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.
“The fatal blow. The moment when life fades ... you feel it the moment you inflict it, do you not?” Fuesel asked intensely. “You 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.
“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 I would love to discuss with you.”
“I must go,” Caelan said. He felt uneasy and overly warm. The passageway 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 passageway, and Caelan fell into step beside him.
“Now,” Fuesel said. “You are a natural competitor. 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 competitions?”
“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 brass 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 p
alm.
“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 space, 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.
A shiver passed over Caelan. Suddenly he felt wild and panicked. He did not know who he was or where he was. Perhaps this was a fevered dream, and in truth he lay in his bed, sweating with delirium and madness.
But he remembered Agel, the block of granite that was his cousin. Kinsman Agel, who cured him, so that he could come tonight with his master.
“We are waiting,” Lord Fuesel said. “Please throw.”
Caelan drew a deep breath. For wielding death so successfully, for killing to amuse his patron, he had been dressed in finery, brought to this social function among the elite of Imperia, and invited to play dice with lords. It was a mockery of death to accept such rewards. Now—worse—he was about to fritter away his money, this mysterious, ghostly money, about to waste it gambling. Agel’s sour face hung before him like a vision, mouthing accusations.
Clenching the dice harder in his hand, Caelan stood up so abruptly his stool turned over.
Both of his opponents glanced up. Lord Fuesel looked flustered, even momentarily panicked. Thole, a swarthy man with a thin mustache adorning his lip, raised his brows at Caelan.
“Running away?” he asked with a sneer.
“You can’t quit now,” Fuesel said.
Thole brushed Fuesel’s hand in warning, and the lord subsided with a nervous rat-a-tat of his fingers on the board.
“How long have I been playing?” Caelan asked in confusion, brushing his face with the back of his hand. His thoughts were full of holes. He could not make sense of anything except the overwhelming need to throw the dice. “My master may require me—”
“Nonsense. No need to worry about that just yet,” Thole said. “You will forfeit all that you have bet up till now.”
“Giant! Don’t quit!” shouted a buxom woman from the crowd. “Keep your courage. Don’t rob us of the end.”
Frowning, Caelan edged back from the board. Thole leaned over and gripped his wrist. His hand was soft and supple, lacking the calluses of physical labor. The touch of his warm, moist palm made Caelan’s skin crawl.
“They want their spectacle,” Thole said, tightening his grip. “Don’t you want this fortune?”
Something seemed to lie beneath his words, as though another language had been spoken, with a different meaning. The mists were swirling anew in Caelan’s brain. He was so very thirsty, and he looked around for his cup.
Everyone seemed to be shouting now. The din increased in volume, making Caelan’s head ring. He blinked off a sudden feeling of dizziness, and felt the internal shift of sevaisin taking hold.
Not here, he thought in panic. Not with so many.
But something inside him surged to connect with Thole, before he hastily yanked free of the man’s grip. Just as hastily the gambler shielded himself from any empathic link.
But Caelan had gained one impression from that fleeting connection.
Trap.
He swallowed hard, hearing anger in the voices shouting at him now. Disappointment and derision came in open jeers.
“Why doesn’t he throw?” someone asked in bewilderment. “All he has to do is throw.”
“Take the sword from his hand, and he’s just another stupid gladiator.”
“Maybe his victories are as fake as his dice game.”
The croupier leaned forward. “You are delaying the game. Take your turn, or forfeit.”
Caelan uncurled his fingers and stared at the yellowed ivory dice lying on his palm. Sevaisin shifted within him again, and he knew the elephant from faraway Gialta that had died and left its tusks to be crafted into ornaments and baubles. He knew the craftsman who had carved these dice from the ivory. He knew how the slivers of lead had been cleverly worked into the interiors of the cubes.
These were not the same dice he had been playing with before. They had been skillfully switched since the last throw, and they would roll up a high number.
If he threw, he would win.
That large mound of ducats would be his. He would be a very rich man.
Caelan frowned. He would be a very rich slave, he corrected himself.
But one rich enough to purchase his freedom?
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it derisively away. If the prince would not free him in honor, he would not accept a price either.
What, then, did a slave need with so much money?
Even more puzzling, why did these men want him to win?
Why had they let him win until his stake rivaled theirs?
Why had they lured him here and kept him so long? Why were they so interested in him?
Trap. But what kind? What did it mean?
“You must play or forfeit,” the croupier said sternly. “Follow the rules of the game before we have a riot in here.”
“The barbarian doesn’t know the game!” someone shouted.
“Throw the damned dice,” Lord Fuesel said. “Where is your nerve now? Show us the courage you exhibited in the arena.”
He was too vehement, too desperate. Fuesel’s thick fingers were gripping the edge of the board so hard they turned white.
Thole watched Caelan with the unwavering gaze of a serpent.
Meeting that gaze directly was a mistake. Caelan felt mesmerized, unable to look away. His heart started thumping hard, and once again he felt he could not breathe. The compulsion to throw the dice grew inside him as though the collective wills of everyone in the room had merged into a compelling force. Caelan could feel himself being drawn into it, being absorbed by it as though his own consciousness were melting.
The dice themselves grew warm in his palm, pulsing against his skin, almost purring as though they had come alive. Strange whispers floated through his mind: wealth, please us, fortune, obey us, treasures incomparable, obey us, obey.
His
eyes fell half shut, and he swayed. His blood still pounded dizzily in his ears, and he felt boneless and adrift. Why fight it? What harm could there be in winning?
Something icy cold seemed to pierce his breastbone. The pain touched him directly beneath where his small amulet bag swung on its leather cord beneath his tunic. New visions filled his mind, overlapping the mist and heat with swirling snow, icy blasts of cold wind, the scents of fir mingled with glacial ice. And Lea’s small face, her blue eyes bright, her mouth open as though she called to him.
He strained to hear her, and as he did so something snapped inside him. He slipped into severance. It was as though a knife sliced through the spell that had engulfed him. He stood apart, detached and separate in the cold wind. He saw the plan in its entirety. Fuesel and Thole were paid agents, intending to accuse Caelan of cheating as soon as he made the winning throw. Such a charge was serious. He could be imprisoned, and his hands cut off. He would never fight in the arena again. The competition could then step in with new contenders and new champions. The betting odds would once again be more even.
Caelan set the dice on the edge of the gaming board and stepped back with a shake of his head.
“I forfeit the game,” he said.
Fuesel’s mouth fell open, and Thole looked furious. The spectators roared with disappointment.
Avoiding everyone’s gaze, Caelan turned his back on the money that was spellcast and not his. He shoved his way through the crowd. People growled and swore at him. A women even struck his chest with her fist. Wrapped in his cloak of icy detachment, Caelan ignored them all and pushed his way clear.
The moment he exited the room, he felt another tug of resistance, then a final snap as though the last tendrils of the spell had broken. He hurried away, and every step brought a cool, refreshing sense of relief and freedom.
Shadow War Page 9