Shadow War - Deborah Chester [35]
He sipped his drink, standing in the back where no one need notice his presence. The poetry was well crafted, but staid and unimaginative.
Here, Caelan felt his bitterness return. With a grimace he lowered his cup. Yes, he could walk about his house as he willed, but he was not a guest. He could reply if someone spoke to him, but he could not initiate conversation. He could watch, smile, and pretend, but he did not belong among these people. His clothes were made of fine and costly fabric, but the garments were plain compared to the tailoring of the others. He wore a gold chain worth a small fortune, but it was still a chain.
To a man who had been born free, slavery—no matter how privileged—remained a galling sore that could not heal. What good were possessions, money, and finery when they were only a substitution for civil rights and a free will?
Worse, he had admired his master enough to serve him with honor and complete loyalty. Now he felt like a fool. How many times had Orlo warned him? But he hadn’t listened. From his own stubbornness, he had let himself be used and manipulated. When the Madrun’s sword and pierced his side, he had felt a fierce satisfaction—almost joy—at having succeeded in serving his master so well. Now he understood just how deluded he had been.
It was not easy to look into one’s own heart and realize one was a fool.
As though magically sensing Caelan’s dark thoughts, a man robed in green and brown turned h s head sharply away from the droning poet and stared hard at Caelan.
At once Caelan put down his cup and retreated from the room.
The man followed, emerging into the passageway with Caelan’s cup in his hand.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “You left your wine behind. Here.”
Reluctantly Caelan took the cup from his fingers. He had left it nearly empty. Now it had been refilled. Out of politeness Caelan took a token sip, but in his present mood the wine tasted as sour as vinegar.
The man sipped from his own cup and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Delicious, is it not?”
“Very fine.”
“You appreciate a good vintage?”
Caelan felt as though he’d been trapped in a mad play where he did not know the lines. “I have not the training of a connoisseur,” he replied politely. “If it tastes good, I drink it.”
“Ah. A simple man, with simple tastes.”
As he spoke, the aristocrat smiled toothily. He was not a member of Prince Tirhin’s circle, and Caelan did not recognize him. The man had perhaps been good-looking in his youth, but now his square face had jowls and his body was going soft. He was sweating in the heat, and his expensive clothes looked stiff, too new, and uncomfortable.
“I am Fuesel,” he said.
It was the plain, unadorned way in which true aristocrats introduced themselves, although there could be only one reason such a man would speak to a slave.
Even as Caelan bowed, inwardly he sighed. The man would make an offer to buy him, which he would then ask Caelan to take to Prince Tirhin. The prince would be displeased by the interruption and would send Caelan back with a curt refusal. It happened all the time, no matter how emphatically the prince said he would never sell his champion, and Caelan found it an embarrassment. Only tonight he did not think he would carry an accurate offer to his master. Tonight he did not think he would cooperate at all.
He sipped more of his wine to avoid the intense way Lord Fuesel was staring at him.
“You’re the famous arena champion ... Caelan, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I thought so.” Fuesel’s eyes were small and dark. They gleamed. “I saw you fight yesterday. Masterful. It was thrilling.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me something. Do you enjoy the act of killing?”
Frowning, Caelan tried not to recoil. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a distasteful question, but he never got used to it. Fuesel was