Deadly Games

  A couple of steps down the stairs convinced Amaranthe to return her sword to its sheath. The narrowness and steepness made her want to brace herself on the wall as she descended, and the lantern seemed the more important thing to hold aloft. Blackness swallowed the bottom of the stairs, but she imagined the fall could be long and far should she lose her balance.

  “What kind of tiny-footed people built this place?” Maldynado asked after a bout of cursing when one of his boots slipped.

  “Actually,” Books said, “it’s quite fascinating. The Pey’uhara, the first lake dwellers, were—”

  “No, no, never mind,” Maldynado blurted. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s a shame you prefer to wallow in a mire of ignorance when knowledge floats by within reach,” Books said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Let’s practice our stealth mode,” Amaranthe said. “In case there are kidnappers or trap-setters about.”

  The men mumbled sheepish apologies and fell quiet.

  Silence surrounded them, stirred only by the soft padding of their feet and their own breaths. One could forget a modern city lay less than a block away.

  The soft flame of the lantern revealed a short landing below with three options. To the right and the left, more stairs descended. If they continued straight ahead, they would enter a narrow corridor. A low stone ceiling promised much ducking for Maldynado and Books should she choose that route.

  Amaranthe stopped on the landing. “Have we gone far enough to be at ground level?”

  “I don’t think so,” Books said.

  He touched cryptic hieroglyphs carved into the wall. One looked like a dog mounting another dog, but she supposed that was her imagination. Nothing so crude would be represented in two-thousand-year-old glyphs.

  “Also the tunnels at the floor level are wider and easier to navigate. I believe that corridor leads to the Graveyard of the Fallen Enemies.” Books lifted a finger, perhaps wanting to explain the place more thoroughly, but he glanced at Maldynado and said no more.

  “Doesn’t sound like a place we need to visit,” Amaranthe said.

  “Is that a dog humping another dog?” Maldynado to pointed the hieroglyph she had noticed. Leave it to him to have a mind at least as crude as hers.

  “Actually, yes,” Books said. “It’s a sign of dominance. These people were letting everyone know they had dominated and vanquished their fallen enemies.”

  “Dominance, eh?” Maldynado said. “If you say so.”

  “Left or right?” Amaranthe asked. “Any thoughts?”

  “Not from me,” Books said.

  “There’s an uncommon event,” Maldynado said.

  Amaranthe lifted the lantern and examined both stairwells. The right held fewer cobwebs, and soft gouges and stirrings on the dusty steps might be footprints. “It looks like that way has seen traffic more recently.”

  When no one disagreed, she led the way downward again. The stairs did not descend far before they reached a T-section with wide corridors.

  A faint rustle came to Amaranthe’s ears. Her imagination? She dimmed the lantern in case it was not.

  The blackness to the left seemed less absolute than the blackness to the right.

  Nothing on the smooth granite floor would be an obstacle for their feet if they moved forward in darkness, so Amaranthe signaled to her men with a finger to her lips, pointed, and dimmed the lantern the rest of the way.

  Darkness swallowed them. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was not enough light for her to see anything except that it was less dark in one direction than the other, but that would have to be enough.

  A hand reached out and found her shoulder. Maldynado’s, she guessed, because he had a tendency to be less tentative than Books when touching people, especially female people. She hoped Books had a hand on Maldynado’s shoulder as well. She did not want to lose anyone down here.

  With one hand on the wall, she felt her way down the corridor. She found an edge—a corner. The light increased when she turned down the new passage, though she could not see its source.

  “...longer?” a male voice asked ahead.

  Amaranthe halted. The grip on her shoulder tightened in warning.

  She turned an ear toward the passage, but whatever response the question garnered was too quiet for her to hear. She tried to decide if that had been Mancrest’s voice. It had not sounded familiar, but it was hard to judge anything from one word.

  “Want me to check it out?” Maldynado whispered in her ear.

  “No,” she whispered back. Basilard would be the first to tell Maldynado he was not the stealthiest man on their team. She pressed the lantern into Maldynado’s hand. “I’ll go. Stay here. Fetch me if I get myself in trouble.”

  His snort was soft, but audible. She patted him on the chest, then eased her short sword free and continued down the passage. Toe before heel, she walked, making sure there was nothing on the floor that might crunch or be kicked before committing to each step.

  Cobwebs brushed at her face, and she stifled an urge to sneeze again. It was hard to sneak up on someone while discharging dust from one’s nostrils.

  As Amaranthe walked, she let her fingers graze the wall, and she twitched in surprise when they found a gap, then bumped against metal. She slid her hand up and down it. A bar. One of many. Some kind of gate?

  She continued on, passing several of the wide gates, and finally reached a corner with the warm yellow of lantern light glowing beyond it. Trusting the darkness to hide her, Amaranthe eased her head around the edge. The illumination, several lanterns’ worth, came from inside an open gate. From her angle, she could not see inside, but impatient mutters and shuffles came from the cell beyond.

  The snippet of conversation she had caught implied there were at least two people waiting in there, but the noises suggested more. Four or six maybe.

  She eased around the corner and tiptoed closer. Stacks of boxes came into view first, the closest stamped with the words “souvenir hats.” Ah, the gates represented shop fronts. She must be nearing the main pyramid entrance.

  Another step took her close enough to see past the boxes and into the room. A man in black soldier’s fatigues leaned against the wall, his elbow propped on the muzzle of a rifle.

  “Maybe we should turn out the lanterns,” someone opposite of him said.

  “We’re three turns from Mancrest,” someone else said. “She won’t see the light.”

  “Until it’s too late.”

  Soft snickers followed that oh-so-witty line.

  “Unless Sicarius is with her.”

  That stopped the snickers. A nervous shuffling followed.

  “Word from the enforcers is that somebody’s got him.”

  Amaranthe curled her fingers into a fist. How had the enforcers found out? Did they know something she didn’t?

  “I’ll believe that when his head is on a pike in Mariner Square,” the man in view said.

  Clothing rustled—a shrug? “I heard the enforcers were told to send word to the emperor to get the bounty money together, because his dead body would be delivered after the Imperial Games.”

  It was just talk, Amaranthe told herself. Rumors.

  “Enough chatter,” an unseen man said. “This is an ambush, not barracks cleaning day. Nobody’s paying you to trot your lips.”

  The soldier Amaranthe could see sighed and turned his eyes toward the corridor. She stopped breathing. If enough lantern light seeped out of the room for him to see her...

  He frowned and squinted in her direction.

  Amaranthe slipped a hand into her pocket. Her fingers found curved glass.

  The soldier took a step her way.

  Before she could debate the wisdom of the move, or the danger to herself, Amaranthe held her breath, thumbed the cork off, and tossed the vial through the metal bars. It skidded beneath the soldier’s feet, and he jumped.

  She scurried back, not sure what t
he range was on the powder, or if it would even do anything without some sort of magical preparation.

  The soldier charged into the corridor.

  Amaranthe spun and ran. The darkness ahead kept her from sprinting, but she hoped she remembered the layout better than the soldier.

  Only her outstretched hand kept her from smashing her face into the wall at the first turn. So much for memory.

  Heavy footfalls followed her, but it sounded like only one or two pairs of boots, not the entire squad of soldiers. If only a couple of the men chased her, she and her team ought to be able to take care of them. They could separate—

  “Oomph,” she grunted, hitting another wall.

  Left turn this time. One more corner, and she should run into Maldynado and Books.

  Before she finished the thought, she ran into another obstacle. Not stone this time, clothing and flesh.

  “Boss?” Maldynado whispered.

  “Yes, sh.”

  The clomping footfalls of a soldier rang out as the man rounded the corner. Amaranthe turned to face him.

  In the darkness, she could see nothing. The rhythm of the soldier’s run faltered and slowed. He must sense he was close, or maybe it was something else. The powder? His steps were heavy, almost labored. He made no attempt to stifle the sound of his advance.

  The gait slowed and grew uneven. Amaranthe bent her knees, sword ready. A loud thud came from ahead, no more than a pace away. Something clattered to the floor.

  Silence fell.

  A flame flared to life. Maldynado held the lantern high, illuminating the dust-and-cobweb-cloaked tunnel—and the unmoving soldier at their feet, his rifle a foot away from his outstretched hand.

  “Huh,” Maldynado said.

  “You killed him?” Books stared at her.

  “No, at least I don’t think so. I threw that vial you took from the towel boy into their room.” She knelt down, intending to check his pulse, but a soft snore rumbled from the man’s lips.

  “Ah,” Books said.

  Amaranthe took the soldier’s rifle, then patted him down. She found keys on a clip at his belt and removed them. “Anybody have rope we can use to tie him up?”

  “Not me,” Maldynado said.

  Books spread his open hands. No rope. Hm.

  “I need to come better prepared for these meetings with men,” Amaranthe said.

  “Yes,” Maldynado said, “you never know when rope will come in handy on a date. Lots of reasons to tie people up.”

  Amaranthe chose not to contemplate his statement. She pointed to the soldier. “See if you can use his belt and pants or something, and then follow me. There are more men. I’m hoping they’re sleeping, too.”

  Not sure how long the powder might last, Amaranthe jogged back down the corridor toward the cell. She did not know the dissemination range either. That thought made her slow down. Would it still be active, or did it wear off shortly after release? She would feel idiotic if she ran in to check on the soldiers and passed out on top of some man’s chest.

  She thought about waiting for Maldynado and Books to catch up, but maybe it was best to go in alone. If she did pass out, maybe they would realize it and avoid the mistake. Or they’d collapse on top of her on top of the soldier.

  “Over-thinking things,” she muttered, though she dug a kerchief out of her pocket and wrapped it about her nose and mouth before continuing.

  She peered through the gate and counted five soldiers sprawled on the floor amongst overturned boxes and tipped lanterns. A couple had taken steps toward the exit, but most had collapsed where they stood. The vial, now cracked, gleamed where it had come to rest against the wall. The powder had disappeared, turned to smoke and vanished.

  Amaranthe decided not to risk getting close enough to investigate further. She checked the keys she had taken from the soldier. A fob read Polga’s Pyramid Tours.

  “Let’s hope Polga has the power to lock and unlock the gates,” she said.

  “Talking to yourself again?” Maldynado asked as he and Books strode around the corner.

  “No.” Amaranthe tried one of the keys in the lock. “I knew you’d be here to hear me.”

  “The other soldier is sufficiently trussed up,” Books said.

  “Albeit, he’ll find it a bit drafty in here without his pants,” Maldynado said.

  “They’re the only thing that could be used to tie his ankles together and bind them to his wrists,” Books said.

  “I’m not judging you,” Maldynado said. “That, given the opportunity, your first thought was to strip a handsome, young soldier of his pants doesn’t bother me.”

  “You’re odious.”

  “They were setting up an ambush,” Amaranthe said. “Perhaps we should stop talking until we’ve subdued the bait.”

  The fourth key she tried turned in the lock. Good. She closed the gate and secured the soldiers inside.

  “Do we believe the bait is Mancrest?” Books whispered.

  “We’ll see.”

  She debated whether to continue forward with the lantern dimmed, but decided the bait would expect her, so she might as well come in as anticipated. There just wouldn’t be a squad of soldiers ready to charge in and capture her.

  She pulled her kerchief down around her neck, and she, Maldynado, and Books followed the corridor to a ramp that angled downward, then turned at the bottom. More hieroglyphs adorned the walls down here, though she did not spot any more dogs engaged in carnal activities.

  The corridor widened and angled to the right. Light came from ahead. More gates marked the walls, and cells—shops—lay behind them. A mix of tacky “adventuring hats,” pyramid-related paraphernalia, and history books adorned the shelves.

  The light ahead of them was coming from one of the shops. Amaranthe cut off her lantern and approached on silent feet.

  She stopped at the gate. She did not see anyone inside, though a candle burned on a merchant’s counter, the flame sputtering on the wick, and a hint of beeswax tinged the musty air. Racks of cheap factory-made clothing stretched along the walls.

  A low groan emanated from the back of the shop. Ah, there was their bait.

  A man lay on the floor, his back to them, wrists and ankles tied with a fat rope. Perhaps it had been chosen for its visibility—one could not miss it, even from the corridor. The wavy brown hair on the man’s head was a familiar hue and length.

  Amaranthe lifted her eyebrows toward Maldynado. He nodded. Yes, it was Mancrest.

  The gate stood open. Amaranthe slid her hand into her pocket, wrapping her fingers about the cool metal keys. Though she meant to abandon stealth in a moment, she did her best to withdraw the fob quietly.

  “Evening, Lord Mancrest,” she said as she selected the key that had worked on the other gate. The number of shops—and locks—they had passed suggested one key opened multiple doors. “How’d you get yourself tied up there?”

  The muffled response was unintelligible. He did manage to twist about so she could see a gag blocking his mouth.

  “Disgusting,” Maldynado muttered. “What proud man of the warrior caste stoops so low as to act as bait in a stupid trap?”

  “Ssh,” Amaranthe whispered, then raised her voice. “Are you in danger, Lord Mancrest? Who tied you up?”

  Again, the gag muffled his response, but she caught the gist this time, “Help, come untie me.”

  “I don’t think so.” Amaranthe shut the gate, slipped the key into the lock, and turned it with a resounding thunk.

  Mancrest sat up, eyes wide. His “what’re you doing?” was easy to understand.

  “Getting annoyed with your donkey manure, old boy,” Maldynado said.

  “What?” Mancrest said, still playing the game.

  Was it possible he had not arranged this, and he was actually imprisoned? No, soldiers would not tie up someone from the warrior caste without permission.

  “We have comrades to rescue,” Amaranthe said. She found a rough corner on one of the stones o
n the opposite wall and hung the key ring on it. “I imagine you can find a couple of clothes hangers, twine them together, and fetch that on your own with a little patience, assuming your binds aren’t particularly tight and you can free your hands. I wouldn’t count on the soldiers rescuing you. They’re incapacitated at the moment.”

  “Especially the one without pants,” Maldynado said.

  “Will you stop bringing that up?” Books asked.

  “Probably not,” Maldynado said.

  “Let’s go, gentlemen,” Amaranthe said. “We have work to do.”

  Mancrest’s shoulders heaved and his face screwed up as he wriggled his hands behind his back. His bonds fell free, and he yanked the gag out of his mouth.

  “Wait!” He tore away the ropes at his ankles, leaped to his feet, and sprang to the gate.

  Books jumped back. Amaranthe watched Mancrest’s hands to make sure he did not reach for a pistol or dagger beneath his shirt. Maldynado leaned against the opposite wall and yawned.

  Mancrest grabbed the bars of the gate. He tried to open it, failed, and gaped at her. “You locked me in?”

  “You were planning to ambush us,” Amaranthe said, not surprised but chagrinned to realize Sicarius had been right, that Mancrest could not be trusted to do anything except turn her over to the enforcers. “I think my response is quite generous.”

  He curled his lip and opened his mouth, as if to argue, but closed it again and took a deep breath. “What about my men. Are they...unharmed?”

  “I think so. We used what the kidnappers have been using to knock people out, and I locked them in.”

  “Who’s going to let us out?” Mancrest asked.

  “Surely someone else is privy to your plan and will come look for you eventually.”

  “My brother. After he gets off work tomorrow.”

  “Long time without a latrine nearby,” Maldynado said, still leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “But you deserve to marinate in your own pee overnight.”