Deadly Games

  Amaranthe shook her head. Leave it to the empire to give even its rescue ships war-like names.

  “During times of war,” Books continued, “the Saberfist plies the Gulf, but it’s currently stationed in the Chain Lakes and has been working the Goldar River alongside an archaeology team.”

  “Is there a reason I should do anything except dismiss the Saberfist?” she asked, surprised Books had bothered with all the details. Though Sicarius might find thieving from a heavily manned and well-guarded military vessel a good training exercise, she could not think of a reason to risk it when another option existed.

  Maldynado scratched his jaw. “That ship sounds familiar.”

  “The commander of the marine vessel,” Books said, “is one Captain Talmuk Mancrest, elder brother of Deret.”

  Maldynado snapped his fingers. “That’s right. We got a tour of it when we were children. Not much firepower—only a couple of dozen cannons—but lots of other brilliant equipment. We got to swing on this crane that’s used for—”

  Amaranthe cleared her throat. “Let’s save story hour for later. This isn’t the same brother who tried to arrange my capture at the newspaper office, right?”

  “No,” Maldynado said. “Talmuk’s nearly twenty years older than Deret. Acts like he’s forty years older. Stuffy old coot. Walks around like he’s got a ramrod permanently lodged in his—”

  “Thank you, I get the picture.”

  “I thought you might wish to try talking to your Mancrest again,” Books said, “to see if he could get us on board to requisition supplies. Perhaps, since you spared his life in the pyramid, he’ll be more inclined to listen.”

  “Depends on how long it took him to retrieve that key,” Amaranthe said.

  Maldynado snorted.

  “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. Let’s visit the treasure-hunting ship. If it’s a civilian vessel, maybe there won’t be more than a guard or two on board.”

  Or maybe there would be no one on board, and they could easily borrow the suits. For once, it’d be nice if something was easy and went according to plan. Somehow, she doubted she would be that lucky.

  CHAPTER 13

  No gas lamps burned near the narrow, rickety docks at the end of the shipyard. Far south of the broad, modern piers used for military ships and merchant vessels, these berths were some of the oldest in the city. Moorage was relatively cheap and apparently not enough to cover the expense of public lighting. A quarter moon hanging over the lake illuminated the silhouettes of smaller ships, a mix of old steamers, sailboats, and combinations of the two. Amaranthe questioned whether the vessels being tied to the creaking docks kept them from floating away or if it might be the other way around.

  She led the men along the street, pausing at each sign to read the numbers. One might assume Pier 173 would follow Pier 172, but some docks had sunk over the years while others had expanded and branched out. They passed 169, 169B, and 169C, followed by a skip to 171.

  Clothing rustled ahead of them, near a warehouse on the far side of the street. Five or six people loitered in the shadows, slouching degenerately against the wall.

  “Friends of yours?” Amaranthe murmured to Akstyr, knowing this was the Black Arrows territory.

  “Ain’t got no friends left in the gang,” Akstyr said.

  “Your rosy personality didn’t endear you to them?” Books asked.

  “Ssh,” Amaranthe whispered.

  Though she could not see the eyes of those who lurked ahead, she felt the intensity of their attention. No doubt, they were calculating odds, deciding if she and her men looked like easy targets. She doubted it—Maldynado, Books, and Akstyr wore their swords openly—but, then, superior numbers and desperation could make a group brave.

  A few muttered words reached her ears.

  “...take them.”

  “That one’s got an expensive...”

  “...brandy for months.”

  Amaranthe shook her head at Maldynado, knowing he was the only one with something “expensive” that would tempt thugs.

  “Looks like another fight,” Books murmured, a resigned slump to his shoulders.

  “Not necessarily,” she whispered, a mischievous thought sauntering through her mind. “It’s not contagious, is it?” she asked loudly.

  “Huh?” Maldynado blurted.

  “I touched you. We all did,” Amaranthe said. “I just want to know how contagious it is. You should have known better than to sleep with that girl. Fresh out of the tropics with emperor knows what disease plaguing her.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” Maldynado played along, but he glared at her. “She looked all right to me.”

  “Thank my ancestors I’m not male,” Amaranthe went on. “Did you hear what one of the customers said? Rumor is someone’s peeper rotted up and fell right off after seeing her.”

  Murmurs and the sound of shuffling feet came from the posse across the street.

  “I bet it’s terribly contagious,” Amaranthe said.

  “Yes,” Books said. “A new strain of pizzle rot out of the Gesh Islands. Coitus isn’t required for transmission. I expect we’re all doomed just from walking beside this lout.”

  The dark figures in the shadows pushed past each other in an effort to be the first to sprint away. One tripped and fell in his haste to round a corner. Nobody stopped to help him up. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and ran after his comrades.

  “That’s one way to deter bandits,” Books said, a grin in his voice.

  “You would approve,” Maldynado said. “Boss, it’s not right to joke around about a man’s... Did you call it a peeper?”

  “Too sanitized?” She pointed down a rickety dock with missing and broken boards. A sign magnanimously called it Pier 173.

  “Not if your next job will be teaching small children.”

  “Will they be less vexatious than you?” Amaranthe led the way down the dock.

  “Doubtful,” Books said.

  Three ships lined the dock, none with lights burning on the decks. She started to check the first one, but paused. The skeletal frame of a crane rose from the deck of the last ship, a steamer. It possessed a metal hull instead of wood and had the sturdy look of a tug. Other equipment bristled from the deck like quills on a porcupine, creating a strange silhouette against the moonlit sky. Gear for pulling treasures off the lake or sea floor, Amaranthe guessed.

  She turned off her lantern, and darkness engulfed the dock. She padded toward the salvage vessel, stepping lightly on the warped, creaking wood. In the still night, she grew aware of the sound of her own breathing and a breeze flapping a loose sail a few docks away. The air stirred the omnipresent fishy scent of the waterfront, and for a moment Amaranthe thought she smelled something else. Something rotten. The breeze shifted, and the scent disappeared. Maybe it was nothing—a dead fish washed up to a nearby beach.

  The starlight did not offer enough illumination to read the name on the bow, but she could not imagine this being anything except the ship they sought, the Tuggle.

  “Must not be any treasure on there now,” Maldynado said. “Nobody’s on guard.”

  “Some of the crew might be sleeping below decks,” she whispered.

  They stopped beside the ship. No gangplank offered easy access, but Amaranthe had come prepared. She unwound a length of thin rope she had looped around her waist several times and dug out a collapsible grappling hook. She fastened it and swung the tool, releasing it toward the ship’s railing. The hook clinked softly and caught on the first try.

  “You’re turning into a proficient burglar,” Books said.

  “Is that a compliment or a condemnation?” Amaranthe tested the secureness of the rope.

  “It depends on whether we’ll be leaving monetary compensation for the suits we’re stealing.”

  Maldynado groaned. “You’re wholesome enough to teach toddlers right alongside her.”

  “I was hoping to return the suits without doing any damage,” Amar
anthe said.

  “Such as with the trash vehicle?” Books asked.

  She winced. “When we have our men back, I’ll see what I can do about compensating those we’ve wronged.”

  “I know,” Maldynado said in response to a muttered comment from Akstyr. “They are the worst outlaws you’ll ever meet. What criminals worry about such things?”

  Amaranthe shushed them, then shimmied up the rope. Before climbing over the railing, she paused to listen for voices or movement on the deck. Only the soft lapping of the waves reached her ears.

  She slipped over the railing and landed in a soundless crouch. Nothing stirred. She glided through the shadows, skirting the crane and capstans the size of huts. A single closed hatch allowed access to the lower levels. She collected the men before exploring further.

  “Shall we light the lanterns?” Books whispered.

  “Wait until we’re below decks,” Amaranthe said.

  At this point, she did not think anyone was aboard, but she did not need someone on another dock noticing their light and coming to investigate.

  Amaranthe pressed an ear to the hatch. Again, she heard nothing. She turned the latch and eased the door open.

  A powerful stench rolled out, smelling of rotten meat and death. Her unprepared stomach roiled, and images of the dam—those eviscerated men and women—washed over her. She braced herself against the wall.

  “Ugh,” Akstyr said. “It smells like a half-eaten possum left to bake on the street in summer.”

  “Or dead people,” Books said, his voice hoarse, as if he was fighting back the urge to retch.

  “Really, boss,” Maldynado said, “is it necessary to take us to such desecrated destinations all the time?”

  “Apparently.” Amaranthe wondered if the Saberfist might have been a better bet after all. “Books, is it possible these people brought back some sort of contagious disease from their explorations? Something that...killed them?”

  “Pizzle rot?” Maldynado asked.

  “I made that up.”

  “If it helps,” Akstyr said, “it smells like more than pizzles are rotten down there.”

  “How does that help?” Maldynado asked.

  “I read the dock master’s report,” Books said. “These fellows have been in port for a couple of weeks, and before that they were working Squall Lake.”

  “So whatever happened...” Amaranthe started.

  “Happened after they arrived here,” Books said.

  “Do you think we’re in danger of catching something if we go down?”

  “If it is a disease, I’d guess we’re finding them after the point of contagion, but I couldn’t be certain.”

  Akstyr lifted a finger. “How about I stay up here and stand guard?”

  “How about you go first?” Maldynado said. “You’re the youngest. The most expendable.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe they just brought back a treasure that someone wanted and someone killed them for it.” Amaranthe mused that it was a strange line of work she found herself in when that was a cheery thought.

  “And maybe not,” Maldynado said.

  “I’ll go,” she said. “Akstyr, you get to find out a way to heal me if I contract something.”

  “Uh, I don’t know how to do diseases,” Akstyr said. “It’s not in the On Healing book.”

  “Get a shaman then. Sicarius has found them in the city before.”

  “Sicarius isn’t here,” Maldynado pointed out.

  All too aware of that fact, Amaranthe pushed the hatch further open, descended three steps, and entered a dark corridor. Mosquitoes whined in the air. The scent of urine and feces lingered beneath the overpowering stench of death. She breathed through her mouth as she turned up her lantern. Closed cabin doors lined either side of the short corridor. She glimpsed metal and coiled rope through an open hatchway at the end. Storage?

  A creak sounded from the steps behind her—Books following with a lantern of his own.

  “You’ll need help collecting all the equipment and hauling the suits out,” he said, “The kits weigh over one hundred fifty pounds each.”

  She gripped his arm. “Thank you.”

  Her intent was to bypass the cabins and go straight to the storage area, but, in the confining corridor, Books bumped an elbow against one of the doors. It had not been fastened so it creaked open. He hesitated, then eased his lantern inside.

  Whatever he saw arrested his attention for he stared for a long moment.

  “Body?” A few steps farther down the corridor, Amaranthe could not see in, and she was not quick to run up and poke her head under his arm.

  “Yes.”

  “Throat cut?” She doubted it.

  “No. It does appear to be some sort of disease.”

  Reluctantly, Amaranthe went to take a look. If it was a contagious disease, it was probably too late for them to avoid it anyway.

  The inert male body lay on a cot, his chest bare, his blankets thrown to the floor. A rough red rash covered the flesh, a rash Amaranthe recognized. Maybe it wasn’t the same. Maybe the symptoms were just similar. Maybe...

  “What is it?” Books asked, watching her face.

  “Hysintunga,” she whispered.

  “That’s one possibility, but there are other diseases with similar symptoms. The insects that carry Hysintunga aren’t native to this area—they prefer hot, humid climates—and it’s unlikely this man died of that malady.”

  “I’ve seen it in Stumps before,” Amaranthe said. “I’ve been infected with it here before. By that colonel, Talconcrest.”

  Books closed the door on the dead man. “Hysintunga is always fatal, isn’t it?”

  “Unless you know a shaman who can heal it.”

  “But Sicarius is the only one who knows where to find one?”

  “Yes,” Amaranthe said. “It looks like these people are beyond help anyway.”

  “If those responsible for the kidnappings are also responsible for this...how could they have known we’d come here?”

  “Maybe this has nothing to do with us. Maybe they just didn’t want this crew poking around on the bottom of the lake. For these people to be dead now, they would have to have been infected days ago.”

  Amaranthe continued down the corridor. More narrow steps led down to the storage area where spindles secured to the deck held coils of rope and chain. Cabinets lined the sidewalls, and a low ceiling sloped down to a larger double-door cubby. She could stand straight, but Books would have to hunch low to keep from hitting his head on ceiling beams.

  “Let’s check these,” she said.

  Books took one side and Amaranthe unlatched the cabinet doors on the other. Hooks and chains occupied one cubby, rope another, and copper equipment she could not identify a third. No diving suits.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Not yet.” Books had reached the larger doors at the end. He unlatched them and tugged one open.

  An angry buzz came from the darkness within. A familiar angry buzz.

  “Close the door!” Amaranthe shouted, stumbling for the exit. “Get back!”

  When Books tried to comply, he cracked his head on one of the beams, and his foot caught in a coil of rope. He dropped his lantern and stumbled to the floor. His light winked out. The door he’d thrust shut banged against the frame and bounced open again.

  The glow of Amaranthe’s lantern was enough to reveal a fat insect as long as her finger flying from the hold. A tail reminiscent of a lizard’s streamed out behind it. Some utterly useless part of her mind remembered the Kendorians called them Fangs.

  Wings flapped, and the insect veered straight toward Books. His feet were tangled in the rope, and he floundered.

  Amaranthe tore her sword free and set the lantern down in one motion. She darted to Books’s side and swung at the insect. The blade sliced it in two. Its halves splatted to the deck, the long tail still twitching.

  Before she could reach down to help Books to his fe
et, more buzzes filled the silence.

  “Emperor’s warts,” she cursed. She started toward the cabinet, hoping to shut them in, but movement near the door made her jerk back.

  Books extricated himself and leaped to his feet, his blade out before he stood fully upright. Four Fangs streamed out of the cubby.

  “Back to back,” Amaranthe barked. “Slice them or squash them beneath your boots, but you’re dead if you let them bite you.”

  “Understood.” Books lowered into a crouch, sword raised.

  One Fang veered toward Amaranthe. She whipped her blade at it, but the insect sensed the threat and flitted upward. Her tip smacked into a beam instead, jarring her arm. The blade stuck in the wood, costing her precious time.

  The insect arrowed toward her neck. She ducked, spinning and tearing her blade free. Books’s sword sliced in, hacking a wing off the Fang. It spiraled toward a wall.

  Before Amaranthe could thank him, she spotted two insects flapping toward him. “Watch out!”

  The wingless one bumped against a cabinet door near her. Fear stole finesse, and she chopped at it like a logger with an axe. Wood chipped free, and bug guts splattered.

  “Got one,” Books said.

  “Where are the other two?”

  Amaranthe put her back against the cabinets and held her sword ready before her. She strained her ears, listening for their buzz, but she heard footfalls instead. Maldynado and Akstyr.

  “Stay back, you two,” she called, charging for the corridor. “The bugs are deadly.”

  She darted through the hatchway in time to see Maldynado ducking and flailing his arms. Akstyr lingered behind, and he backed away at her warning.

  A Fang buzzed about Maldynado’s head. Amaranthe ran toward him, sword poised for a strike.

  He saw her coming and dropped to the deck. She never took her focus from the bug. It drew in its wings to dive at Maldynado, but she skewered it.

  “Where’s the last one?” she demanded. If it escaped into the night, it could buzz about the city, infecting countless citizens.