Shadow War - Deborah Chester [89]
But Orlo did not come forward, and the officer ignored Caelan’s protests.
His gaze locked on Agel. “Your name?”
“I am Agel, a healer newly appointed to the imperial court.” Agel spoke calmly and with dignity.
“You are prepared to swear to the extent of Prince Tirhin’s injuries?” the officer asked.
“I am prepared to swear.”
“No!” Caelan said, horrified. “He was—”
He broke off, aware of how fantastic the truth would sound. The prince’s reputation was impeccable. Who would believe he had gone to Sidraigh-hal to strike an evil bargain with representatives from Madrun? Who would believe he had been attacked by shyrieas on his way home?
Caelan realized he had been foolish to bring the prince back. He should have left him on the scorched hillside, perhaps to die. By bringing the prince home, he had left himself open to misinterpretation and outright lie.
Caelan’s desperate gaze collided with Agel’s cold one, and Agel’s eyes did not waver. Caelan knew he had been a fool, an utter fool, to trust Agel at all. There had been plenty of warning signs, and he’d ignored them all.
This, he thought bitterly, was the result of his ambition. He’d wanted to be named protector of a future emperor, and so he’d tagged after Tirhin, willingly involving himself as a witness to treason. And now he lay here accused himself, the reward of having served an unworthy master, the reward of having trusted his own kinsman. As a slave, he would not even get a trial.
Even as cold fear washed through him, the guardsmen dragged him bodily out into the spacious atrium. Bile rose in Caelan’s throat. He remembered lying rolled in a net while the Thyzarenes burned and looted his home. He couldn’t submit to this again. He would rather fight and be killed than submit.
Panicking, he kicked and struggled, but he was helpless and the guardsmen were experienced. One of them gave a vicious twist to the ropes binding him, and another kicked him hard in the kidney.
The world tilted a moment, and Caelan’s only fight was against blacking out. He coughed a little, trying to regain the air that had been knocked out of him.
“There’ll be no trouble from you, gladiator.”
Biting back a moan, Caelan sagged against the stone floor. Nothing to lose, he told himself. But he must fight with his wits to have any chance at all. He must not panic, must not lose his temper. He must think if he was to have any hope of getting out of this. Besides, the more he fought, the more guilty he would appear.
They loosened the net and put shackles on his hands and feet. Shame burned Caelan. He hadn’t worn chains since before he won his first season championship.
The servants watched in silence. Their eyes reflected the lamplight like mirrors. Not one spoke up for him.
He was pulled to his feet. “Walk,” a guardsman commanded him, prodding him with a dagger. “And remember, I know every trick you do, so don’t try anything.”
Caelan stumbled out past Prince Tirhin’s collection of priceless statuary and busts. Tapestries and fine paintings hung on the walls. His feet trod priceless carpets.
The officer waited by the doorway leading outside. His gaze took in the fine furnishings, the beauty of the house, without expression. He was all business, alert and watchful as though he fully understood how dangerous Caelan could be.
Caelan drew a deep breath, well aware of the dagger pressed to his ribs. “Lieutenant,” he said quietly, trying to sound educated and civilized. “My master has not laid these charges. Take care you do not make a mistake tonight.”
The guardsman at his side struck him hard, nearly knocking him down the steps outside. Stumbling, Caelan caught himself against one of the dragon statues. As he straightened, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of something in the lieutenant’s eyes.
“I am valuable property,” he said quickly. “Too valuable for quick disposal or illegal sale on the block.”
“Silence!” The guardsman shoved him down the steps.
The lieutenant watched Caelan go by and said nothing.
Despair rose in