Deadly Games

  While he monitored them, Amaranthe searched the room. One of the thieves tried to flee for the door when Maldynado thrust a feather duster into his hands. Maldynado pounded an unapologetic fist into the man’s nose, convincing him to suffer the task without further escape attempts. He wiped at a trickle of blood with his sleeve and glowered at Amaranthe.

  “I thought you said cleaning didn’t involve blood,” he growled.

  “I said it involved less blood than stabbing people, not no blood,” she said without looking up from the desk drawers she was rifling through.

  Fifteen minutes of searching did not reveal anything interesting. She checked the tote the first thief had been carrying out when she interrupted them, but it contained only valuables, modest ones commensurate with the income level of a miner.

  Amaranthe drummed her fingers against her thigh and considered the thieves again. “Did you gentlemen take anything out of here before we found you?”

  “No.”

  Maldynado grabbed Velks by the collar and hoisted him up to his tiptoes. “Are you positive?”

  “Positive!”

  “Were you looking for anything when you broke in?” Amaranthe asked.

  “No, just stuff to fence. We live downstairs, saw the family leave last night.”

  She watched his eyes, but nothing in his face implied he was lying. The other one nodded, and he, too, appeared sincere.

  “What lovely neighbors this place has,” Maldynado said. “Go out for the night, and they’re in your flat, pawning your silverware before lunchtime the next day.”

  “Have you noticed any men coming and going, visiting this flat?” Amaranthe asked.

  “You mean the other miners?” Velks asked.

  “Yes. How long has that been going on?”

  The brother lifted his feather duster. “Why should we answer all these questions? What’s in it for us?”

  “I could restrain myself from punching you again,” Maldynado said.

  “Now, now, no need to be brutish,” Amaranthe told him while considering the thieves thoughtfully. “If the flat is cleaned up and everything is put back, I don’t think there’s a need to tell the enforcers you were here. If you answer my questions.”

  “You were going to tell the enforcers?” Velks asked. “You’re thieves, too, aren’t you?”

  “No, we’re investigators.”

  Both brothers’ brows furrowed. She imagined them trying to figure out if “investigators” were people who were legally on the premises or not. She decided not to clarify.

  “About these miners,” she said, “how long have they been visiting?”

  “Seen some of them before,” Velks said, “but they only started coming all the time last week.”

  “Did they stay here when they met, or did they start here and go someplace else?”

  Velks shrugged. “How should I know? We didn’t sit up here with our ears pressed to the door.”

  The brother snapped his fingers. “But that one time, when we were sitting on the steps, hoping to get a look up girls’ dresses when they went up, we did hear them say something, remember?”

  “Don’t tell people about that,” Velks hissed.

  “About what they said?”

  “About the dresses, you idiot.”

  Maldynado leaned a hand against the wall and shook his head. “Not too bright, are they?” he mouthed to Amaranthe.

  “You never tried that tactic?” she asked.

  “I never had to resort to such desperate measures. Women couldn’t wait to lift their dresses when I was around.”

  Amaranthe kept from rolling her eyes—she had encouraged him by asking after all—and turned back to the thieves. “What’d you hear them say?”

  “They were going with Raydevk to meet a girl at a fountain,” Velks said.

  Oh, yes, that was a priceless gem of information. Still, if the men had all been going together, maybe it had been more than a tryst. “What fountain?” she asked.

  Velks glanced at his brother who only shrugged. “They didn’t say.”

  Amaranthe asked a few more questions, hoping she might tease more out of the would-be burglars’ heads, but they proved feeble resources at best. While they finished cleaning, she searched every last nook of the flat, even going so far as to thump at floorboards in case any covered a hollow storage niche.

  She knelt, doing a last check of the areas beneath the beds, when Velks spoke again. “Can we go?”

  “We cleaned everything and put everything back that we took,” his brother said. “We even got rid of those gummy food stains that we were not responsible for.”

  “We even did the windows!” Velks added.

  Maldynado snickered. He was lounging on the sofa, playing with a sliding puzzle block in which one had to find appropriate niches for various war implements. Apparently the thieves had not made an escape attempt in a while.

  “Yes, you may go.” Amaranthe returned the dagger she had taken from them and surveyed the flat. It sparkled. Huh. “Gentlemen?” she added, stopping them in the middle of a sprint for the door.

  “What?” Velks asked, shoulders hunched.

  “You do good work. Perhaps you should consider a career in the cleaning services.”

  “Cleaning services?” Their mouths gaped open.

  “Men don’t clean, they fight!” one said.

  “And they run over imperial enemies with giant steam trampers and they tear down massive fortifications with those brilliant new rammers.” Velks sighed longingly.

  “Are you two planning to join the military?” Amaranthe asked, thinking they appeared old enough—Akstyr’s age at least.

  Maldynado yawned and gave her a why-are-we-spending-so-much-time-here look as he thunked a puzzle piece into place.

  “Maybe.” Velks shrugged.

  Probably a no then. “Madame Rawdik on Fourth runs an industrial cleaning outfit. They have a steam pressure washer as big as a tramper. If you worked for her, you could probably ride it.”

  Two sets of eyes grew round. “Really? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “If you decide to apply for a job, tell her that her old school friend Amaranthe says you do good work.”

  Their eyes remained wide, and they exchanged gapes with her. It wasn’t that much of a favor. Had nobody ever vouched for them for anything before?

  “Thanks,” Velks said, and his brother nodded and scampered out the door. Velks hesitated, his face screwed up in concentration. “I don’t know if it helps, but those miners also said...the girl they were seeing had...fire hair? Fiery hair. And she was worth pounding like a steam hammer. I listened to that part, on account of, well—it was about a woman.”

  “I see,” Amaranthe said. “Thank you.”

  The young men left, and Maldynado thunked a final piece into the puzzle before tossing it onto a chair. “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That they had more information.”

  “I didn’t.” She winked. “I just like to reform wayward youths whenever possible.”

  “That’s very noble. I bet Deret likes noble women.”

  “Don’t start with that again, or I’ll try to reform you.”

  “I’m hardly a youth.”

  “But you don’t argue against needing reform?” Amaranthe headed for the door.

  “Not really, no.” Maldynado opened it for her. “What’s next?”

  “We have Akstyr update his search. He’s not just looking for that powder at the apothecaries; he’s asking clerks if they remember a sexy red-headed woman coming in and doing the shopping. That’s far from a normal hair color in the empire.”

  “Ah, Akstyr will be doing the work? Excellent.” He followed her into the hallway.

  “Oh, no, we’ll be searching the neighborhood and contemplating all the fountains within a two miles radius.”

  Maldynado stopped walking and flopped against the wall. “All the... This is Stumps! There a
re almost as many fountains in the city as there are headless statues.”

  “There aren’t that many,” Amaranthe said.

  “There’s one at every intersection.”

  “Every other intersection, at the most.”

  “That’s still a lot. And just because these people met at a fountain the other night doesn’t mean they’ll be loitering nearby now.”

  “I know. It’s not much to go on. I’ll think on it while we watch Basilard compete this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” Maldynado snapped his fingers. “And we need to get there early. No fountain searching on the way. What if someone tries to kidnap him?”

  “I doubt anyone knows who he is,” Amaranthe said, amused at how quickly Maldynado could start scheming his way out of work. “He entered with his Mangdorian name, didn’t he?” Even if people knew a “Basilard” ran with Sicarius, nobody in the city would know his real name.

  Maldynado snickered. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * * * *

  Basilard hopped up and down and swung his arms. He was one of six athletes left in the staging area, and he did not think anyone else appeared as nervous as he. Though it was the first day of events, and only a third of the benches in the stadium were filled, Basilard could not help but feel as if thousands of eyes watched him. Already, he had visited the washouts beneath the stands three times, both to urinate and to throw up.

  He remembered being nervous before the pit fights, but not this nervous. Strange, considering his life had been on the line there, and people had shouted and jeered from above, calling out for bloodshed. Maybe it was because he had more to win here. It wasn’t just an extension of his own existence, but a visit with the emperor and a chance to speak for his people. If he did not get himself killed trying to take out Sicarius first. He growled at himself, annoyed with the situation. He never should have gone to visit that priestess.

  Basilard distracted himself by studying a large blackboard near the furnace. So far, two people had beaten the best time he had recorded with Maldynado or Akstyr. He hoped daylight—and the exhilaration of the moment coursing through his blood—would help him improve. To go out in the first round would be a shame.

  “It’s all right,” a familiar voice said. “I’m his coach.”

  “You don’t look like a coach. You look like a professor.”

  “Why, thank you,” Books said.

  Basilard lifted a hand toward the young man tasked with keeping intruders from bothering the athletes in the staging area. He let Books through with a suspicious glower.

  Books weaved past other athletes swinging their arms and stretching in the sandy pit. “Greetings, Basilard,” he said. “Are you prepared for your event?”

  Yes.

  “Good.” Books unfolded a piece of paper. “I found those other two names. They are indeed athletes here. One is a male boxer and one a female entered in the Clank Race.” He considered the men surrounding them. “Did the women already compete?”

  Earlier this morning.

  “She’s not missing yet—she’s the only one on that list who isn’t. The boxer disappeared last night. If we could find the girl and watch her, perhaps we could get a glimpse of the kidnapper.”

  Books?

  “Yes?”

  I race soon. I must concentrate.

  “Oh. Yes, of course. Do you want me to watch, or leave you alone?”

  Stay. Cheer. He lifted an arm and imitated some of the enthused people in the stands.

  “I’ve not attended many sporting events,” Books said. “Is that arm-pumping action required?”

  Absolutely. Basilard flashed a grin.

  “Clapping won’t suffice?”

  Clap for others’ performances. Cheer for me.

  “Ah, very well.”

  “Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletes called.

  Basilard lifted an arm, then told Books, That’s my imperial athlete name.

  Books’s eyes widened. “Temtelamak? Why?”

  Thought enforcers would recognize ‘Basilard,’ and Maldynado said my Mangdorian name didn’t sound fierce enough.

  “Did he tell you who Temtelamak was?” Books lowered his voice to mutter, “I’m surprised that uneducated buffoon knows that much history.”

  A mighty warrior.

  “A moderately famous general, yes, but he was notorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had seven wives at the time of his death, all near different forts and outposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the others existed. I believe there were copious mistresses as well.”

  Basilard shrugged. It’s Maldynado.

  “Yes, he doubtlessly thought it’d be amusing. We’ll see if the emperor finds it so, should you win the event and get your chance to meet him.”

  Could make an interesting conversation starter.

  Books opened his mouth to say more, but a scream of pain interrupted him. One of the athletes had stumbled in the axe crossing and fallen off the moving platforms. He rolled in the sawdust, one hand grabbing the opposite triceps. Blood flowed through his fingers and stained the wood chips. A medic trotted out to help him off the field while the people in the seats roared. Whether they were supporting the noble attempt or cheering at the sight of blood, Basilard could not guess.

  “Perhaps you should have entered a running event,” Books said, eyeing the bloodstained sawdust.

  If he were tall and lanky and fast, that might have been an option. For Books’s sake, or perhaps to reassure himself, he simply signed, One less competitor now. Besides, I had no trouble with the axes on the practice runs.

  “Yes, but is it not different when a thousand gazes are upon you, and there’s something at stake? Suddenly, sweat is dripping into your eyes, your hands are unsteady, your senses are over-heightened, and—”

  Basilard gripped Book’s arm. You’re not helping.

  “Oh, pardon me.”

  “Temtelamak,” the call came again. “You’re up now, or you’ll forfeit if you’re not ready. You coming?”

  Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books and jogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The top seed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at 2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four more runners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, which would put him in third. That ought to be enough.

  Easier said than done, he thought, as he walked to the starting line. The giant axe heads swinging on their pendulum arms appeared far more dangerous by the light of day. Their steel blades gleamed in the sun, and Basilard no longer had to imagine their ability to draw blood, since crimson drops spattered more than one of the platforms.

  After taking a deep breath, he stepped to the line and nodded his readiness to the starter.

  Though nobody in the stands could know who he was, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded his mind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before an audience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experienced there. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go on living.

  Nausea stirred in his stomach again, and those memories almost overwhelmed him. It’s merely a race, he told himself. He was not here to hurt anyone.

  A hammer hit a gong, signaling the start of the run. Thanks to his wandering thoughts, he lost a split second, and he cursed himself even as he sprinted up the ramp to the spinning logs. He sprang across them, bare feet navigating wood hot beneath the sun. Most of the other athletes wore shoes of some kind, but he could grip and scramble up obstacles more easily with toes available. He skimmed across the moving platforms, ducking and weaving the swinging axes.

  He launched himself at a rope hanging from a beam. Below, a bed of three-foot-long spikes glistened in the sun. Basilard caught the rope and zipped up it. Thanks to Sicarius’s training, that was an easy obstacle.

  No, no thanking Sicarius, he told himself. And
no thinking about anything except the clock he had to beat.

  When he reached the top of the rope, he thrust himself toward the first of several pegs sticking out of the beam. Sweat slicked his palms, and his hand slipped free. Basilard flailed with his other hand and, by a stroke of luck, caught the peg before he fell. His heart hammered in his ears. The thirty-foot drop to the spikes would do more than put him out of the competition; it would kill him.

  The crowd roared shouts of encouragement, and, for the first time, he grew aware of them. He wished he hadn’t.

  He caught the next peg, a couple of feet to the right, and swung from handhold to handhold, his feet dangling below. The pegs started in a straight line, but then zigzagged up and down, requiring strength and agility to maneuver through them.

  Basilard reached the end and swung his legs to the right, catching a net stretched between two massive wooden supports. He skimmed halfway down to the ground, found the opening in the middle, and slithered through to land on a platform. One of his bare feet, just as sweaty as his palm, slipped on the smooth wood boards. He caught himself, but not before he rethought the wisdom of going shoeless.

  Ahead of him, the small circular platforms moved, some linearly back and forth and others in orbits on mechanical arms, like those that rotated wheels on a train. The axes swung like pendulums.

  He launched himself onto the first platform, planning his route on the fly. An axe whistled by behind him. If he had hair, the breeze would have stirred it. He did not look back or slow down. Basilard danced to the next platform, then the next. Some were barely four inches wide. Even without the axes slashing through, they would have been difficult targets.

  Here, his bare feet helped. His toes wrapped over the edges, and he launched himself from spot to spot. At one point, he dove under an axe for a chance to skip two platforms ahead.

  Thousands of people gasped at once as the blade skimmed past, an inch above his shoulder blades. He got his feet under him again and leaped the last couple of feet to the solid platform on the far side. Two more walls, net climbs, and a sprint across a spinning log, and he reached the ramp on the far side. Though weariness burned in his thighs, he sprinted the last few meters and catapulted over the solid wall, pulling himself up and over without using his feet. Relieved to be done, and out of some notion he should finish with a flourish, he leaped into the air as he passed the finish line, doing a somersault before landing by the timekeeper.