Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [96]
“Now you look like a proper barbarian,” he said in approval. He ran his fingertips along the thin scar on Caelan’s left jaw. “Good boy. Good boy.”
Revulsion made Caelan jerk away, but with the handlers coming for more lots, Ubin was too distracted to retaliate. He darted off, fussing to an auction official who ignored him.
The next lot shambled by with chains clanking on their ankles, and in spite of himself Caelan stepped near the bars to stare.
These half-dozen brutes were of a caliber he’d never seen before. A collective aah murmured through the pens. Even the most restless men grew suddenly quiet as the six marched by.
Clad only in loincloths, shaved of all body hair, and oiled, they were perfectly matched in height and weight, each possessing impressive pectorals and deeply ridged serratus muscles. They had fearsome scars puckering their hides to tell of battles they had survived. Their hair was cropped close to their skulls, and one man had but a singleeye.
Unlike the others who had preened and picked fights, these men were extremely quiet. But their awareness was like that of wolves—wary, predatory, and supremely dangerous. Just looking at them sent a chill through Caelan. For the first time, he realized what a true killer looked like.
“Champion team,” murmured a man in the next pen. “See the gold belts they wear? Champions.”
But they hadn’t won their freedom. Caelan turned his back to them. “If they’re so good, why are they in the auction?”
“You mean they should be in a special sale.” The man with all the information nodded and spat. “Aye. The best are usually traded privately, not dragged down here like us.” He grinned. “The gossip is they’re Lord Vymaltin’s own hand-picked team.”
“So?”
The man sneered, but he answered. “Lord Vymaltin has been dismissed from court. No longer an ambassador. His house is up for sale too, with his house slaves.”
The man paused and glanced around before edging closer. “Word is Prince Tirhin has come to buy these fighters. Maybe he’ll buy us as well.”
Caelan snorted. “And maybe not.”
But Ubin suddenly reappeared at the pen, rattling the gate impatiently and gesturing for an auction attendant to unlock it.
Ubin reached in to seize Caelan’s arm. “Come, come!” he said urgently. “Hurry. This is our chance.”
Dubious, Caelan thought Ubin would only get himself thrown out of the auction altogether. Dealers had first chance at the block. By trying to jump ahead of turn, Ubin could ruin everything. Caelan started to tell him as much, but then he held his tongue. Advice from a slave was seldom well received, especially when an owner was hell-bent on a course of action.
So Caelan let himself be pushed down the aisle between the pens, stumbling on his leg chains, and ducked beneath a low archway only to find himself in a high-walled enclosure.
Bidders sat on stone benches high above the selling floor, holding fans with numbers painted on them. Slaves and attendants surrounded them. Hard-faced men in leather who must have been trainers were walking around Vymaltin’s team, pinching muscle layers, checking teeth, and making notes on small scraps of parchment.
An auction official blocked Ubin’s path, glaring with outrage. “Independent lots are sold at the end of the day.”
“Good sir,” Ubin began with his most obsequious smile. He slipped the man a bribe, and the official walked off with a shrug.
Ubin shoved Caelan forward, positioning him not quite on the block with the others, but close enough to be clearly seen.
The trainers finished their inspection, and the bidding opened. Just the sound of it awakened a tumult of hurtful memories in Caelan. He tried not to listen, tried not to let the shame seize him.
But the bidding was quick and lively. The prices caught Caelan’s interest and he glanced up at the gallery, curious to see which bidder was the prince. Sunlight shone down into the well of the auction ring and made him squint. He glimpsed a figure in a rich blue tunic whose lazy hand flick raised the bid every time.
Compressing