Deadly Games

  “Oh,” Akstyr said. “Well, yeah.”

  “Then we’ll need you to stick your magic-sniffing nose in the corners,” Amaranthe said, “see if you can catch a scent.”

  “I’m not a hound, you know.”

  “We know,” Books said. “Hounds work a lot harder for a lot less incentive.”

  “You’re not helping,” Amaranthe said.

  “We can’t go until night, right?” Akstyr asked. “Lots of people will be working, so we can’t sniff around until they go home.”

  Amaranthe leaned over the edge of the roof and smiled down at him. “I’ll get us in. Have some breakfast, and we’ll head over. You can sleep later.”

  Akstyr stabbed a finger at the open door of the sleeping car. “Does Maldynado get to stay here?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair, would it?” Amaranthe asked. “You better go wake him up.”

  “Good.” Akstyr smiled for the first time and leaped into the car with zealousness.

  “Misery is more palatable when shared with others,” Amaranthe noted to Books.

  “Indeed.”

  * * * * *

  Amaranthe led Maldynado, Akstyr, and Books onto Pier Thirteen, her strides long and her chin high beneath the brim of her sunhat. It hid her face to some extent, and, on the trolley ride over, she had arranged her hair in a number of braids, then pinned them up in a creative bundle that looked nothing like the style on any of her wanted posters. She supposed she could look into cosmetics to disguise her facial features, but she wanted to be recognized when she was doing something good, something that might help her clear her name.

  A massive crane belched smoke as it lifted shipping containers from the bowels of a merchant steamer and lowered them to the dock. Dozens of burly, bare-chested stevedores unloaded the cargo and ported it inside the towering warehouse. The shirtless workers seemed to be competing with each other for the role of Tattoo Emperor. Amaranthe decided the man with the kraken was the winner—its head emblazoned his neck while tentacles ran down his back, both arms, and his chest, with the largest pair disappearing beneath his trousers. Of its own wayward volition, her mind wondered how far beneath the waistband the tentacle motif might continue and what exactly it would be doing down there.

  The tattooed man glanced her way before heading into the warehouse with a crate in his arms. He caught her eye and winked.

  “If Deret doesn’t turn out to be your dream man,” Maldynado said, “we can always find you someone here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you dolt,” Books said. “If Amaranthe must copulate at all, it should be with a man who knows how to read and preferably how to use the Imperial Locus System to pluck appropriately intellectual books from the library shelves.”

  “A skill that would be completely useless for satisfying her in bed,” Maldynado said.

  “Surely, finger dexterity has crossover applications.”

  “Gentlemen,” Amaranthe said, wondering when such commentary had ceased to make her blush. “Let’s go over our story.”

  “You’re going to pose,” Books said, “as the owner of an escort service, with Maldynado as your employee and—”

  “Star employee,” Maldynado said.

  “Uh huh.” Books stepped around a man carrying a massive ceramic jar and continued. “And you’re shopping for imported silks and tapestries and such for your...office? Is that the correct term for a place where someone like Maldynado would be prostituted out?”

  “Close enough,” Amaranthe said.

  “Costasce called her viewing room ‘The Parlor’,” Maldynado said.

  They had reached the roll-up door of the warehouse, so Amaranthe stopped. None of the men streaming in and out spared her group a glance. Maybe they could simply walk in and snoop about without anyone caring. She peeped through the doorway.

  A woman in spectacles checked off items on a clipboard and directed men toward different areas in the warehouse or toward a massive lift that could deliver cargo to an upper level. The men might not care about interlopers, but she would surely notice strangers strolling through the premises. The platform sandals crossing her feet with thin straps promised she wasn’t going to wander far to do lifting or other work.

  “As to our role,” Books started, but Amaranthe cut him off with a raised hand.

  “Akstyr?” she asked. With his disinterest for things non-magical, she never knew how much he was paying attention. “Your role?”

  “We’re your porters.” He yawned. “Me and Books.”

  “Good,” Amaranthe said.

  “As long as we don’t have to really port things.”

  “You just sniff about,” she said.

  “Are we sure this is wise?” Books ask. “Should this turn...confrontational, we don’t have our two most proficient fighters here.”

  Maldynado propped his hands on his hips. “You have me.”

  Books looked him up and down, then focused on Amaranthe again. “We don’t have our two most proficient fighters here.”

  “You believe Basilard a better brawler than me?” Maldynado asked. “Truly?”

  “We’ll be fine,” she said and headed in.

  The clipboard-toting lady’s head swiveled toward the door before Amaranthe had gone more than three steps. No, this woman would not allow random snoopers, not without a cover story.

  “Morning,” Amaranthe said, strolling closer.

  “What do you want?” the woman snapped.

  Ah, the friendly sort. Wonderful.

  “Hello, I’m Darva,” Amaranthe said. “Darva Larkcrest.” As long as she was making up names, she might as well attach herself to a warrior caste family. “Who are you?”

  Amaranthe’s invocation of warrior-caste status did nothing to impress the woman. In fact, she scowled more deeply. New money, perhaps, one who had no respect for the aristocracy. Still, if she was the owner, or someone high up in the business, she ought to be interested in pleasing clients.

  “Ms. Setjareth,” she said. “Partial owner. What do you want? This is my warehouse, and unless you’re carrying in cargo, I’m not interested in talking to you. You, Squid Tat, take that one to the second floor.”

  “I’m interested in purchasing some of your inventory,” Amaranthe said.

  “Shop’s on Third and Canal.” The woman’s gaze lowered to her clipboard again.

  Amaranthe stepped closer so she blocked the woman’s view of Akstyr. Behind her back, she flicked a finger to send him to snoop. “I thought it might save us both some money if I came directly to the source. No need for you to transport and stock your inventory when I can—”

  “Shop’s on Third and Canal,” the woman repeated.

  “I see. You’re the half of the ownership team that isn’t in charge of dealing with customers.”

  “Correct,” the woman said without the faintest hint of an eyebrow to suggest she took reproach at Amaranthe’s dry tone.

  Akstyr had moved away from the group, but he had scarcely begun to search. Time for another tactic. Maldynado was leaning against a post nearby, an amused smile on his lips. She jerked her chin toward the woman.

  Maldynado gave her a small bow and strolled forward. He crouched down so the woman could see past the clipboard to his face.

  “Ms. Setjareth,” Maldynado drawled. “I’ll wager you’ve got the prettiest smile this side of Wharf Street. Why don’t you give me a demonstration so I can more properly judge?”

  “If I tried a line like that, I’d get stabbed in the eye with a pen,” Books muttered.

  “Ssh,” Amaranthe whispered. “Let the master work.”

  “Master?” Books said. “Please.”

  “There are less than ten females this side of Wharf Street,” Setjareth growled. “Not much of a competition.”

  Amaranthe grinned. Though it wasn’t exactly an instant melting, the woman didn’t order Maldynado to go away or leave her alone, so it was promising. There was no talk of stabbing eyeballs with pens either.

&
nbsp; “Ah, but some of your stevedores might have attractive smiles,” Maldynado said.

  Setjareth snorted.

  “Also my own employer stands a mere five feet away.” Maldynado waved at Amaranthe. “Do you understand the risk I take to my livelihood by suggesting your smile might be prettier than hers?”

  Setjareth’s snort was mellower this time with a slight upward curl of her lips. Amaranthe eased a few steps backward to let Maldynado ooze his charms in private. She should have started with that.

  “What are you doing?” Setjareth shouted.

  The bellow startled Amaranthe, and at first she thought Maldynado had offended the woman, but that wasn’t it. Setjareth was pointing into a corner of the warehouse where Akstyr stood, a trapdoor in the floor lifted.

  He offered a blank look in response to the question.

  “Don’t worry about him.” Maldynado slung an arm over Setjareth’s shoulder and attempted to turn her about. “He’s a dull lad. Got run over by a steam carriage as a boy and hasn’t been strong in the head since. Harmless though. If—”

  Setjareth shoved Maldynado’s arm from her shoulders and stalked toward Akstyr. “What’re you doing poking around my warehouse?”

  Akstyr looked at Amaranthe. “Uhm.”

  “Are you spying on our inventory?” Setjareth asked, voice rising. “Are you reporting to Lady Devirk or Bucktooth?”

  Several of the stevedores who had been on their way out the door to pick up more cargo stopped and turned around. Chests out, arms flexed and wide at their sides, the muscled men strode toward their boss.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Amaranthe grabbed Akstyr’s arm and tugged him away from the trapdoor. She caught a glimpse of a ladder and water less than a foot below. There was no way a boat could have waited down there. “I see you’re not interested in easy sales, and that’s your loss. We’ll leave now.”

  “Not until you answer some questions.” Setjareth snapped her fingers, and the stevedores loomed closer.

  Amaranthe’s instinct was to flee rather than risking injury to these people or her team, but Akstyr gave her a minute nod. He was onto something. Besides, it would be nice if Books realized he was capable of more than he gave himself credit for. She counted the men. Eight of them against her four. Thanks to their work, the stevedores were large and brawny, but they had the cultivated swagger of street bravos rather than the cool, competence of soldiers, and she doubted there were many distinguished veterans among the bunch.

  “You wish us to stay?” Amaranthe asked. “Very well.” She gave her men a single nod.

  Books blanched, but he did not object. Maldynado grinned. Akstyr gave his “whatever” shrug.

  “Wants me to grab ‘em, boss?” One of the stevedores stretched a meaty hand toward Amaranthe.

  She caught it by the wrist, twisted it over, and smashed the palm of her free hand into the back of the man’s locked elbow. He blurted a surprised yelp. She forced him to the ground with a kick to the inside of his knee, and something popped in his arm.

  “My shoulder!” he bellowed.

  Amaranthe yanked the knife at his belt free and spun on a second man advancing upon her.

  A few feet away, Maldynado had already thrown himself into three others and gone down with them in a tangle. Despite the chaos of flailing arms and scissor-kicking legs, he was on top, seemingly in control. Akstyr, his dagger out, was trading opening swipes with another man. Books had a blade in hand as well, though he crouched in a defensive stance, waiting for an opponent to advance on him, rather than jumping into the fray.

  The man nearest Amaranthe lunged for her. He had chosen fists over blades, and he grabbed at her arm with his right hand while drawing his left arm back for a blow. She blocked the grasp, ducked the punch, and slammed the heel of her hand into his solar plexus, twisting her hips to throw her entire body into the move.

  His hard sheath of muscle provided some armor for his torso, but she hit her spot. He hunched over, clutching his chest. His mouth gaped open, but his stunned muscles denied him air.

  Eyes huge with concern, he did not see Amaranthe’s knee coming. She rammed it into his groin. His nose scraped his knees as his hunch turned into a collapse. The big man hit the ground and rolled into a protective ball next to the first stevedore Amaranthe had dropped.

  That fellow lay on his back, eyes watering, his hand clutching a dislocated shoulder. He glowered at her and seemed to be considering whether to hurl himself back into the fight.

  “I wouldn’t,” Amaranthe said. “I know how to dislocate other body parts as well.”

  He eyed his comrade who was still hunched on the floor, grabbing at his groin and moaning. “I don’t doubt it,” the stevedore muttered.

  Amaranthe checked on her men. Maldynado stood next to three bodies stacked on each other like Strat Tiles. He had one foot atop the pile, as if to keep them pinned down, but none so much as twitched in an escape attempt.

  Nearby, blood trickled out of Akstyr’s nose, but he had dropped one man and was boxing with another. Akstyr dodged a swift series of punches, but barely. Though layers of blubber sheathed the towering stevedore’s broad torso, he moved with the speed and precision of someone who had been the recipient of training at one time.

  “Need help?” Amaranthe asked.

  The big man glanced in her direction.

  Akstyr’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He clenched a fist and flung it open again when his opponent turned back.

  Flesh never touched flesh, but the man staggered back, arms wide, face stunned. With flexibility that had greatly improved over the last few months of training, Akstyr launched a straight kick that smashed the stevedore beneath the chin. The big man toppled backward, felled like an oak.

  “That was good,” Akstyr told Amaranthe.

  She did not know if he referred to the timeliness of her brief distraction or his ability to employ the mental sciences during a fight. The latter probably. He wasn’t the sort to praise anyone.

  “Yes,” Amaranthe said, agreeing either way.

  “Look out.” Akstyr pointed over her shoulder.

  She ducked and slid to the side, avoiding a stevedore’s attempt at a grasp. A knife glinted in his hand.

  Books stalked after the man. Surprising intensity burned in his eyes, and Amaranthe danced further away from the confrontation, figuring this was the middle of something between the two men.

  “You think you can grab her and use her against us?” Books growled as the stevedore spun back to face him. “I don’t think so.”

  The man limped backward, hands raised, and Amaranthe wondered what Books had done to him.

  Movement to the side distracted her from the rest of the fight. Ms. Setjareth had discarded her clipboard and was scurrying toward the door, steps short and awkward thanks to those sandals.

  Amaranthe ran over to cut her off. They did not need the woman calling for reinforcements—many more stevedores still labored on the dock.

  Setjareth tried to evade Amaranthe but tripped, sprawling face first onto the hard floor. Amaranthe gripped the woman by the triceps and hauled her upright.

  “One who has a personality that grates like glass paper should probably choose footwear sufficient for fleeing from irritated people,” Amaranthe said.

  “You’re no business woman,” Setjareth growled.

  “Not true. I run a mercenary business.”

  “What do you want?” Setjareth tried to yank her arm away.

  Amaranthe did not let go. After skirmishing with the brawny stevedores, restraining another woman was easy. “Tell the workers out there to take a ten-minute break, then close the door.”

  The woman leaned outside and filled her lungs. Recognizing the nascent scream for what it was, Amaranthe gripped the back of Setjareth’s neck and dug her thumb into one of Sicarius’s favorite pressure points. The would-be scream came out as a soft whimper.

  “Listen,” Amaranthe said. “Nobody’s planning to harm you or your
business. We just need a few minutes to look around to make sure you’re not harboring fugitives.” She decided not to point out that she was a fugitive herself.

  “What?” Genuine bewilderment blossomed on Setjareth’s face.

  “A couple of suspicious folks took refuge in your warehouse last night.”

  With the sounds of fighting fading, Amaranthe checked on her men. They had routed the impromptu security team and were forcing the stevedores to sit against the wall in a neat row. Akstyr had returned to peering into corners and prodding at crates.

  “Maybe that’s why the lock was destroyed,” Setjareth muttered.

  “What?” Amaranthe asked.

  “When I came in this morning, the padlock on the door was dangling open. It didn’t look like it’d been forced, and it still works.”

  Amaranthe removed her hand from Setjareth’s neck. Akstyr knew a few atypical methods of bypassing locks; maybe the red-headed woman was a practitioner herself.

  “First time this happened?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Yes,” Setjareth said. “I spent two hours running inventory this morning.” That might account for some of her dourness. “Nothing was missing, and I didn’t find anyone inside.”

  “I’m sorry. Checking through all your inventory must have made for a tedious morning.”

  “Ancestors know that’s true.”

  “And we must have fueled your suspicions,” Amaranthe said, thinking she might yet win the woman’s cooperation if she commiserated.

  “You’re mercenaries, you say?” Setjareth asked.

  Books, who had been supervising the disarming and lining up of the men, looked in the women’s direction at the question. A grin played across his lips. Pleased with himself, was he? He had done well. No falling apart as he had done in the past. Amaranthe smiled and nodded at him.

  “More or less,” she told Setjareth.

  “Do you have a card?”

  “A what?”

  “A business card. My partner and I occasionally have problems the enforcers are lax about solving. They’re professional and thorough when it comes to protecting citizens, but much less enthusiastic when they’re tasked with protecting a business’s interests.”