Deadly Games

  He lowered his head and rested his cheek against her temple. His soft exhalations warmed her neck, and heat curled through her body. She wanted to see if he might be interested in a little more than a hug, but she didn’t. He always seemed like a feral animal in moments like this, and she feared any show of enthusiasm would send him stampeding back into his den where he’d hide behind a wall of emotionless stoicism.

  “You’re the only person who’s ever wanted to give me happiness,” Sicarius said.

  That puzzled her until she remembered when she had said that, in her talk with Basilard the week before. “Do you eavesdrop on every conversation I have with other men?”

  “You can’t call it eavesdropping just because you don’t notice me in the area.”

  She snorted again. He sounded like he was enjoying himself. Probably because he had gotten away with stealing her from her evening with Deret, and she was not giving him a hard time about it. “You’re stealthier than a cat’s shadow. You can’t possibly expect me to notice you when you’re lurking.”

  “Perhaps you have not been assiduous enough with your training.”

  “I can’t believe you’re blaming me for the fact that you’re a chronic eavesdropper.”

  “What did you expect from an assassin?” he asked, tone teasing—or as close to it as he got.

  Sicarius drew back, and Amaranthe caught his wrists before he could step away completely.

  “We haven’t resolved anything, you know,” she said.

  He extricated one hand and pointed to the bench. He probably wanted to sit and discuss the situation, as if it were some battle plan they were concocting. Shaking her head, she returned to her seat.

  “Just to be clear,” Amaranthe said, “this jealousy of yours, it arises from the fact that you’d like to be...uhm...” She groped for a word. With anyone else, she would say lovers, but that implied emotions she doubted he would ever admit to—if he could feel them at all. “...Bed friends,” she said, then rolled her eyes. Lovers would have been better. “It’s not just some territorial dog-peeing-on-a-lamp-post thing, right?”

  “Bed friends?”

  Yes, he probably thought she was silly because she didn’t simply say what she meant, but, curse him, he wasn’t saying what he meant either.

  “Are you voting for that one or mocking the term?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Yes.”

  Someday she was going to learn not to give him those sorts of questions. “Somehow, I think things would be going easier for me if I’d stayed on the hill, drinking Deret’s wine.”

  “You like a challenge.”

  She grew aware of the warmth of his thigh again. “Would it truly be so detrimental if we...were a we? If it’s about the men being jealous that two out of the six people in the group get to have...bed friends, that’s not really a problem when we’re in the city, right? They can go off and find their own partners. They wouldn’t even need to know. You’re about as demonstrative as a rock, and I think I can manage to keep my hands off of you while the others are around.”

  “Really,” he said dryly.

  Though she doubted Sicarius would fail to miss spies in the bushes, she lowered her voice to a whisper to say, “If it’s about Sespian, I can understand you not wanting more obstacles between you two, but it would be my choice. Even if he does still have feelings, which is unlikely.”

  “You might decide he’s a better choice.”

  “Oh, I’m certain he is.” Amaranthe grinned, though the deepening darkness probably hid it. “But, as you pointed out, I like a challenge. Why would I want to spend time with some adoring, warm youngster when I could have a stiff, aloof assassin whose idea of romance involves throwing knives and running up stairs together?”

  “That’s not romance; that’s training.”

  “Is there a difference for you?”

  “Slight.”

  Sicarius stood, breaking the contact between them.

  Amaranthe sighed. Cool evening air whispered past her arms, and dew-touched grass flicked at her bare toes. “I guess this means you’re not going to demonstrate what that difference might be?”

  “Not until this is over.”

  “This being our...exoneration? And you having a chance to talk with Sespian?”

  “The latter in particular.”

  Amaranthe fought down a grumble. So, she got him if she found a way to put him and Sespian together, so he could have his chance to explain everything to his son. Setting that up had always been her intent, but she was not sure how long it would take.

  She supposed she ought to find it encouraging that Sicarius cared enough about righting things with Sespian not to want to steal his girl, but, cursed ancestors, she wasn’t his girl. And he had surely gotten over that fleeting infatuation by now anyway. He had been drug-addled at the time after all.

  “In the meantime,” Amaranthe said, “I get to spend my nights sitting chastely in the team hideout?” How...wholesome.

  “We could add an evening training session to your regimen.”

  She groaned and dropped her head in her hands. “You have a disturbing sense of humor.”

  A long moment passed before he said, “Offer a proposition.”

  “I don’t know.” Amaranthe shrugged helplessly. “I can wait. I just need to know.... Well, we’ve never even kissed. How am I supposed to know if all this is worth it?”

  She winced as soon as the words came out. She hadn’t meant to imply that he wasn’t worth waiting for, just that she didn’t know if they’d actually have a physical connection when they actually—

  “Worth it?” Sicarius asked, sounding, for the first time she could recall, offended.

  Amaranthe groaned. She was making a mess of this.

  She stretched out an apologetic hand. Sicarius took it and pulled her off the bench. Her feet tangled, and she stumbled into him. His other arm came around her, and he pulled her against him with none of his earlier gentleness.

  He wouldn’t hurt her—at least she didn’t think he would—but her heart quickened, a jolt of concern coursing through her. Maybe she had pushed him too far. The arm wrapped around her tightened, mashing her against his chest. The fabric of his shirt did nothing to soften the ridges of granite muscle beneath it, and the thought crossed her mind that if she ever truly did anger him, all her training would be no use.

  Amaranthe swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, though she was not sure whether she meant to apologize or blurt some sort of bravado. It didn’t matter. His mouth found hers, open, demanding, and she forgot about talking. And breathing.

  The kiss crackled with intensity, and she thought of the hull of that fortress, its electrical charge knocking her on her backside. She wriggled her arms around him and returned the kiss.

  His fingers tangled in her hair, caressing the back of her neck. An ache grew inside, and her toes curled around the edges of her sandals. She thought of kicking them off, of kicking everything off and—

  Sicarius released her and stepped back, leaving her stunned and breathless, her heart galloping in place behind her ribs. Then, without a word, he strode away.

  Amaranthe, legs wobbly, collapsed on the bench. “He’s right,” she croaked. “It is different than training.”

  EPILOGUE

  Basilard told the nerves fluttering in his belly to be still. The stubborn things refused to obey.

  Tall, broad-shouldered imperial soldiers in blue uniforms with gold trim strode along the brick paths of the Oakcrest Conservatory, their boots so polished they reflected the flames of nearby gas lamps. The men’s expressionless faces reminded him of Sicarius, and so did those dark, cool eyes as they scrutinized the civilians and servants who crossed their paths. Youths carrying trays of lemonade, iced tea, and wine paid the soldiers no mind. Of course, they had no reason to worry about being detained, captured, or killed.

  Basilard sucked in a deep breath, grateful a number of overhead panels were open, letting in fresh air. With sweat al
ready trickling down his spine, it would have been unbearably stifling without the evening breeze. He adjusted his collar. Maldynado’s outfit was far more constricting than the loose garments his people favored.

  “Problem?” Books asked.

  There are as many soldiers as athletes, perhaps more.

  “I don’t think you need to look so concerned,” Books said. “We made it past the phalanx of vehicles and soldiers outside, and the door guards let us in, despite much eyebrow raising over the fact that you brought a man as your one permitted dinner companion.”

  Basilard smiled. I didn’t think the empire had issues with that sort of thing. Are you sure it wasn’t that they were surprised a victorious athlete wouldn’t have a younger, prettier man for an escort?

  “I’m going to forgive you for that because of all that time you recently spent with—” Books glanced around, “—a certain disreputable sort. You probably feel the need to unleash your sense of humor.”

  Or distract himself. Basilard feared their admittance had been too easy. Though Books had received a few questions about Basilard’s need for a translator, another soldier had jogged up during the interview and whispered something in the guard’s ear, resulting in Basilard and Books being waved inside. Could the soldiers have recognized them and let them in as a trap? Were they even now waiting to see if Amaranthe and Sicarius waited nearby?

  Basilard and Books walked toward a long wooden table with sixty or seventy place settings laid out. Athletes and their companions chatted in pairs or small groups near trellised vines and citrus trees potted along the way.

  “There he is,” Books said.

  A glass door beyond the table had opened with two soldiers in black entering, the emperor’s personal guard. Sespian came next in blue, quasi-military attire. Unexpectedly, a gray-haired woman in a sapphire dress strode beside him. Not exactly beside. Basilard had the impression Sespian was trying to keep space between them.

  “She’s old to be his escort,” Books murmured, also watching the woman. “A chaperone?”

  Four more soldiers trailed after the pair.

  The emperor gazed about alertly. Though his position must cause him a great deal of stress, he appeared no older than his nineteen years, perhaps even younger, and Basilard wondered how much power he commanded around the Imperial Barracks. Could Sespian do anything about the empire’s underground slave trade? About the fact that Mangdorians were often targeted?

  Though the cadre of guards about him could have made the emperor seem unapproachable, he strode up to the first group of athletes and greeted everyone with a friendly smile. After the three young men managed flustered bows, Sespian started asking questions.

  “This may be a good time to talk to him,” Books said. “Before he grows weary of people pestering him.”

  Let’s meander that way, Basilard signed.

  The other athletes seemed content to wait. They probably lacked his agenda.

  As he and Books strolled over, the nerves tormenting Basilard’s stomach redoubled their flutters. If this was a trap, the soldiers would spring it before Basilard got close to the emperor.

  Books plucked an iced tea from a server’s tray. He was either more comfortable here than Basilard, or he was doing a good job of hiding his nerves. Basilard took a drink without looking to see what it was; ice cubes clinked in the glass.

  The emperor moved to a second group of athletes, this one made up of young ladies. He was courteous and professional, and Basilard did not get the impression he was searching for bed partners—a vibe warrior-caste men often exuded, whether they were married or not. The emperor’s older chaperone never said anything, and Basilard had the feeling she was there only to keep an eye on Sespian.

  “Think that’s someone from Forge?” Books murmured.

  Would they have someone here so openly?

  Amaranthe had mentioned her belief that Forge had a toehold in the Imperial Barracks, but Basilard had not realized it might run so deeply.

  “If so, that’s...a concern,” Books said. “They might restrict his access to information and certainly his ability to take action.”

  So, he might not be reading the papers and be aware of our heroics?

  “If so, all our work would be for naught.”

  Sespian looked over the women’s heads, his gaze coming to rest on Basilard and Books.

  Basilard twitched, flushing guiltily. Had the emperor overheard Books’s half of their conversation? They were speaking quietly. He shouldn’t have, but who knew?

  His first instinct was to look away and pretend no interest, but that might appear more suspicious. He forced himself to hold the gaze and nod.

  After finishing his conversation with the women, the emperor strode toward Books and Basilard.

  Basilard glanced left and right, expecting a legion of soldiers to stampede them at any moment. Books thumped a fist to his heart and bent at the waist, his sword arm stretching wide with the palm open.

  “A pleasure to speak with you, Sire,” he said.

  Basilard mimicked the bow and signed, Most respect, Chief. He hadn’t worked out hand signs for honorifics for emperors yet. Books would know what he meant though.

  Oddly, when Books translated, he left the word for chief instead of correcting it. Perhaps he wanted Basilard to sound quaint—and unthreatening—thanks to his Mangdorian vernacular.

  “Good evening.” Sespian pressed his own fist to his chest in response. “Temtelamak, isn’t it?” His eyebrow twitched.

  Basilard swallowed. The emperor recognized the name for a pseudonym and possibly knew Basilard had something to hide.... Curse Maldynado for picking out something silly.

  “Congratulations on your victory,” the emperor went on.

  Thank you, Chief.

  The woman glided over to join them, and Basilard signed, Evening, ma’am.

  “This is Ms. Rockvic,” Sespian said, his face difficult to read. “She’s...trying to find me a wife, I think.” He arched an eyebrow at the older woman. Her lips thinned, but she said nothing.

  Basilard exchanged concerned looks with Books. Amaranthe would need to know about this new development.

  I’d hoped to talk to you about something, Chief, Basilard signed. Sespian would not chat forever, so he had best make his request.

  Sespian blinked. “Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

  I escaped slavery here in Stumps last winter. I was one of hundreds taken out of Mangdoria and sold in your underground market, where business owners in particular save money by buying slaves instead of using day-paid laborers or paying for expensive machines. Some slaves, like myself, are forced into the pit-fighting circuit where they must battle for their lives every night.

  He paused so Books could translate, and he watched Sespian’s face, trying to judge whether this was new information for him or something he was aware of and had dismissed. The emperor’s eyebrows climbed as Books spoke, and more than once he glanced at his chaperone. The woman’s face was closed and hard. If she was a member of Forge, Basilard hoped he was not making trouble by revealing these facts in front of her.

  I’m particularly concerned for my people, Basilard went on. I believe they’re targeted because they’re pacifists and not strong Science practitioners.

  For the first time, Books edited the translation, leaving off the last few words.

  “I see,” Sespian said through a tense jaw. “I wasn’t aware of this problem. My ignorance is not an excuse, and I apologize for the ruthless way you were brought to the empire. I will look into this slavery as soon as I’m able.” He glanced at Rockvic, and his lip twitched in a brief grimace. He was being open about his displeasure at having this companion. Was it possible he wanted Basilard and Books to know? That made no sense.

  Thank you, Chief, he signed. He wished he could do more—elicit a promise of some kind—but the emperor did not seem to be in a position to promise much right now.

  Sespian extended his arm and clasped Basilard’s hand.
The action surprised Basilard because the standoffish Turgonians did not make physical contact during their greetings. Maybe the emperor knew Mangdorian hunters clasped forearms as a gesture of friendship? But it was Sespian’s hand that pressed against his, not his arm, and something poked into Basilard’s palm. Paper?

  When Sespian withdrew his grip, he left the object in Basilard’s hand.

  “Have a peaceful evening,” the emperor said.

  Basilard pressed his thumb into his palm to keep the object in his hand and dropped his arm to his side. It felt like a piece of paper folded numerous times into a small square.

  “I don’t know if he’ll be able to do anything for you right now,” Books said after the emperor had moved onto the next group, “but perhaps someday. If not, maybe our team could tackle the slave trade.”

  Basilard barely heard him. He was searching the conservatory, looking for an empty but lighted place where he could unfold the paper, but two soldiers were frowning in his direction. He ended up waiting through dinner and a theater show during which university students reenacted some of the great moments from the Games, often with amusing asides. All too aware of the note in his pocket, Basilard had a hard time conversing or enjoying the festivities. He let out a deep breath when they exited the conservatory without any guards accosting them.

  “Something wrong?” Books asked. “You’ve been quiet all...”

  Basilard strode toward a winding but lit path. Books hurried to catch up. When they were out of sight of the soldiers, guards, and other dinner-goers, he stopped, finally unfolding the message.

  “What is that?” Books asked. “Did the emperor give it to you?”

  Basilard already had the note open, and, after another check of their surroundings, he held it out so they could both read it.