Deadly Games

  Two men with short swords and crossbows stood guard on either side of the front door. She did not recognize either—since Barlovoc Stadium was located on the southern end of the city, there was little chance of her running into someone she had worked with—but that did not mean they would not recognize her. Though her wanted poster did not decorate the city as profusely as Sicarius’s, it was out there.

  Amaranthe adjusted her towel wrap and climbed the stairs. “You didn’t run here last year, so you don’t know,” she told Fasha, “but the sand on the track doesn’t feel very well packed. It might make it easy to lose your footing.”

  “Uhm, yes, maybe so,” Fasha said. “Do you think...”

  One of the enforcers grabbed Amaranthe’s arm as she tried to walk through the door. Cursed ancestors, she had hoped to at least get inside to snoop about before being caught.

  “What are you doing with her?” the enforcer demanded.

  Amaranthe blinked. “What?”

  The enforcer, a young man who could not be more than a year or two out of the academy, pointed at Fasha while scowling so fiercely he threatened to snap a tendon in his neck. “She’s a Kendorian.”

  Ah, of course. There must be quite a few annoyed with the new policy, allowing foreigners into the Imperial Games.

  Amaranthe shrugged. “She’s running in the same events as I am.”

  The second enforcer, whose rumpled uniform and bleary eyes might have meant he had been on shift all night, stabbed Fasha in the shoulder with a finger. “She was out here, spouting about magic last night. We ought to have thrown her in the wagon. And any imperial woman who colludes with her as well.”

  Amaranthe groaned inwardly. She had never seen Sicarius laugh, and she did not want the first instance to come because she was foolish enough to get arrested for someone else’s crime.

  Fasha lifted her chin. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You ignorant Turgonians should be ashamed of yourselves for heckling athletes.”

  “Ignorant?” The first enforcer reached for the handcuffs dangling from his belt hook. “You—”

  Amaranthe pushed Fasha back and glided between the enforcers. She lifted a hand to her lips and whispered out of the side of her mouth, “I’m on it.”

  “Er, huh?” The enforcers shared perplexed looks.

  “Watching the suspicious foreigner,” Amaranthe murmured. “She came to the track babbling about kidnappings and magic. As if either would happen at such a well-guarded venue.”

  The wrinkled foreheads smoothed. “Oh. Of course, that’s right.”

  “You gentlemen can’t go inside the women’s barracks,” Amaranthe said, “but I can. I can watch her and let you know if she does anything suspicious.”

  “Yes, yes, right,” they murmured. “You let us know.”

  They drew back and nodded for her to go inside. Fortunately, Fasha kept her mouth shut and did nothing to antagonize the men as they passed, entering an open bay dominated by two long rows of bunk beds. A few held slumbering figures, but most had been vacated. Women in various states of undress chatted and tended to their morning ablutions.

  “That was embarrassing,” Amaranthe said, as she and Fasha walked down the aisle.

  “That your people are so ignorant about magic?”

  “That those enforcers fell for that. Academy standards must be slipping.” Amaranthe waved toward the bay. “Where’s your room?”

  “Down there.” Fasha pointed toward a hallway at the end.

  Conversations ceased as they passed. Amaranthe wondered if she had made a mistake coming in with a foreigner. She might have acquired information more easily if she chatted with people independently. One of these women might very well have something to do with the kidnapping. Another plot to oust outsiders?

  The sound of running water came from latrines farther down the hallway. Amaranthe would check that direction later. The back door ought to be guarded similarly to the front, but perhaps someone could have escaped with a prisoner through a window, especially if some magic had rendered the prisoner unconscious. She shook her head, reminding herself she had not yet determined if anything was truly amiss. Even if Fasha’s sister had been a daughter of the warrior caste, the enforcers would not have started searching for her after only one night missing.

  Fasha pushed open a door that lacked a lock. They walked into a simple room with footlockers, two narrow beds, and a chest between them doubling as a side table. Two tea mugs and a bag of nuts rested on top next to a low-burning kerosene lamp.

  Amaranthe turned the flame up.

  “I looked around to see if she left a message.” Fasha lingered in the doorway. “But I didn’t touch anything otherwise.”

  “What did you sense exactly to make you think the Science was involved?” Amaranthe poked about, looking for anything out of place. She dropped to her belly to peer under the beds, and her towel wrap flopped off her head.

  “It’s hard to explain. Like a residue in the air.”

  One of the tea mugs was half full. Amaranthe sniffed the herbal concoction. “Is this hers or yours?”

  “I’m not sure. They’re from yesterday morning, I think.”

  “Hm.” That would be a slow-acting drug if it had taken all day to go into effect. Amaranthe wished she had more of a feel for what was and was not possible in the realm of magic. She might have to find Akstyr and come back to—

  “Has anyone seen Anakha?” a woman asked in the hallway.

  A black-haired, bronze-skinned Turgonian woman strode past the door, bumping Fasha without noticing. She strode out of sight, but Amaranthe followed her to the bay.

  “Anyone?” the woman asked again. “Anakha? Tall woman with more muscles than the men.”

  “Haven’t seen her since yesterday,” someone said.

  “She never came to bed.”

  Murmurs of assent came from others.

  “Great grandmother’s bunions,” the original speaker growled and strode through the bay and out the front door.

  Amaranthe returned to Fasha. “Have you heard of any other kidnappings?”

  “No.”

  “This Anakha, she’s Turgonian?”

  “If she’s who I’m thinking of, yes. There’re only a few of us from outside of the empire.”

  “Huh.” Amaranthe scratched her jaw. If this other missing woman had disappeared in the same manner as Keisha...it would stomp out her theory of this being a plot against foreigners.

  She spent another ten minutes searching the room, hoping to find something that would justify this trip into the barracks, but she found nothing, not even dust balls. “I better get going. I’ll come back tonight or tomorrow night and bring one of my men.” Assuming Maldynado had not taken Akstyr to some week-long brothel experience to celebrate their vacation. Only Books had spent the night at their latest hideout. Even Basilard, not a notorious brothel-goer had been gone when Amaranthe awoke. “If you need help before then, you can find me in the locomotive boneyard. It’s near the tracks, two miles south of here.”

  “You live in a...junkyard? Is that what boneyard means?”

  “Temporary lodgings.”

  Amaranthe took the towels, prepared to create another bath-house-inspired costume, but, when she left the barracks, nobody stood guard at the top of the steps. She did not see the enforcers anywhere. A shout almost made her misstep and tumble down the stairs.

  “Sicarius!” a male voice cried. “He went that way! Enforcers! That way!”

  Amaranthe groaned. What was he doing?

  * * * * *

  The early morning sunlight brightening the city did not reach the alley where Basilard stood on a half-rotted wood stoop before a door. Gang graffiti marked the chipped and broken brick walls around it, and rusty bars protected a window closed off with oilskin rather than glass. A homeless man snored on a stoop farther down while a mangy dog pawed through excrement dumped on the ancient cobblestones. This old neighborhood was not on the city sewer system, as the smell attested. r />
  Thanks to the knives at his belt and the scars covering his hands, shaven head, and face, Basilard doubted anyone would bother him. He was more concerned about dealing with the woman inside. A sign dangling from rusty hinges read Apothecary.

  Basilard lifted a fist to knock, but paused. A bushy tuft of greenery sprouting from a crack caught his attention. Soroth Stick? Like dandelion and lizard tail, the Turgonians treated the plant as a weed, but he hopped down from the stoop and plucked several leaves. They made a tea that soothed cramps, and, given how much training the team did, such a beverage was often necessary for replenishing the body.

  Since he did not have the foraging satchel he carried in the wilderness, he tucked the leaves into an inside pocket in his vest, with a mental reminder to wash them well before using them. Given this dubious locale, they had probably been peed on. By multiple species.

  Basilard returned to the stoop, but he cast his gaze about, wondering if the grungy alley might host any other edible plants.

  Stop it, he told himself. No more procrastinating. As grandpa used to say, “Cleaning a fish don’t get any more pleasant for having put the task off.”

  He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  A part of him hoped no one would answer. Not many of his people lived in the Turgonian capital, and he had not sought any out since Amaranthe and Sicarius had killed the wizard who had bought Basilard years ago. Nor had he had the freedom to visit anyone during his tenure as a slave. He had never come face-to-face with the Mangdorians that played a part in the city water poisoning a couple of months earlier, so this would be the first he had met since… He swallowed hard at the memory of a young man he had killed in a pit fight engineered by their owners. He had killed many in those forced battles, since it had been the only way to preserve his own life.

  The sound of footsteps came from within. A lock thunked, and the door opened.

  A stooped woman with graying red hair squinted at Basilard. An Eye of God necklace hung around her neck, and his breath caught. He had expected an apothecary, not a priestess. She peered up and down the alley before addressing him.

  “You must be here for my herbs,” she said in heavily accented Turgonian. Her gesture encompassed his scars. “Come in, come in. My services are very affordable. I don’t use no magic though, so don’t expect that.” She glanced up and down the alley again.

  Basilard guessed that meant she could use the mental sciences, but would not risk it if there was a chance the locals would find out.

  He followed her into a one-room dwelling partitioned into sections for sleeping, meal preparation, and work. The pungent aroma of dozens—hundreds?—of drying herbs thickened the air. She gestured for him to sit on a faded sofa, and he ducked beneath bundles of leaves hanging from the ceiling to perch on the edge.

  “What’s your problem?” She sat on a stool beside a desk piled high with flasks, tins, and tools. “You’re in pain from your scars? I’ve seen pin cushions less poked up.”

  Basilard shook his head and touched the knot of scar tissue on his throat, the wound that had stolen his ability to speak.

  “No voice? I can’t fix that. No herb can repair damaged vocal cords.”

  He lifted his hands, but did nothing except hold them in the air at first. As soon as he signed, she would know he was Mangdorian. As far as he knew, the hand code his people used on the hunt—which Basilard now used to speak to his comrades—was not employed anywhere else in the world. He had brought pencil and paper, too, because there were few female hunters amongst his tribes, and she might not understand the code well. Maybe he should simply write his message. But she would find out he was Mangdorian sooner or later, since he had come to discuss their people.

  He signed, I seek information. Do you understand me?

  Her eyes widened, and she drew back so quickly she almost fell off the stool. “You’re Mangdorian?” She eyed his scars. “Those are knife wounds, aren’t they? Did someone do that to you...as punishment?”

  He had not expected her to guess he was not responsible for them, that he may not have violated God’s mandates of peace and pacifism. Could he lie to her? And avoid her condemnation? Maybe if she had been a simple apothecary, and not worn the necklace of a priestess as well. He could not lie to a holy servant. Besides, he told himself, this was a one-time meeting. Her opinion of him did not matter.

  I was a slave, he signed. I was forced to fight for my life. Many times.

  The priestess dropped her chin to her chest, clutched the bronze eye on her necklace, and whispered a prayer he had not heard in a long time, but one that he remembered well. It asked for God to pity him and give strength to his family because his actions had condemned him.

  Basilard sighed. When she looked up, he signed again, I seek to help our people. I need information on a man who might have wronged Mangdoria somehow.

  “How would you help our people?” She frowned. “By killing this man?”

  He hesitated. I would rather not, but if he has committed crimes against us, I feel it would be my duty to act.

  Her frown deepened, and he realized she was struggling to follow his words. Over the last few months, he had added signs to his people’s sparse hunting code, so he could speak more completely with Amaranthe and the others, but, of course, outsiders would not know the gestures he had made up.

  I wish to do good, Basilard signed. If I...help our people, maybe God will forgive me.

  The priestess straightened, her back as rigid as a steel bar. “God does not forgive killers. You have condemned yourself to the darkest circle of Ethor, young man. Nothing you can do in this life can make up for it. That you would even consider killing someone to avenge a wrong proves how far you have fallen.”

  Basilard closed his eyes. He had just met the woman. Her opinion should not matter, but he knew it was a reflection of the same opinion his family—his daughter—would share should he ever return home. And it was an opinion he feared held far too much truth.

  I need to know.... Have you spoken to any other Mangdorians in the city? Have you heard anything about a man called...

  He grabbed his paper, knowing she would not know his made up sign for the name, and scrawled it for her. His fingers surprised him by trembling. Maybe he did not really want to know the answer. What would he do if his suspicions proved correct?

  Still frowning, the priestess read the name. “Sicarius? The assassin?”

  Yes.

  Her lips puckered in disapproval, whether for Sicarius or for Basilard, he did not know. “What would you do with this information if I told you. Attempt to kill him?”

  His heartbeat quickened. There is something to tell?

  Her pucker deepened.

  Basilard leaned forward. I must know.

  “You should leave this place. The blood on your hands taints my home.”

  Basilard gripped the sofa’s faded floral armrest so tightly his fingers ached. She watched his hand warily, perhaps anticipating violence from a man such as he. Condemned or not, he would not threaten an old woman. He forced his fingers to loosen. How would Amaranthe talk this lady into giving up the information? By giving her what she wanted? What did she want?

  If he has wronged Mangdoria, he should be...dealt with. Our people cannot do it without damning themselves, correct? If I am already condemned, then I’m the logical choice to avenge the tribes.

  In truth, Basilard did not want to pick a fight with Sicarius. For one thing, he doubted he could win. For another, he did not dislike Sicarius, not the way Akstyr and Books did. Sicarius was cold and impossible to know, and he expected everyone to train as stringently as he did, but Basilard had not found him cruel or vindictive. Hard but fair, he would say. But, that moment in the shaman’s cave, when Sicarius had destroyed that Mangdorian message before Basilard or Books could read it.... That had raised Basilard’s suspicions. Since then, he had thought often of the moment and wondered what the assassin was hiding.

  “You do not
treat your soul with respect,” the priestess said.

  If nothing I do matters... Basilard shrugged.

  “Very well. The rumor is Sicarius killed Chief Yull and his family.”

  Basilard flopped back so hard the sofa thumped against the wall. Crumbled dust from the herbs drying overhead sifted down to land in his eyes. He barely noticed it. Good-hearted Chief Yull, the man Basilard had dreamed of working for as a boy, back when he had thought to become a forage leader and chef. Basilard’s gut twisted. And there had been sons. Young sons. Jast and Yuasmif.

  He closed his eyes. Why had he snooped? Why had he asked for this information?

  And, now that he had it, how could he do anything but kill Sicarius? Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dawn had come, and Amaranthe felt conspicuous as she sidled up beside one of the enforcer vehicles. She could not count on darkness to mask her wanted-poster features any longer, but she could not leave without knowing if something had happened to Sicarius.

  Several men stood between two lorries with smoke drifting from the stacks. The enforcers spoke in hushed tones, and she struggled to eavesdrop over the hissing boilers and idling machinery.

  “...Sicarius doing here?”

  “...missing girls?”

  “...men will catch... Already wounded him.”

  Wounded? Amaranthe’s jaw sagged open. Surely not. Not by enforcers.

  One of the men frowned in her direction, and she knelt to tie a shoelace. She dared not linger. It sounded like Sicarius had not been caught yet. What stunned her was that he had been seen at all. Though it was true he did not usually favor costumes, he had a knack for remaining unseen, especially at night. It rattled her beliefs to think he could have stumbled into someone he shouldn’t have—and reacted too slowly to keep that someone from raising an alarm.

  When Amaranthe had spent as long tying her shoe as she could without attracting attention, she jogged toward a pair of oaks spreading shade over the men’s barracks. Not wanting to return to their hideout without knowing Sicarius was safe, she stopped where she could watch the enforcers.