Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

She pulled the frosty veil up over her face and followed the corridor into the belly of the arena, stepping past puddles of water pooling from the melting snow blowing in the cracks. The deeper she went, the more populous the corridor became, until at last she was standing outside what was obviously the main subterranean entrance to the arena, one of many hallways leading back into the fighters’ complex.

As she passed the opening she could hear in the distance a deep resonating ring, followed by a surge of shouting: Tovvrik, Tovvrik, Tovvrik . She hurried ahead of the rolling cheers, into the back tunnel and away from the gruesome noise, the sound of celebration.

A crude list of the gladiators and their bouts was scrawled in chalk on the wall of the arch that led to the bowels of the arena. In each bout one of the two names had been struck through. It was not difficult to find Constantin’s; his was the final bout of the evening on the main program, and, from what she could tell of the number system in the language of the Sorbolds, it had been the match that had supplied the most lucrative odds.

Slaves were milling around the musty hallways, carrying food and bottles of medicine, emollients and wine, the women dressed as she was, gathering in a penlike area to the left of the archway. Rhapsody pulled her veiled hood closer and slid into the stream of human traffic, letting it carry her into the pen, hoping she was in the right place.

In a moment her hunch was confirmed. A short, muscular man with thinning gray hair and robes far richer than any the slaves wore appeared at the other end of the tunnel, and as he approached the women fell silent, looking at each other and watching with anticipation. He strode through the tunnel, came out through the archway, and then climbed an area of steps at the forefront of the pen, his eyes alternately scanning the crowd of slave women and the chalk writing behind him.

He turned behind him and shouted to one of the manservants down past the archway, and after a moment another man came from down the corridor and handed him a parchment page. The slave bowed respectfully and referred to him as Treilus; Rhapsody made note and tried to shrink behind some of the taller, more eager women until Constantin’s name was called.

“Assignments for this evening’s healers,” Treilus announced.

Her stomach turned as she watched the process of selection. Most of the women slaves were vying for the opportunity to be chosen, displaying their bodies to their best advantage, and Rhapsody had to remind herself that some duties they faced must be even worse than this one.

Memories of her own past threatened to flood her with the mental equivalent of bile; she struggled to keep those thoughts at bay. Her stomach turned at Llauron’s naivete. Treilus might say he was looking for healers, but she knew a whoremaster when she saw one. Her plan dissipated in a puff of desperation. Rescuing Constantin had just become a secondary concern. Now it was a matter of trying to survive what might be corning.

The first two fighters for whom women were chosen clearly had a connection to powerful people, and the slave women jostled and scratched each other, trying to position themselves appropriately. Then Constantin’s name was called, and the pushing and preening stopped. The crowd of slaves became eerily silent, a sign that Rhapsody felt did not bode well for her.

Swallowing her dread, she dropped the veil that covered her face and hair and moved subtly into better view as Treilus was scanning down his list. When his eyes rose from the document they went immediately to her, and she shuddered as his mouth dropped open and he moved the parchment list in front of his lower abdomen to cover a sudden obvious change in the area. She hoped that his task was foremost in his mind; it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be shopping for his own evening’s entertainment as well as medical care for his gladiators.

Treilus came down off the step and pushed his way through the crowd of slave women until he stood directly before her. His eyes roamed unabashedly over her body as he walked around her, examining her from different angles. When he stood before her again he took hold of the scarf that served as a bodice for her costume and pulled it roughly toward him, looking down at her breasts inside the flimsy cloth. He released the scarf with a coldly professional air, and reached out absently to inspect a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed the golden strands, drawing them across his lips as though he was tasting them or investigating their softness.

He must have found them satisfactory, because he coughed and looked down at her, approval spreading over his face. “I don’t recognize you,” he said in a gratingly high voice. “Who are you? To whom do you belong?”

Rhapsody stared at him, trying to look as though she didn’t understand him. “Can you speak Ancient Lirin?” she asked, in her native tongue. Clearly he couldn’t; the blank look that crossed his face at her response was replaced almost immediately by a delighted smile.

“A captive!” he said, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Constantin will be very pleased.” The slave women looked at each other, some wearing grim expressions, others seeming relieved. Treilus motioned to one of the manservants, who brought forth a bottle of emollient and handed it to him.

“Can you understand me?” he asked in an exaggerated tone. She nodded slightly, trying to maintain her look of mild confusion. “Good, listen well,” he continued, handing her the bottle. Rhapsody stuck it into the scarf between her breasts and gave him a foolish grin; Treilus burst into laughter and rubbed his hands together again. “Oh, you will be perfect,” he said, patting her cheek. “You will be delivered to Constantin’s room, where you will service all his needs. Are you skilled in massage?”

Rhapsody nodded eagerly. “You are a toad,” she said meekly in her best Ancient Lirin.

“Excellent!” Treilus exclaimed, growing more excited. “Remember this, though: whatever else you do, you must be sure to massage the muscles of his back and shoulders before morning. He needs to be returned to fighting condition by tomorrow afternoon. If he is not, I will have you beaten mercilessly. Can you remember that?”

“Of course. May you be blessed with unstoppable diarrhea,” she answered, lowering her eyes respectfully.

“You’d best attend to that part first,” he said, a wicked look coming into his eye. “You might not be in any condition to do so afterward. Go, then, and service him well.”

“I hope you die in pain for what you are doing,” she said in her unique language. “And I hope that I am able to help bring it about.” She bowed and followed the manservant into the corridors that led to the gladiators’ sleeping quarters.

“What a beautiful creature,” Treilus said to the nearest manservant. He dug his fist into his side, trying to quell the sudden wave of gas that was rolling through his intestines. “Have her brought to my chambers in the morning when Constantin is done with her, if she is still alive.”

A knock sounded on the antique door, stirring Llauron from his reverie.

“Enter.”

The door opened and Khaddyr came in, looking unusually breathless.

“You wanted to see me, Your Grace?”

Llauron smiled. “Yes, Khaddyr, thank you for being so prompt.” The Invoker rose from his chair and gestured for his chief healer to enter the room, which Khaddyr did, closing the door behind him. “There’s a supper tray here; please help yourself.”

Khaddyr nodded but did not yet avail himself of food, instead hanging his heavy winter cloak on one of the pegs by the door. Then he went to the hearth and stood before the fire grate, warming himself. The wind had grown chill and bitter, and a storm was predicted. His hands had almost frozen in the time it took to journey here from the hospice.