Shadow War - Deborah Chester [38]
Clenching the dice harder in his hand, Caelan stood up so abruptly his stool turned over.
Both of his opponents glanced up. Lord Fuesel looked flustered, even momentarily panicked. Thole, a swarthy man with a thin mustache adorning his lip, raised his brows at Caelan.
“Running away?” he asked with a sneer.
“You can’t quit now,” Fuesel said.
Thole brushed Fuesel’s hand in warning, and the lord subsided with a nervous rat-a-tat of his fingers on the board.
“How long have I been playing?” Caelan asked in confusion, brushing his face with the back of his hand. His thoughts were full of holes. He could not make sense of anything except the overwhelming need to throw the dice. “My master may require me—”
“Nonsense. No need to worry about that just yet,” Thole said. “You will forfeit all that you have bet up till now.”
“Giant! Don’t quit!” shouted a buxom woman from the crowd. “Keep your courage. Don’t rob us of the end.”
Frowning, Caelan edged back from the board. Thole leaned over and gripped his wrist. His hand was soft and supple, lacking the calluses of physical labor. The touch of his warm, moist palm made Caelan’s skin crawl.
“They want their spectacle,” Thole said, tightening his grip. “Don’t you want this fortune?”
Something seemed to lie beneath his words, as though another language had been spoken, with a different meaning. The mists were swirling anew in Caelan’s brain. He was so very thirsty, and he looked around for his cup.
Everyone seemed to be shouting now. The din increased in volume, making Caelan’s head ring. He blinked off a sudden feeling of dizziness, and felt the internal shift of sevaisin taking hold.
Not here, he thought in panic. Not with so many.
But something inside him surged to connect with Thole, before he hastily yanked free of the man’s grip. Just as hastily the gambler shielded himself from any empathic link.
But Caelan had gained one impression from that fleeting connection.
Trap.
He swallowed hard, hearing anger in the voices shouting at him now. Disappointment and derision came in open jeers.
“Why doesn’t he throw?” someone asked in bewilderment. “All he has to do is throw.”
“Take the sword from his hand, and he’s just another stupid gladiator.”
“Maybe his victories are as fake as his dice game.”
The croupier leaned forward. “You are delaying the game. Take your turn, or forfeit.”
Caelan uncurled his fingers and stared at the yellowed ivory dice lying on his palm. Sevaisin shifted within him again, and he knew the elephant from faraway Gialta that had died and left its tusks to be crafted into ornaments and baubles. He knew the craftsman who had carved these dice from the ivory. He knew how the slivers of lead had been cleverly worked into the interiors of the cubes.
These were not the same dice he had been playing with before. They had been skillfully switched since the last throw, and they would roll up a high number.
If he threw, he would win.
That large mound of ducats would be his. He would be a very rich man.
Caelan frowned. He would be a very rich slave, he corrected himself.
But one rich enough to purchase his freedom?
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it derisively away. If the prince would not free him in honor, he would not accept a price either.
What, then, did a slave need with so much money?
Even more puzzling, why did these men want him to win?
Why had they let him win until his stake rivaled theirs?
Why had they lured him here and kept him so long? Why were they so interested in him?
Trap. But what kind? What did it mean?
“You must play or forfeit,” the croupier said sternly. “Follow the rules of the game before we have a riot in here.”
“The barbarian doesn’t know the game!” someone shouted.
“Throw the damned dice,” Lord Fuesel said. “Where is your nerve now? Show us