Shadow War - Deborah Chester [110]
She lowered her gaze modestly. “I am sure you realize, Lord Sien, that I have not been permitted to attend the games.”
“Of course. Naturally his reputation as a swordsman is formidable. But he is only a—”
“Is it not true that he defeated a Madrun savage in combat this week?” she asked.
“I—yes.”
“Is it not true that he is said to fight like a trained member of the Imperial Guard?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged as if to say, Why not?
Lord Sien frowned at her. “The man is a slave, a gladiator, a ruffian. He could not be trusted in the palace. Certainly he could not be trusted with the life of the empress sovereign.”
She thought of Caelan, with his intense blue eyes. She thought of his steely fingers closed about her throat. She thought of his rudeness, his impatience, his stubbornness. No, he was not suitable at all.
“Still,” she persisted, enjoying her game, “he is said to have an unnaturally strong loyalty to his master. Is that his quality, or perhaps it is the prince himself who inspires such dedication in his men.”
Sien studied her a moment, then allowed himself a very faint smile. “Interesting,” he said softly. “I think the empress will make her choice with great prudence according to precedent. The slave is, after all, a condemned man, and not available for the position, even if Prince Tirhin could be persuaded to sell him.”
She was not certain she heard him correctly. “Condemned?” she echoed.
“Yes, Majesty. In the dungeon at this very moment, being tortured for his confession.”
She was appalled. Had the fool tried to denounce Tirhin after all? Was this his reward? “Why?” she asked. “Only a day or so ago, he was being praised by everyone. Half my guardsmen won money on him. What has happened?”
“Have you not heard?”
She was suddenly impatient with the slyness in Sien’s voice. “Obviously I have not heard.”
“Then your informants need better training.”
She made an impatient gesture. “What has happened?”
“You saw how unwell the prince looks.”
“Yes.”
“He was attacked by this slave. Beaten grievously before the attack was stopped by the other servants.”
Her mouth opened. She tried to imagine such an event, and remembered again the brutal crushing of her throat by those strong fingers.
“Yes, Majesty,” Sien said. “His highness has been much shaken. He trusted this slave, dispensed favors to him, granted him much more freedom than he should have. Only to be turned on viciously, like a mad dog.”
Sien was almost smiling as he spoke. Satisfaction radiated from him. She could not understand how he could derive so much pleasure from a horror like this.
“Therefore,” the priest continued, leaning toward her, “do not toy with the idea of acquiring the brute. His head will be adorning the spikes over the city gates soon enough. Look among your own loyal guardsmen for your protector, and do not delay. Kostimon has lived a long time thanks in part to the diligence of his Hovet. If you value survival, on the advice of your esteemed mother, you will heed my counsel in this matter.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you. Lord Sien, for your trouble and for your wisdom. I shall pay great heed to your advice.”
He left her soon afterward, and Elandra stood up to dance with her father. Her head was spinning. She did not know whether to believe Sien or not. Perhaps the Traulander slave was mad. Perhaps he had invented the story of his master’s treason, planning this attack all along. Or perhaps none of it was true.
She felt too confused to sort it out.
Lord Albain was not a good dancer. He stumbled through the intricate steps, red-faced and swearing under his breath.
She would have laughed, but she knew he would misunderstand her amusement and be hurt by it.
“Father, please,” she said at last, out of pity. “Let us step out of the line and watch.”
“By Murdeth, I won’t!” he replied stubbornly, hopping against the beat of the song. “If my daughter wants to dance, I’ll be hanged if I don’t see that she gets to.”
He was endearing, but so miserable she shook her head. “But I am too tired to dance, Father. Truly. Let us