Shadow War (11 page)

Caelan had noticed
when they left tonight that no imperial banner flew at the prince’s gate. Only
Tirhin’s banner hung over his house. It was a deliberate slight, a deliberate
defiance. It was bound to cause trouble.

Tirhin had always
seemed to be an easygoing prince, apparently content to let nature take its
course with his long-lived father. If he desired the throne, he seemed patient
about it. He defied the emperor in small ways, typical of any son with fire in
his veins, but politically he had always been loyal.

But since what was
obviously to be the last marriage of Emperor Kostimon barely a year past, the
prince’s mood had grown progressively darker, his temper more brittle. The
announcement that the lady would be crowned empress sovereign instead of merely
empress consort had snapped something in the prince. In recent days he had been
showing his disgruntlement openly. His conversations were impatient and not
always discreet.

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 rimming the city, the villas of the nobility 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 anticipation. 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 classes 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 clustered 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 pronouncement,” 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 surpasses 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 surpasses
most
men.
Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpass such a man
whom the gods 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
.

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 substitution 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 passageway 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 embarrassment. 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.