Part 8 (2/2)
”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 s.h.i.+vered 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 lords.h.i.+p,” 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 champions.h.i.+ps.
But he had not won yesterday; he had died.
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