Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [95]
In the distance, a crowd roared and cheered. Ubin craned his old neck a moment, then shrugged. “The dealers will get the best prices,” he said. “Damned bunch of thieves. They’ve rigged the sale already. I saw some of them talking. I know what they’re about. Sticking together to drive up prices for themselves, then cutting the throats of any independent person trying to make a decent sale.”
Caelan tuned him out. He’d listened to the old man’s fussing all the way to Imperia. They’d come in from the sea, and the city had glittered in the hot sunshine like diamonds spread on the sand. Built on cliffs overlooking the busy harbor, the city was larger than Caelan expected. Taller, too, with buildings of several stories, domed on top instead of flat or pitched. Archways spanned wide paved roads. No muddy tracks here like in the provinces. Houses remained hidden and secluded behind walls. Only the branches of trees growing inside fragrant gardens gave any clue as to what might be contained within those quiet enclaves.
The shops were endless. Merchants of every nationality and description stood outside their booths, bowing and inviting passersby to inspect their wares. The wealth and plenty were staggering, even in the lesser parts of the city where Ubin dragged Caelan along hurriedly down twisting streets to the slave market, chaining him inside the pen with a hasty promise to return in an hour with food.
Clutching his receipt, Ubin had left and not returned until daylight, apologetic and hung over.
It would be Ubin’s own stupid fault, Caelan thought sourly, if no one wanted to pay good money for a hunger- stricken rower. As a slave he could make no complaint, although he glared at the old man whenever Ubin wasn’t looking. Ubin was a brainless old fool half the time. But in this, at least, they both wanted the same thing.
Beneath Caelan’s studied indifference, he was boiling with impatience. As a trained fighter, he would gain skills that would make him valuable anywhere. More importantly, it was said that gladiators entered in the games in Imperia had the chance to fight their way to freedom each season.
Freedom. Caelan rolled the word silently on his tongue. If he still believed in the gods, he would have prayed for it. As it was, he’d learned a man had only himself and his wits, nothing else in this world. Family could be lost. Security was a lie. Wealth could be stolen. Kindness was deception. The gods did not heed the misery on earth.
Caelan had no intention of going back to ordinary labor. He’d spent four years of his life enduring just about every degradation and humiliation possible. But even a man at the bottom could hope. His dreams had shrunk to one ambition—to make the games. They were his only chance of escape. To simply run away was to incur death. He did not intend to become an outlaw chased down by bounty hunters with a pack of dreadots. No, he had other plans.
The first step was to be bought by a trainer. The second step was to drive himself to excel. No matter what it took or cost, he would be the best. He would survive the arena, and he would win his freedom. By next thaw he intended to make his way back to the north country. He would search out the land of the Thyzarenes and strike hard at what they held most dear. He’d had four long years in which to plan his revenge. It was what kept him alive and above despair.
His father would not have approved of his desire for vengeance. But Caelan no longer listened to conscience. Only free men untouched by tragedy could afford to be merciful. He had seen what ideals brought. He wanted none of them.
Ubin hurriedly poured the last of the oil on Caelan’s hair, sleeking its long shagginess back. He looked Caelan