Shadow War - Deborah Chester [34]
Lady Sivee laughed. “Truly I am amazed by this speech. You sound like a courtier instead of a gladiator.”
Caelan bowed, accepting the compliment.
“But I must question you,” she continued. “You say the prince surpasses most men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpass such a man whom the gods have favored so completely?”
As she spoke, her gaze followed the prince, who had reached the opposite side of the room. Everyone was vying for a chance to speak to him or to attract his notice. Prince Tirhin acted graciously, nodding to some, speaking to others.
Caelan watched him too, aware of the ears listening to his conversation with the hostess, aware of those who stared at him as though they could not believe him capable of opening his mouth intelligently. He was not going to fall into any trap. Yet here was one small chance for a dig at the prince’s expense, a temptation impossible to resist.
“Who?” Lady Sivee persisted, her eyes shining merrily. “Who is his better? Who? I would know this paragon, this man without peer.”
“Only the emperor, my lady,” Caelan said in a mild voice. “I meant no disparagement of my esteemed master; only the truth do I speak.”
Someone laughed, and Lady Sivee flushed.
“Very clever,” she said, and tossed her head. Turning her back on Caelan, she walked away to link arms with a friend.
The man who laughed gave Caelan a mock salute. “Well done,” he said. “An articulate fighter is a curiosity indeed. A witty one is a rarity. Who taught you repartee?”
Another man joined the first, saving Caelan from having to answer. This one leaned forward, his cheeks bulging with honeyed dates.
“Didn’t expect to see Giant here,” he said, poking at Caelan’s tunic with his forefinger. “Word on the streets was that he died.”
“Obviously he didn’t,” the first man replied.
While they were busy talking to each other, Caelan bowed to them and seized the chance to melt away into the crowd. He towered over most of the other men, and his broad shoulders were constantly colliding with others in the general crush. Caelan disliked such close quarters. Living a life of constant combat, he had difficulty switching off his alert instincts. To be crowded like this meant anyone could attack with little or no warning. Caelan tried to tell himself no one had such intentions, but every brush of a sleeve against him made his muscles tense.
Remembering his instructions, Caelan wandered into other rooms away from the eye of his master. He found himself recognized and greeted by some, and stared at by others who seemed insulted by the unfettered presence of a thug in their midst.
Deeply tanned from constant exposure to the outdoors and considered exotic because of his blue eyes, light hair, and height, Caelan found himself ogled and watched by both men and women. Many asked him to discuss his victory over the Madrun. Giggling maidens approached him, begging to feel his biceps. Grinning house servants with admiration in their eyes offered him spiced wine and honeyed smiles. Caelan did his best to be gracious; there was always another room to escape to.
He strolled through sumptuously appointed rooms filled with priceless art. He stood in the company of lords and ladies. He watched; he sampled delectable sweetmeats and pastries; he drank as he willed. Normally, he would have spent the time pretending he was a free man. After all, with the prince’s leash so loose tonight this was in one way a mark of his trust in his champion. In another way it was Tirhin’s silent boast to his friends. His champion could not only kill the strongest, fiercest fighters owned by anyone in the empire, but his champion was also civilized, educated, and trustworthy.
But tonight, fantasy held no appeal.
Eventually Caelan found himself in a quiet enclave where a poet