old Farns, the gatekeeper of E'nonhold, on lazy afternoons when Caelan's father was away and could not frown on such pursuits. The gladiators in the barracks were keen on dicing-everyone in Imperia was-and would play for hours, betting anything in their possession, even straws from their pallets.

Fuesel smiled and rattled the dice enticingly in his fist. "Yes?"

Caelan's pride soared. A lord had sought him out for a game, as one equal to another. Even if Lord Fuesel was planning to fleece Caelan of his money, it hardly mattered. It was a gesture of social acceptance that warmed Caelan inside as nothing else could.

"I am delighted to play with your lordship," he said, and he didn't care if his eagerness showed.

"Good. Let us freshen our drinks and seek out a friend of mine."

Thus at midnight, Caelan found himself facing two professional gamblers-Lord Fuesel and his roguish friend Thole-over the felt dicing board. A pile of gold ducats spilled over the painted crimson edges of the stakes square. It was enough gold to sustain a modest Trau household for a year, enough gold to sustain a lord of the empire for a month, enough gold to keep the prince in pocket money for a week.

It was more gold than Caelan had ever seen before, more than his father's strongbox had ever held. From his modest initial stake, his winnings had grown steadily. For the past two hours the stakes had increased even more as ducats were tossed onto the pile. Now the croupier rang a tiny bra.s.s bell, its sound barely heard against the backdrop of reveling going on in other rooms of the villa. The small bell signaled the final throw of the game-high throw champion, winner take all.

The other two men had already thrown. Now it was Caelan's turn. Sweating in the room's excessive warmth, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, he leaned over the felt-covered board and scooped the ivory cubes into his palm.

"Bell's rung!" someone called out, and more spectators crowded into the already packed room to watch.

The audience shouted encouragement and advice in a din that rang off the stone columns at the doorway and echoed down from the ceiling.

Caelan tried to ignore the noise. He was used to people cheering his name in the arena. Yet this was somehow different.

In the arena he had the open air, plenty of s.p.a.ce, and only the eyes of his opponent to watch.

Here, he could feel the oppressive closeness of too many people, their perspiration and perfumes intermingling with lamp smoke in a cloying fugue. Garbed in silks and velvets of bold colors, they clapped and chattered. Their painted faces loomed grotesquely from the shadows. They shouted his name, all right, but as many called drunkenly for his failure as for his victory. And laughed when they said it.

With the dice in his hand, Caelan swallowed and suddenly found himself unable to breathe. What was he doing here among these strangers? How long had he been here? He could not recall the hours. How many cups of wine had he drunk? How many strange dishes had he sampled? How had he come to find himself in this room, far from the dancing girls and poetry readings, caught up in the spell of these gamesters?

Why were they staring at him so narrowly, sitting so still and tense? What was this particular eagerness in the pair of them? He could see it radiating from their skin.

His thoughts spun, and everything seemed to slow down as though a magical net had been thrown over time to hold it still.

Suspicion entered him, and it was as though he suddenly inhaled the crisp clean scent of fir needles on a snowy day. His mind cleared of the strange mist that had engulfed it, and he frowned. The stack of ducats gleamed softly in the lamplight; their excessive amount staggered him anew. How repugnant so many coins were, how obscene. Before him lay his own future, the gold coins with which Prince Tirhin had rewarded him earlier that day.

No ... his master had not given him money.

Caelan blinked and rubbed sweat from his eyes. He struggled to remember. It had been yesterday when he fought. Tirhin often gave him gold for winning championships.

But he had not won yesterday; he had died.