Shadow War - Deborah Chester [2]
Orlo’s expression changed at once. “Never mind,” he said gruffly. “It makes no difference. I’m just angry at the unfairness of it. Just when you have finally developed some finesse to show off before the lords and ladies, along comes this savage. Bah! What good is all my work?”
Wryly, Caelan nodded. Orlo was a master of understatement when it came to the days and hours of grueling practice drills he’d put Caelan through, simply to learn the extra flourishes that played to the crowd. Even to days when Caelan faced weak, ineffectual opponents, he had to make the contest look good. Moreover, he had learned how to inflict wounds that looked fatal, when in fact often the healers could save the defeated men.
“You can’t prance around today,” Orlo said. “This isn’t an exhibition game. The Madrun will maul you if he can. He’s big and solid, a good match. It will be a tremendous spectacle, but you must stand prepared for his speed and strength, which may be close to yours. Business only. Keep well focused. Match his savagery with every dirty trick you know. Understand?”
“No rules in the arena,” Caelan quoted softly.
“You’ve become a cynic.”
Old bitterness soured Caelan’s mouth. Considering the kind of life he led, how could he be anything less than cynical?
Caelan changed the subject. “What is the delay? I heard the trumpets sound. I should be going up.”
“Not yet.”
Caelan snorted and clenched his fists. He wouldn’t complain; it did no good. Usually Orlo would be complaining for him, but the trainer was still scowling into the distance.
“When do I get my sword?” Caelan asked. “I thought you would bring it in with you.”
Orlo roused himself from his thoughts. “No chance of that today. With the emperor here and the whole city in the stands, the guards are terrified there will be trouble. Old women, the lot of them. No sword until you enter.”
“Fine,” Caelan snapped, losing his temper. “And am I to be blindfolded and manacled like the old days? Prince Tirhin could have saved himself the entry fee, because I won’t—”
“Silence!” Orlo roared. “You’ve been insulted little enough, and no one’s going to put you in shackles.”
Caelan heard the trumpets again, and with them came a roar that seemed to shake the stone walls. The sound fed into Caelan, pulsing through his nerves.
Edgy and tense, he swung away from Orlo. “How long?”
“It’s not quite time,” Orlo said. “There’s some sort of entertainment being staged in the emperor’s honor. Find your patience and keep to it.”
A knock sounded on the door with unexpected courtesy.
Surprised, Caelan opened his mouth, but Orlo spoke first:
“Enter.”
The door opened, and two men stepped inside. One had brown leathery skin and cold eyes that stared intently at Caelan. Robed in a saffron tunic that reached to the floor, a leopard hide across his shoulder, and his sleeves banded with brown stripes of rank, the priest was clearly someone of importance, although Caelan did not know him. He wore a wide collar necklace fitted with the gold emblem of the Vindicants in its center. His long-fingered hands carried a staff tipped with the same emblem at its top.
Gazing at the man, Caelan felt a strange chill tingle at the back of his neck. It took all his innate stubbornness not to step back.
The other man was black-haired and handsome, with a mustache and chin-strap beard. He wore a blue velvet tunic, a snowy linen shirt, and a gold-embroidered cap perched rakishly on his head. It was to this man that Caelan bowed.
Inside, he felt a rush of pride. Prince Tirhin rarely visited him before combat. This was a tremendous honor, a mark of the highest favor. Even so, that cynical inner voice whispered to Caelan that the prince came only to reassure himself that his champion would give his best today. The visit meant nothing more than that.
Squelching such thoughts, Caelan raised himself with a small smile for his master alone. He felt ready now to take on as many entrants as dared to meet him.