Shadow War (6 page)

Caelan saluted the
crowd one final time before going in.

One of the guards
stopped him. “By your rights, you can circle the arena again. As long as they
shout for you, enjoy your victory.”

Caelan shook his
head. His elation was gone. He’d lost the heart for another victory walk.
Besides, his knees were growing spongy and he dared not keep up the pretense
much longer.

Even now, he could
hear voices in the crowd: “He’s fine. Look at him! You only thought the Madrun
stabbed him.”

And others: “Who
knew a Traulander could fight like that? If they’d all take up arms like Giant,
they could help the emperor defeat the Madruns once and for all.”

And someone else: “The
prince can pick his fighting men. By the gods, we need a leader like that. I
say let him take charge of our army.”

Fresh bitterness
flooded through Caelan, and he descended into the torchlit gloom of the
subcaverns.

Many of the guards
left their posts to cluster around him, eager to slap his back and shake his
hand.

“I’ve won a
fortune on you today, Giant!” one of them said.

“By the gods, I’ve
never seen such fighting.”

“You’re a devil,
blessed by the dark one, to fight like that.”

They wanted to
talk it over, describing every move in detail as they relived it again and
again. Caelan stood with them a moment, longing for Orlo to come and shoo them
away. His head was spinning and he didn’t know what he said to anyone. But no
one noticed. Finally he brushed past them and went on while they talked and
laughed behind him.

With every step,
the new gold chain thumped a little against his collarbone. It was a generous
gift indeed, heavy, and of extremely fine workmanship.

But to Caelan it
was still a chain, put on him by a master who would never let him go.

He felt like he
was choking.

At the steps
leading down to his ready room, Caelan found his strength suddenly deserting
him. He paused and sagged against the smoke-blackened wall, trying to catch his
breath. Another cluster of guards and workers waylaid him, all talking at once.
Caelan felt everything blurring, and he panicked. He could not fall; he must
not fall. Questions came at him from all sides, but he found he did not have to
answer. They were all too busy congratulating each other to care whether he
spoke or not.

Then an insolent
voice cut across the chatter. “Giant! Ho, there!”

Blinking hard,
Caelan managed to rally. With great care, he turned around to face a lanky man
wearing the imperial coat of arms on his sleeve.

It was Nilot, head
trainer of the emperor’s gladiators.

The others fell
silent and stepped back with respectful bows. Many remembered they had work to
do and melted away.

“Quite a spectacle
you put on,” Nilot said. His dark eyes raked Caelan up and down. “Frankly, I
didn’t think you had so much toughness in you. You’ve never fought this way
before.”

Caelan was burning
up. His legs trembled with weakness. He struggled to hold himself together,
aware that this man’s eyes were sharp and unfriendly. Nilot had never spoken to
him personally before, but his hostility was plain.

“Who taught you
the Dance of Death?” Nilot asked sharply. “That’s an old dueling trick, used
only by officers in the Crimson Guard.”

A sense of danger
alerted Caelan. He fought off the gathering mists and forced himself to focus
on what the man was saying. Insolence seemed the best defense.

“And as such, is
it sacred?” Caelan asked with open mockery. He knew Nilot was an army veteran,
supposedly much decorated for bravery. “Does a gladiator slave sully this type
of swordplay by using it on an enemy of the people?”

Nilot’s thin mouth
tightened to a hard line, but he was not deflected. “There’s not a gladiator
alive who would know such a move, or how to execute it properly. Who taught it
to you?”

“I have an
excellent trainer.”

“Orlo?” Nilot
snorted. “Excellent for turning third-rate scabs into second-rate fighters. Has
your master been giving you special lessons?”

Caelan saw the
trap yawning before him, now when it was too late. Inwardly cursing this man,
Caelan sought for a quick answer that would be believed. He found nothing. He
could not say the truth, that he had joined with a sword and learned its
secrets from all the combats it had known. The secret ways of Trau mysticism
were feared here.

Yet how could he
answer in a way that would protect Prince Tirhin?

“Masters do not
have time to teach their slaves the finer secrets of swordplay,” he said as
scornfully as possible.

“Oh, that’s a loyal
answer.”

Caelan’s gaze
snapped to Nilot’s. “What would you have me say?”

“The truth. Did
Prince Tirhin teach you that move?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

If insolence would
not work, perhaps arrogance would. “Perhaps you did not know that I was born
free and of good birth. I have not always worn chains and served the will of
others.” Caelan pushed himself forward, praying he would not stagger. “I cannot
linger here.”

Nilot blocked his
path. “I am not done with you.”

“Caelan!” came an
angry shout. “What are you doing standing in this cold? Are you mad? Your
muscles will stiffen.”

It was Orlo,
coming down the passageway at a furious pace. Caelan had never been so relieved
to see the man.

He glanced at
Nilot and shrugged. “I must go.”

“But—”

“I must go.”

Nilot reached
across him and gripped Caelan by his injured arm. The pain was like a spear
point, impaling him. Caelan sucked in a breath, and felt the world turn gray.

“By the gods, I’ll
have a straight answer from you yet,” Nilot said angrily. “Tell me the truth!
Was it his highness who taught you?”

Caelan gritted his
teeth. He wanted to scream from the pain. He knew his face must be as white as
paper, but
severance
still served him. Coldly, he said, “You speak
disrespectfully of my master. Shall I defend him, here and now, with my bare
hands?”

Nilot’s eyes
flickered as though he realized he stood unguarded, face to face with an
unchained gladiator. Caelan reeked of sweat and blood. He had just killed in
the heat of combat; his temper still ran high enough for him to risk the
punishment of death or mutilation for threatening a free man like this. Nilot
swallowed, and his grip slackened on Cae-lan’s arm.

At once Caelan
yanked free. Glaring, he started to speak but Orlo reached them, hastily
interceding.

“Enough, enough,”
the trainer said, his eyes darting from Nilot to Caelan. “Nilot, what are you
doing, keeping him standing here? For Gault’s sake, let him clean off the gore
first and have his wine. There’ll be occasion enough to talk to him tonight.”

Nilot scowled and stepped
back. “I think not. There is no reason for me to attend the victory party of
the emperor’s opponent.”

Orlo sent him an
innocent look. “What a pity. I thought the Madrun was considered everyone’s
opponent.”

Nilot’s scowl
deepened. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

Orlo gestured at
Caelan to descend the steps. “Get on with you! I thought you’d have enough
sense to get to your bath at once. You can reap your glory later.”

Sighing, Caelan
turned in silence and somehow got himself moving down the steps. Orlo flanked
him, grumbling and criticizing all the way. He fended off anyone else who
attempted to approach them. “Get back! Let the champion pass!”

Leaning closer,
Orlo shot Caelan a sideways glance. “What in Murdeth’s name did that snake want
with you?”

“Nothing,” Caelan
said. “He was angry at the loss.”

“Angry? Him?” Orlo
snorted. “Oh, yes, and how innocent you are. You, looking like you meant to
tear out his throat. Don’t you have better sense than to threaten a man of his
position?”

“He insulted the
prince,” Caelan said through his teeth.

Orlo shot him
another look, then frowned. “You are a slave,” he whispered hotly, glancing
left and right to make sure no one overheard him. “It’s not your place to
defend the honor of his imperial highness.”

Caelan shrugged.
Now that he had a little distance from the incident with Nilot, he was annoyed
with himself. Tirhin was not worth the risk he took. “You’re right, Orlo,” he
said meekly. “The prince can defend his own honor. I am a fool.

I have always been
a fool. It is likely I will be a fool until I die.”

Orlo’s frown
deepened. “I know Nilot. He never does anything without a purpose. Did he make
an offer to buy you?”

Caelan snorted,
not bothering to answer. There were always men trying to buy him from the
prince. Caelan was supposed to be flattered by such offers, but he always found
them demeaning and shameful.

“Yes, I’m sure
that’s it,” Orlo continued. “He will bring an offer from the emperor. Gault,
that will be a problem! If the prince refuses to sell you, he runs the risk of
offending—”

“Stop worrying,”
Caelan said tersely. “Nilot didn’t come to buy me. He wanted to know who taught
me the Dance of Death.”

Orlo veered onto
that subject immediately like a dog after a bone. “Hah, wouldn’t he just!
Wouldn’t we all? You didn’t get it from me.”

“No.”

“And it was a
damned stupid thing to try! You—”

“It worked.”

“Oh, yes, it
worked, but the risk!”

Caelan’s gaze
dropped. “Necessary.”

“You could have
killed him several times before you finished him,” Orlo said sternly. “Gods, it
was like watching your first season. My heart nearly stopped at the mistakes
you made. Besides, have you ever practiced that move? It was invented for
bravado by lovelorn officers wanting to duel over their women.”

“It was invented
for combat,” Caelan said stubbornly, concentrating on each step. “Later, it was
used in duels.”

“Yes, by the
officers in the emperor’s Crimson Guard. You had no business using it.”

Caelan threw him a
cynical look. “Because I’m a slave.”

“Because you’re
not in the Crimson Guard. They’ll be offended. They hold their traditions as
high as their honor.”

Caelan frowned. No
wonder the prince was displeased with him. Caelan thought he was doing the
right thing, but once again he had blundered. It did no good to say he wasn’t
versed in military traditions. Neither the prince nor the army was interested
in his excuses. Some of Caelan’s anger returned. He hadn’t asked to be involved
in this intrigue. He was no good at it. And now he had made things worse.

Someone hailed
Orlo from the bottom of the steps, calling out congratulations.

Orlo waved, and
swiftly changed the subject with a warning glance at Caelan. “I’ll bet you
twenty ducats that putting the Madrun in today was Nilot’s idea. Stupid. If the
brute had won, how could they celebrate the victory of an enemy? If he lost,
who would care?”

Caelan nodded,
conserving his strength against the mists that were blurring everything. He
bumped into the wall and had to bite off a groan.

Orlo’s hand
gripped his uninjured arm to steady him. “Stiff,” he said with pretend anger
while he hastened Caelan past the group eager to offer yet more
congratulations. “Too much standing around talking. Time for that massage.”

The moment they
were inside Caelan’s ready room, Orlo slammed the door and yelled for the
slaves.

Unz appeared.
Scrawny and perpetually nervous, he was the youngest.

“Where is
everyone?” Orlo demanded, looking around. “Why isn’t the massage table ready?
Where’s the bath water?”

Unz bowed. “I’ll
get—”

“I’ll flog their
hides for this. Where are they?”

“Gone to cash in
their wager tokens,” Unz replied nervously.

Orlo’s face turned
a dark purple. “Get the water” was all he said, however.

Unz fled.

Orlo kicked a
stool over to Caelan. “Sit!”

Caelan dropped
heavily onto it. His side began to bleed again; he could feel it warm and wet
against his arm. The effort of holding
severance
was too much. He longed
to let go, yet he was afraid to.

“Hurting, are you?”
Orlo asked. He tossed his club aside and advanced on Caelan. “I thought I’d
never get you safely out of sight. You reckless idiot, I told you to stay out
of his reach. Let me see that arm.”

As he spoke, he
pulled the cloak from Caelan’s shoulders, then stood there, staring. The cloak
slid unnoticed from his fingers. “Merciful Gault,” he whispered. “I thought I
saw him stick you, but then you seemed unhurt. I couldn’t get out of the stands
sooner to help you.”

“It’s all right,”
Caelan said through his teeth. He had never seen Orlo look this pale, this
frightened. “I had to provide ... spectacle.”

“You fool,” Orlo
said, pressing his fingers gently against Caelan’s side where the trickle of
blood was beginning to bubble faster. “You great, hulking fool. When I told you
to use every dirty trick, I didn’t mean
this.”

Caelan felt
suddenly flushed and hotter than ever. He twisted on the stool. “Where’s my
bath? It’s too warm in here. I—”

Orlo gripped his
shoulder. “Boy!” he bawled at the top of his lungs. “Unz! Bring bandages,
quickly!”

The room started
spinning around Caelan. He braced his shoulder against Orlo’s side and gripped
the bottom of the man’s tunic. “Not so loud. They’ll hear you.”

“Why the devil
shouldn’t someone hear?” Orlo said in exasperation. But he lowered his voice.
When Unz came running with a handful of gauze strips, he grabbed them from the
boy’s hand, knocking some of them to the floor. “Get more! Idiot! Can’t you see
he’s bleeding to death?”