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
“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
Similar Books
