Shadow War - Deborah Chester [37]
“Good. Let us freshen our drinks and seek out a friend of mine.”
Thus at midnight, Caelan found himself facing two professional gamblers—Lord Fuesel and his roguish friend Thole—over the felt dicing board. A pile of gold ducats spilled over the painted crimson edges of the stakes square. It was enough gold to sustain a modest Trau household for a year, enough gold to sustain a lord of the empire for a month, enough gold to keep the prince in pocket money for a week.
It was more gold than Caelan had ever seen before, more than his father’s strongbox had ever held. From his modest initial stake, his winnings had grown steadily. For the past two hours the stakes had increased even more as ducats were tossed onto the pile. Now the croupier rang a tiny brass bell, its sound barely heard against the backdrop of reveling going on in other rooms of the villa. The small bell signaled the final throw of the game—high throw champion, winner take all.
The other two men had already thrown. Now it was Caelan’s turn. Sweating in the room’s excessive warmth, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, he leaned over the felt-covered board and scooped the ivory cubes into his palm.
“Bell’s rung!” someone called out, and more spectators crowded into the already packed room to watch.
The audience shouted encouragement and advice in a din that rang off the stone columns at the doorway and echoed down from the ceiling.
Caelan tried to ignore the noise. He was used to people cheering his name in the arena. Yet this was somehow different.
In the arena he had the open air, plenty of space, and only the eyes of his opponent to watch.
Here, he could feel the oppressive closeness of too many people, their perspiration and perfumes intermingling with lamp smoke in a cloying fugue. Garbed in silks and velvets of bold colors, they clapped and chattered. Their painted faces loomed grotesquely from the shadows. They shouted his name, all right, but as many called drunkenly for his failure as for his victory. And laughed when they said it.
With the dice in his hand, Caelan swallowed and suddenly found himself unable to breathe. What was he doing here among these strangers? How long had he been here? He could not recall the hours. How many cups of wine had he drunk? How many strange dishes had he sampled? How had he come to find himself in this room, far from the dancing girls and poetry readings, caught up in the spell of these gamesters?
Why were they staring at him so narrowly, sitting so still and tense? What was this particular eagerness in the pair of them? He could see it radiating from their skin.
His thoughts spun, and everything seemed to slow down as though a magical net had been thrown over time to hold it still.
Suspicion entered him, and it was as though he suddenly inhaled the crisp clean scent of fir needles on a snowy day. His mind cleared of the strange mist that had engulfed it, and he frowned. The stack of ducats gleamed softly in the lamplight; their excessive amount staggered him anew. How repugnant so many coins were, how obscene. Before him lay his own future, the gold coins with which Prince Tirhin had rewarded him earlier that day.
No ... his master had not given him money.
Caelan blinked and rubbed sweat from his eyes. He struggled to remember. It had been yesterday when he fought. Tirhin often gave him gold for winning championships.
But he had not won yesterday; he had died.
A shiver passed over Caelan. Suddenly he felt wild and panicked. He did not know who he was or where he was. Perhaps this was a fevered dream, and in truth he lay in his bed, sweating with delirium and madness.
But he remembered Agel, the block of granite that was his cousin. Kinsman Agel, who cured him, so that he could come tonight with his master.
“We are waiting,” Lord Fuesel said. “Please throw.”
Caelan drew a deep breath. For wielding death so successfully, for killing to amuse his patron, he had been dressed in finery, brought to this social function among the elite of Imperia, and