As Gel followed Kaeth Jared's example and divested himself of armor, clothing, and walked naked into the white-tiled water-cascade cubicle as if he belonged there, he was thoroughly con¬scious of gratitude for being able to clean up after their strenuous bout. With all of the youngsters still watching, awe-filled eyes glued to him, Gel was more than a little uncomfort¬able as he plunged under the warm cascade of water and let it soothe muscles that had been asked to work without a proper warm-up. He wondered why the other fighters didn't say any¬thing to him—or at least, to Kaeth Jared. They might not know him, but surely they knew Kaeth at least by sight. Well, they've got tongues, he told himself, as he ducked his head under the steaming water and let it pour down his neck and back. If they don't want to use them, that's not my problem.
Kaeth Jared must have been more used to this odd, semi-frightened treatment from his fellow humans, as he acted on the surface as if the other fighters simply weren't there.
On the surface, anyway.
To Gel's experienced eyes, he moved as if he noted and ana¬lyzed every move any of them made, however inconsequential. That spelled "assassin" as well as "bodyguard" to Gel, which actually made a great deal of sense, considering Lord Kyn-dreth's prominence and the uncertain times. There was no telling if the Young Lords or his own peers might decide to re¬vert to the ancient ways of dealing with an obstacle in the form of another Elvenlord. Who better to guard against assassins than another assassin?
Still. It aroused his suspicions. In all his lifetime, Gel had en¬countered no more than four assassins, and he himself was one of them.
And I wonder if Kaeth Jared has made the same conclusions about me that I have about him. . . .
The first had been his own teacher, the third had been his teacher's teacher—a succession of trained men to guard the es¬tate's lord, just in case. The fourth had been on the auction block, and that particular set of skills hadn't been mentioned in the auction catalog. Although it momentarily tempted him—to have someone else he could trust with his lord's safety—he had said nothing to the Seneschal who had been looking for a few choice youngsters to introduce to the freedom of the estate. It was a bad idea; like his own teacher he would train his own suc¬cessor. There was no telling where that man had been, or why he was on the block.
For a moment, Gel recalled his teacher with great fond¬ness—Hakkon Shor had not been Gel's father, but he might just as well have been. He'd helped raise Gel from the moment that Gel showed the sort of athletic potential that made him the skilled fighter he was today. Hakkon hadn't had sons, only daughters—not that one of them wouldn't have served per¬fectly well as Kyrtian's bodyguard, but none of them took after Hakkon; in point of fact, they were sweet-natured and ab¬solutely oblivious to half of what went on around them. Now
Tirith Shor, who'd been Hakkon's father, felt that was just as well, but Gel knew it had been a great disappointment to the Old Man that his son wouldn't be the one to stand at the next Lord's side....
Kaeth Jared was an unlikely sort for an assassin, if you only saw him clothed. Tall and slim, pale, with hair of a dark auburn and long, clever hands, he didn't look particularly strong. If you saw him nude, however—or in combat—you realized that he was a great deal stronger and more agile than he seemed. There wasn't an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere, and the muscles he had were wire and whipcord; tough, and powerful.
Gel wondered if the others had noticed Kaeth Jared's un¬usual alertness and caution, and decided that they probably hadn't. They were just ordinary fighters, and wouldn't be trained or practiced in such careful observation and deduction. They were probably just impressed by the bout that he and Gel had completed—and perhaps a little stunned at its bloodless outcome.
Part of their awe might very well have been due to the lack of scars on Kaeth's body and his own. In the old methods of train¬ing, at some point, when two fighters met, they would covertly read true expertise in martial arts not by the number of wounds collected over the years, but by the absence of scarring. An un¬marked body in their world meant either that one's lord valued one so highly that he granted the use of magic in healing, or that a fighter's reflexes were so swift and movement so agile that no opponent ever got a chance to land a blow. Neither he nor Kaeth were marred by more than a few trivial lines, long healed.
As Gel emerged from the cascade of water and shook his head like a dog, he caught Kaeth watching out of the corner of his eye; Kaeth knew he'd been caught, and unexpectedly grinned. "You gave me the best bout I've had in a long time, friend," he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water-cascade. "I'm impressed."
"So am I," Gel admitted freely, as the circle of silent gladia¬tors strained their ears to hear every syllable either of them spoke. "And I don't mind saying that if you'd had the benefit of
Lord Kyrtian's system to train under, you'd be so much better than me that it wouldn't have been a contest."
"I wouldn't know about that," Kaeth replied, quickly enough to salve Gel's bruised ego. "But if I'm any judge of Lord Kyn-dreth, he'll be using this system of yours before the month is out. And if he does, every other lord will do the same, or be thought hopelessly provincial and out-of-step. With enough ap¬proval behind him, he might well mandate this system through the Council."
The encircling men let out a suppressed sigh; so that was what they had been waiting to hear, and perhaps Kaeth had known that. Gel sympathized; such news would be like a re¬prieve from a death-sentence.
Like ? By the Stars, it is a reprieve from a death-sentence! I wonder how many of their comrades were killed in training, and how many more killed in feud-combat or their masters' en¬tertainments ? Now the only thing they 'II have to fear is being drafted into the Old Lords 'Army and sent up against the rebels or the Wizards.
"I dare say you're right," Gel agreed, waving his hand in front of the cascade to stop it, then reaching for a towel from the rack behind him. At that point, a servant appeared to sum¬mon the gladiators to their respective lords for the return to their home estates, and with palpable disappointment, the two groups of men filed out of the preparation room.
Kaeth waved his own hand at the cascade beneath which he'd been standing, and the sound of rushing water was re¬placed by silence. He seized a towel and dried himself, then wrapped it around his waist as Gel already had and exchanged a wry smile with his companion. "Alone at last!" he said.
Gel chuckled, warily. For an assassin, this man had a remark¬able sense of humor and no reticence about showing it. "I would hardly have thought my conversation was that entrancing."
Surely he's here by accident. Assassins are normally sent against key humans in an Elvenlord's entourage, and there was no way of knowing who would be playing bodyguard to Kyrt-ian. Was there?
"It's better than theirs." Kaeth jerked his head in the direction
of the exit door. "Those poor blockheads don't have much to talk about except fighting, food, and sex. If they'd gotten up the courage to speak to us, you'd have found that out."
Gel raised an eyebrow. "Well, they're young," he pointed out, as he followed Kaeth carefully into the main room.
"And under the old system, not likely to get older," Kaeth re¬torted, getting his clothing off the shoulder-high shelf beside him, and laying it out on a polished wooden bench. "How old's your oldest fighter?"
Gel considered his reply carefully before answering, using the opportunity to lay out his own gear as a chance to stall a lit¬tle. "If you count retired fighters who could still pick up a weapon in defense of the estate—the oldest just turned seventy-eight."
Kaeth was actually taken aback, and let out a low whistle as he reached for his trews. "I don't know that I've ever seen a hu¬man that old, much less a fighter! You mean your lord actually puts his old men out to pasture instead of putting them down? Great Ancestors, man, how many of these retired fighters have you got?"
"I'm not sure," Gel replied, his suspicions aroused. He's ask¬ing too many questions. He's a trained assassin, 1 know he is— what if he's targeting Kyrtian?
It was possible—Lord Kyndreth could be a patron and ally of the obnoxious Aelmarkin. It might be that he would wait just long enough to learn Kyrtian's training-technique, then elimi¬nate Aelmarkin's inconvenient cousin.
In fact he might have been brought to get rid of Kyrtian right here and now, which was why Kyrtian got the invitation in the first place! Maybe that's why Lord Kyndreth wants to come to our estate now, to get the secret, then get rid of Kyrtian where there aren 't any witnesses—and maybe get rid of the Lady at the same time!
By now, Gel had gotten his second wind, and such alarming thoughts only increased his energy. And Kaeth, all unsuspect¬ing, had actually turned his back to him. If there was ever a time when a trained assassin would be vulnerable, this was it.
Gel didn't even pause for a breath; he acted. He had been
bent over, tying his boots; now without warning, he turned his pose into a charge, staying crouched over and rushing Kaeth, shouldering him into the wall face-first. He heard Kaeth grunt as he hit the wall, but before he could secure the assassin, Kaeth writhed loose a trifle. His reactions were as swift as a serpent's, and he managed to get himself turned around, but not before Gel grabbed a wrist in either hand and smashed them into the wall, then got his knee up to reinforce his hold. Now Gel had Kaeth pinned against the wall with both wrists imprisoned over his head and Gel's knee in his gut.
His legs are still free. If he can kick my leg out from under me—
Flushed, but impassive, he stared into Gel's grey-violet eyes for a long moment as Gel waited for him to speak or act. His wrists under Gel's hands showed no sign of tension, nor was there any indication that he intended resistance or struggle.
But that could be a ruse to get me to drop my guard.
"I suppose it's too much to ask what prompted this—ah— rather unexpected action of yours?" he finally asked mildly, a bit out of breath, but completely polite, in spite of the situation.
Gel glared at him, but he didn't drop his eyes. "I suppose you're going to deny you're an assassin," he replied flatly.
"Ah!" The expressionless eyes now reflected understanding, and the mouth relaxed a trifle in a faint smile. 'Wow I under¬stand! You think Lord Kyndreth has targeted me at you—or perhaps, your master! Be at ease, friend; Lord Kyrtian is in no danger that I know of, other than from his own conniving cousin. And you're in no danger at all, least of all from me."
It felt honest. Gel wanted to believe him.
"But you don't deny you're an assassin—" Gel's instincts warred with his intellect. His instincts and his senses swore that Kaeth was telling the truth—his more cynical mind warned him that this was just a trick. Still, he was very tempted to release the fellow; this just didn't seem like a lie.
"Hardly, since you seem to have caught me as one," Kaeth replied, with a surprising amount of humor. "Although my own Lord isn't nearly as observant as you, since he is totally un¬aware of my training; I went to him, bought at auction after the
unlamented death of my old lord. Still, once an assassin, as they say, the cloak never drops from your shoulders—so I'll qualify it by admitting for Lyon Lord Kyndreth, I'm an active agent, but an inactive assassin, nor am I ever likely to let him know of my more esoteric abilities."
"Huh." Slowly, carefully, Gel rocked his weight back onto his own feet, and released Kaeth's wrists. Just as slowly, Kaeth dropped his hands from the wall and rubbed, then flexed, his wrists, testing them. "And just how did you become an inactive assassin?"
"Look for yourself." Kaeth reached up and pulled the neck of his tunic open, then tilted his chin up so that Gel could see his slave-collar clearly. It wasn't the seal of Lyon Lord Kyn¬dreth there, but that of the deceased—and, as Kaeth had said, unlamented—Lord Dyran.
Things were beginning to add up.
The noble Lord Dyran, who trained all manner of slaves in skills best left unexamined.. . and whose estate was broken up and divided among his relatives, with what was left going to auction. And that was where I saw another assassin!
That seal couldn't possibly be counterfeited, either. The fact that he was still wearing Dyran's collar meant that he'd been claimed after Dyran's death—otherwise the new master would insist on having the old collar removed and his own put on. Gel backed up, giving him a little more space. "Interesting."
"My beloved former master," Kaeth said, with a touch of ironic inflection on the word "beloved" that did not escape Gel's notice, "Was not the sort of Elvenlord to forget the tradi¬tions of his Ancestors."
"Including assassination?" Gel replied evenly.
Kaeth nodded with a dignity that impressed Gel in spite of himself. "Even so. I was trained from childhood, having shown unusual ability for getting into and out of supposedly guarded spaces and places without being caught. Whether or not you choose to believe me, I will say that my training was never em¬ployed against Elvenlords...."
"Not that Dyran would have hesitated if he'd thought he
could get away with it," Gel interjected. Again, Kaeth nodded, this time with a shrug.
"Be that as it may, my usual tasks were to act as his intelli¬gence agent, which is how I was employed at the time of his de¬mise. And, not knowing any better, that is how my talents were advertised when the estate was broken up and the slaves went to auction, as an agent and bodyguard." Kaeth turned his palms up, and shrugged his shoulders again.
"And you, of course, were under no compulsion to enlighten the auctioneers.” Gel felt a reluctant smile creeping over his lips; if this story was true, Kaeth was a very clever fellow in¬deed. Hardly likely he 'd tell them, when it was a lot more likely that the other Elvenlords would order him destroyed rather than take the chance of one of their number getting his hands on a trained assassin. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to bolt?"