Shadow War - Deborah Chester [17]
It was Nilot, head trainer of the emperor’s gladiators.
The others fell silent and stepped back with respectful bows. Many remembered they had work to do and melted away.
“Quite a spectacle you put on,” Nilot said. His dark eyes raked Caelan up and down. “Frankly, I didn’t think you had so much toughness in you. You’ve never fought this way before.”
Caelan was burning up. His legs trembled with weakness. He struggled to hold himself together, aware that this man’s eyes were sharp and unfriendly. Nilot had never spoken to him personally before, but his hostility was plain.
“Who taught you the Dance of Death?” Nilot asked sharply. “That’s an old dueling trick, used only by officers in the Crimson Guard.”
A sense of danger alerted Caelan. He fought off the gathering mists and forced himself to focus on what the man was saying. Insolence seemed the best defense.
“And as such, is it sacred?” Caelan asked with open mockery. He knew Nilot was an army veteran, supposedly much decorated for bravery. “Does a gladiator slave sully this type of swordplay by using it on an enemy of the people?”
Nilot’s thin mouth tightened to a hard line, but he was not deflected. “There’s not a gladiator alive who would know such a move, or how to execute it properly. Who taught it to you?”
“I have an excellent trainer.”
“Orlo?” Nilot snorted. “Excellent for turning third-rate scabs into second-rate fighters. Has your master been giving you special lessons?”
Caelan saw the trap yawning before him, now when it was too late. Inwardly cursing this man, Caelan sought for a quick answer that would be believed. He found nothing. He could not say the truth, that he had joined with a sword and learned its secrets from all the combats it had known. The secret ways of Trau mysticism were feared here.
Yet how could he answer in a way that would protect Prince Tirhin?
“Masters do not have time to teach their slaves the finer secrets of swordplay,” he said as scornfully as possible.
“Oh, that’s a loyal answer.”
Caelan’s gaze snapped to Nilot’s. “What would you have me say?”
“The truth. Did Prince Tirhin teach you that move?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
If insolence would not work, perhaps arrogance would. “Perhaps you did not know that I was born free and of good birth. I have not always worn chains and served the will of others.” Caelan pushed himself forward, praying he would not stagger. “I cannot linger here.”
Nilot blocked his path. “I am not done with you.”
“Caelan!” came an angry shout. “What are you doing standing in this cold? Are you mad? Your muscles will stiffen.”
It was Orlo, coming down the passageway at a furious pace. Caelan had never been so relieved to see the man.
He glanced at Nilot and shrugged. “I must go.”
“But—”
“I must go.”
Nilot reached across him and gripped Caelan by his injured arm. The pain was like a spear point, impaling him. Caelan sucked in a breath, and felt the world turn gray.
“By the gods, I’ll have a straight answer from you yet,” Nilot said angrily. “Tell me the truth! Was it his highness who taught you?”
Caelan gritted his teeth. He wanted to scream from the pain. He knew his face must be as white as paper, but severance still served him. Coldly, he said, “You speak disrespectfully of my master. Shall I defend him, here and now, with my bare hands?”
Nilot’s eyes flickered as though he realized he stood unguarded, face to face with an unchained gladiator. Caelan reeked of sweat and blood. He had just killed in the heat of combat; his temper still ran high enough for him to risk the punishment of death or mutilation for threatening a free man like this. Nilot swallowed, and his grip slackened on Cae-lan’s arm.
At once Caelan yanked free. Glaring, he started to speak but Orlo reached them, hastily interceding.
“Enough, enough,” the trainer said, his eyes darting from Nilot to Caelan. “Nilot, what are you doing, keeping him standing here? For Gault’s sake, let him clean off the gore first and have his wine. There’ll be occasion enough to talk to him tonight.”
Nilot