Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  Caelan blinked in surprise. This was indeed a treat and a privilege, but he did not understand why the prince looked so somber. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want you to be visible among the guests. Don’t go off and hide yourself the way you usually do. Stand about and talk to whoever will give you permission.”

  Caelan frowned slightly. “Usually those are men wanting to make offers to buy me.”

  “I don’t care what you discuss or what you do, as long as it’s within permissible bounds.”

  “No, sir.” Caelan hesitated a moment, then seized his courage. “Sir, I wish to—”

  “No questions now. We’re late already.” The prince swung away, pulling on his gloves. Then he paused and sent Caelan a hard look. “You are well? Up to this excursion?”

  “Quite well, sir.”

  The prince nodded. “The emperor’s healer is new at his post, I understand. A stiff-necked Traulander like yourself. Still, they are the best healers in the empire. I trust he was satisfactory?”

  Caelan felt his face go stiff. “Yes, sir. Quite satisfactory. Also, may I please ask forgiveness for not being able to attend your highness last night?”

  The prince frowned. “The last thing I want from you is phony courtier pleasantries. You could not attend me because you were near death. All because of your exhibition of audacity and bravado which has offended the Imperial Guard, and possibly alienated some I may need to rely on most.”

  The rebuke stung. Caelan dropped his gaze in humiliation. “Yes, sir.”

  Tirhin’s eyes were dark and stony. “I did not order you to kill yourself, or to let yourself be killed.”

  Caelan swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “You are a reckless fool. You could have cost me—” The prince broke off and slapped his palm with his gloves. “But you did not. It has worked, I think. Thus far, at least. And because there is a rumor that you are dead, your appearance tonight should be precisely the type of distraction I want.”

  “Distraction?”

  “Enjoy yourself, Giant,” the prince said, ignoring his puzzled question. “Take pride in the accolades that will be thrown your way. You’ve earned the attention.”

  As praise it was much less than usual, hardly anything. Yet it seemed odd coming after the prince’s sharp reprimand. More puzzled than ever, Caelan wondered at the manipulative game his master was playing. Only one thing seemed clear; the reward Caelan had hoped for would apparently not be forthcoming.

  Anger surged into his throat like hot bile. Furiously, Caelan struggled to block it. If he forgot himself and lost his temper now, he would find his head on a wall spike before morning. With all his might, he fought back resentment. He had made a mistake, and this was his master’s way of punishing him.

  Orlo had been right. A promise made to a slave wasn’t binding.

  Trembling started in the pit of Caelan’s stomach and traveled up. Clenching his fists at his side, he swallowed hard and knew he had to control himself. He mustn’t think about it now. If he was to get through this evening, then he could not feel and he could not think. There would be time later tonight, after he was finally dismissed from his duties, when he could decide what to do.

  A shout from the courtiers at the bottom of the steps caught Tirhin’s attention. A smile of acknowledgment appeared on his face, but there was nothing jovial in it.

  “Come, then,” the prince said and walked on.

  Silently, Caelan followed. His eyes felt hot in the coldness of his face. His gaze burned into the prince’s spine. How he would like to seize this handsome, privileged man by the neck and shake him the way a weasel shakes a rat. How he would like to say, “You cannot toy with lives. You are not a god. There are consequences for what you do, and someday you will pay them.”

  Over his shoulder Tirhin added, “Mind that you understand me. This is to be your night. Do not tag at my heels. Do not attend me. I need no protection. I need no service. Am I clear?”

  Scorn filled Caelan like lava. The prince was still playing his game, still taking Caelan’s loyalty for granted. Let him lay his mysterious intrigues, for all the good they would do him.

  This evening the prince looked keyed up and bright-eyed, his outward gaiety a thin, brittle layer over irritation. He looked as though he was up to mischief. Anyone who knew him well could see it.

  The prince snapped another look at Caelan. “I asked you a question. Are you paying heed to me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Caelan replied at once, his tone flat. “Forgive me. Your highness has been quite clear.”

  “Good. I want no more trouble from you. No straying from your instructions. No surprises. Do only what you are told. No more. No less.”

  “I shall obey your instructions precisely, sir,” Caelan said, and his voice was flatter than ever.

  The prince did not seem to notice. He strode down the steps to join his friends and resumed his strange, thin smile. He quickly added a quip of his own to their jokes and merriment, and everyone laughed. All were sons of the finest families in Imperia. Well-born, well-dressed, wealthy, they might have simply been a group of comrades ready for an evening of festivities. Yet there was a faintly dangerous air about them, an air of bravado and defiance that indicated trouble to come. You will make a good distraction, the prince had said. Caelan frowned to himself. Distraction for what?

  Servants came down the steps with tray of tall silver cups. Caelan could already smell the sweetness of honeyed mead on the men’s breath, but they drank deeply and with gusto, then climbed onto their mounts. There was a momentary milling about with horses prancing and men flinging back fur-trimmed cloaks over their shoulders; then they were off at a gallop.

  Caelan rode as one of them, galloping down the mountain road that wound through the hills overlooking the western crescent of the city. There were no servants along, and no soldiers for protection. The prince and his friends feared no brigands.

  It was a sweet night, crisp and still in the way of Imperia winters. The hills stretched and rolled down toward the sea that was inky black in the indigo twilight. Stars began to glitter in the sky, except to the north, where a black cloud spread dark fingers across the horizon. A storm must be coming in, although it was strange to see one approach from that direction. Just looking at it gave Caelan an involuntary shiver he could not explain.

  Owls flew on silent wings, eerie hunters among the trees.

  Something in all the quiet stillness unsettled Caelan. He had the feeling of being followed, of being watched, a niggling uneasiness that he could not dismiss. He glanced back several times, but nothing came behind them. He gazed into the sky, wondering what seemed amiss. Were he in Trau, he could dismiss his fears as simple nervousness about the wind spirits that hunted at night. But there were none here. Men came and went freely in the darkness. During the blistering Imperia summers, residents left the windows of their houses open all night long with a fearlessness that left him amazed.

  He told himself to stop imagining things. They were unlikely to be set upon by robbers. They were not being followed. Yet his fingers itched for a dagger hilt. And his heart beat faster with every passing minute. It was forbidden for a slave to carry weapons, but if necessary he would appropriate arms from one of the men around him.

  Yet his worries proved groundless. Without incident, they rode past quince trees marking the property boundaries of expensive villas. Here and there lights glimmered in the distance, and the distant strains of lute music or merrymaking could be heard.

  Caelan glanced back yet again, and one of the others looked his way.

  “Is something following us?”

  “No,” Caelan said. “I see nothing.”

  The other man shrugged, and Caelan told himself to stop imagining things.

  Every gate and every house they passed flew the red imperial banner tonight in honor of the empress. Red could be seen everywhere, fluttering from rooftops, windows, gates, and walls. A full week of festivities was still to come; th
en the coronation would conclude the celebrations.

  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 h
is 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.