Reign of Shadows (35 page)

Unlike
a common auction in which slaves for trades and housework were sold, this was a
gladiator sale—held but once a year and always subject to great interest and
speculation. Dealers from near and far had come with hand- picked merchandise,
hoping to reap good profit from the violent, favorite sport of Imperia.

Caelan
turned his head and let his gaze wander across the pens jammed with men who
were tall, men who were muscular, men who were simply heavy and out of shape.
Many bore horrific scars of old combats. Ears, eyes, fingers, even noses were
missing. A few were young boys, lithe and clean-muscled. Several were old and
grizzled; these were usually veterans of wars who couldn’t adjust to civilian
life and had been condemned to the games.

Word
had already rustled through the pens: anyone not sold for the games would go
cheap for hard labor. The emperor had ordered repair of the city walls, and his
agents were waiting to pick up the rejects.

Caelan
rose to his feet and stretched. He didn’t want to break his back hauling stone,
to work until his body broke down. As a boy he’d admired the imperial roads and
impressive stoneworks. As a man, he’d seen the pathetic creatures who built
such edifices. He knew now that imperial stones were laid with blood and
suffering.

He
swallowed hard and began to pace back and forth, aware of the distant rattle of
chains and slamming of gates. The handlers were fetching the first lots for
sale. Already the skilled patter of the auctioneer could be heard over the
noise of the crowd.

Another
fight started in the common pen, and was broken up with whips.

Ubin,
his current owner, appeared. Breathless and excited, Ubin reached through the
bars of Caelan’s small cage and pulled off Caelan’s jerkin.

“Stand
close, boy.”

Caelan
obeyed, and Ubin began rubbing oil across his sun-bronzed chest and back. The
stuff smelled rancid and made Caelan feel hotter than ever. His sweat beaded up
through the oil, making the smell worse. Caelan shifted away, but Ubin swore at
him.

“Remember,”
he said, looking Caelan over critically, “to look as fierce as you can. Don’t
bow your head and mince along meekly like a damned houseboy. Flex those muscles
and look like you could tear someone apart barehanded. For once, would you
please try not to look so bored?”

Caelan
yawned, indifferent to Ubin’s dreams. The old
man had bought him two
years ago, when he was starved and beaten, and paid very little for him. Ubin
had fed him decent food and worked him hard, always careful to change him from
one oar to another so he would develop his back and shoulder muscles evenly.
From the first Caelan had been an investment, bought only for eventual resale
to the gladiator market here in Imperia. Caelan had been smart enough not to
mistake interest and good care for kindness. For all Ubin’s fussing now, the
moment the auctioneer struck the gavel and gold was counted into Ubin’s palm,
the old man wouldn’t waste any time missing the property he left behind.

Caelan’s
price plus the sale of his owner’s boat was to be Ubin’s ticket to retirement.
Then Ubin was going to buy a small house on the coast and live in modest
luxury, never risking his neck in another dangerous ocean voyage. The good
life, the easy life, with a couple of servants, a willing little maid for his
bed, and plenty of inexpensive wine to make his days sweet. Ubin’s ambitions,
all tied up in Caelan’s broad back and strong shoulders.

In
the distance, a crowd roared and cheered. Ubin craned his old neck a moment,
then shrugged. “The dealers will get the best prices,” he said. “Damned bunch
of thieves. They’ve rigged the sale already. I saw some of them talking. I know
what they’re about. Sticking together to drive up prices for themselves, then
cutting the throats of any independent person trying to make a decent sale.”

Caelan
tuned him out. He’d listened to the old man’s fussing all the way to Imperia.
They’d come in from the sea, and the city had glittered in the hot sunshine
like diamonds spread on the sand. Built on cliffs overlooking the busy harbor,
the city was larger than Caelan expected. Taller, too, with buildings of
several stories, domed on top instead of flat or pitched. Archways spanned wide
paved roads. No muddy tracks here like in the provinces. Houses remained hidden
and secluded behind walls. Only the branches of trees growing inside fragrant
gardens gave any clue as to what might be contained within those quiet
enclaves.

The
shops were endless. Merchants of every nationality and description stood
outside their booths, bowing and inviting passersby to inspect their wares. The
wealth and plenty were staggering, even in the lesser parts of the city where
Ubin dragged Caelan along hurriedly down twisting streets to the slave market,
chaining him inside the pen with a hasty promise to return in an hour with
food.

Clutching
his receipt, Ubin had left and not returned until daylight, apologetic and hung
over.

It
would be Ubin’s own stupid fault, Caelan thought sourly, if no one wanted to
pay good money for a hunger- stricken rower. As a slave he could make no
complaint, although he glared at the old man whenever Ubin wasn’t looking. Ubin
was a brainless old fool half the time. But in this, at least, they both wanted
the same thing.

Beneath
Caelan’s studied indifference, he was boiling with impatience. As a trained
fighter, he would gain skills that would make him valuable anywhere. More
importantly, it was said that gladiators entered in the games in Imperia had
the chance to fight their way to freedom each season.

Freedom.
Caelan rolled the word silently on his tongue. If he still believed in the
gods, he would have prayed for it. As it was, he’d learned a man had only
himself and his wits, nothing else in this world. Family could be lost.
Security was a lie. Wealth could be stolen. Kindness was deception. The gods
did not heed the misery on earth.

Caelan
had no intention of going back to ordinary labor. He’d spent four years of his
life enduring just about every degradation and humiliation possible. But even a
man at the bottom could hope. His dreams had shrunk to one ambition—to make the
games. They were his only chance of escape. To simply run away was to incur
death. He did not intend to become an outlaw chased down by bounty hunters with
a pack of dreadots. No, he had other plans.

The
first step was to be bought by a trainer. The second step was to drive himself
to excel. No matter what it took or cost, he would be the best. He would
survive the arena, and he would win his freedom. By next thaw he intended to
make his way back to the north country. He would search out the land of the
Thyzarenes and strike hard at what they held most dear. He’d had four long
years in which to plan his revenge. It was what kept him alive and above
despair.

His
father would not have approved of his desire for vengeance. But Caelan no
longer listened to conscience. Only free men untouched by tragedy could afford
to be merciful. He had seen what ideals brought. He wanted none of them.

Ubin
hurriedly poured the last of the oil on Caelan’s hair, sleeking its long shagginess
back. He looked Caelan over and grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth.

“Now
you look like a proper barbarian,” he said in approval. He ran his fingertips
along the thin scar on Caelan’s left jaw. “Good boy. Good boy.”

Revulsion
made Caelan jerk away, but with the handlers coming for more lots, Ubin was too
distracted to retaliate. He darted off, fussing to an auction official who
ignored him.

The
next lot shambled by with chains clanking on their ankles, and in spite of
himself Caelan stepped near the bars to stare.

These
half-dozen brutes were of a caliber he’d never seen before. A collective
aah
murmured through the pens.
Even the most restless men grew suddenly quiet as the six marched by.

Clad
only in loincloths, shaved of all body hair, and oiled, they were perfectly
matched in height and weight, each possessing impressive pectorals and deeply
ridged  serratus muscles. They had fearsome scars puckering their hides to tell
of battles they had survived. Their hair was cropped close to their skulls, and
one man had but a single
eye.

Unlike
the others who had preened and picked fights, these men were extremely quiet.
But their awareness was like that of wolves—wary, predatory, and supremely
dangerous. Just looking at them sent a chill through Caelan. For the first
time, he realized what a true killer looked like.

“Champion
team,” murmured a man in the next pen. “See the gold belts they wear?
Champions.”

But
they hadn’t won their freedom. Caelan turned his back to them. “If they’re so
good, why are they in the auction?”

“You
mean they should be in a special sale.” The man with all the information nodded
and spat. “Aye. The best are usually traded privately, not dragged down here
like us.” He grinned. “The gossip is they’re Lord Vymaltin’s own hand-picked
team.”

“So?”

The
man sneered, but he answered. “Lord Vymaltin has been dismissed from court. No
longer an ambassador. His house is up for sale too, with his house slaves.”

The
man paused and glanced around before edging closer. “Word is Prince Tirhin has
come to buy these fighters. Maybe he’ll buy us as well.”

Caelan
snorted. “And maybe not.”

But
Ubin suddenly reappeared at the pen, rattling the gate impatiently and
gesturing for an auction attendant to unlock it.

Ubin
reached in to seize Caelan’s arm. “Come, come!” he said urgently. “Hurry. This
is our chance.”

Dubious,
Caelan thought Ubin would only get himself thrown out of the auction
altogether. Dealers had first chance at the block. By trying to jump ahead of
turn, Ubin could ruin everything. Caelan started to tell him as much, but then
he held his tongue. Advice from a slave was seldom well received, especially
when an owner was hell-bent on a course of action.

So
Caelan let himself be pushed down the aisle between the pens, stumbling on his
leg chains, and ducked beneath a low archway only to find himself in a
high-walled enclosure.

Bidders
sat on stone benches high above the selling floor, holding fans with numbers
painted on them. Slaves and attendants surrounded them. Hard-faced men in
leather who must have been trainers were walking around Vymaltin’s team,
pinching muscle layers, checking teeth, and making notes on small scraps of
parchment.

An
auction official blocked Ubin’s path, glaring with outrage. “Independent lots
are sold at the end of the day.”

“Good
sir,” Ubin began with his most obsequious smile. He slipped the man a bribe,
and the official walked off with a shrug.

Ubin
shoved Caelan forward, positioning him not quite on the block with the others,
but close enough to be clearly seen.

The
trainers finished their inspection, and the bidding opened. Just the sound of
it awakened a tumult of hurtful memories in Caelan. He tried not to listen,
tried not to let the shame seize him.

But
the bidding was quick and lively. The prices caught Caelan’s interest and he
glanced up at the gallery, curious to see which bidder was the prince. Sunlight
shone down into the well of the auction ring and made him squint. He glimpsed a
figure in a rich blue tunic whose lazy hand flick raised the bid every time.

Compressing
his lips, Caelan lowered his gaze. He didn’t care whether a prince or a common
man bought him, as long as he got his chance.

The
bidding closed with a final bang of the gavel, and an attendant shout from the
crowd.

“Sold,
to Prince Tirhin!” the auctioneer said triumphantly. “For two thousand ducats.”

“Now,”
Ubin said in Caelan’s ear, giving him a push. “Get on the block. Quickly, boy.
Quickly. You’re the next lot.”

Caelan
walked forward, although the team was still on the block. Ubin gave him a
harder shove that sent him stumbling inadvertently into the back of the last
man in line.

Swearing,
the gladiator whirled with a vicious swing of his fist.

He
moved faster than any man Caelan had ever seen, faster than thought.

Startled,
Caelan reacted instinctively, shifting to one side. The gladiator’s fist missed
him and crashed into Ubin’s jaw.

The
old man fell as though pole-axed.