what it was. She wondered what he'd been, before the murder accusation had landed him in the arena. Why had he been in this particular city in the first place, if he couldn't speak the language?
He'd said nothing to indicate he'd been anything but a free man until the arena. Try as she could, Aelia couldn't come up with a good reason for a man who couldn't speak the native language to have traveled voluntarily to a place like this. He couldn't have been a merchant, not without the ability to negotiate trade terms.
A soldier? That made more sense than anything else she could come up with. A mercenary might not need significant language skills to make a living. Of course, after what had happened, Rufus didn't have many career options open to him, even if he did manage to obtain his freedom.
Something about that statement reverberated oddly through her. She closed her eyes and chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Career options . . . Something about loss of career options . . . Instead of chasing it down, she tried letting her mind go blank. The first thing that came into her head was a voice.
"In light of this scandal, you will be dropped from the degree program."
Degree program? That almost made sense.
She swallowed against reflexive nausea, trying just to clear her thoughts again, and waited to see what might bubble out of her dark memory. Her own voice replied to the half-remembered statement.
"You can't! I didn't do anything wrong!"
Whoever had spoken, he wasn't present. At least, she couldn't see him. But she could hear his voice, over the instrument she held. Something familiar about that instrument. The chill in the man's voice reminded her of something hideously unpleasant that had happened to her—recently, if the impression were correct.
The disembodied voice said, "Just because there was insufficient evidence to convict does not mean this department absolves you of guilt. The reputation of this university must be maintained. You have seriously jeopardized it."
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?" She was angry. So angry, she trembled all the way to her boot soles. Except she wasn't wearing boots. The anger was part of the memory, same as the boots. So was hating the fact that her voice sounded like she was about to burst into tears. She didn't feel like she was about to cry. She was just angry, clear through. "What about that bastard, Bartlett? He's missing—"
The voice said icily, "You are out of
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