Deadly Games

  She considered her surroundings, searching for inspiration. Couples walked past, hand in hand, enjoying the pleasant evening. Now and then, crowds of university students or off-duty soldiers sauntered down the street, their voices boisterous with drink. Everyone turned curious eyes toward the enforcer procession as it passed, but nobody gave Amaranthe anything to work with.

  She decided to stay on the street paralleling the canal. If no better option presented itself, she might be able to distract her captors long enough to sprint to the side and jump in. Of course, she might also get her back peppered with quarrels if she tried that tactic. Even if she made it in, the gas lamps from the street shone onto the water, creating yellow pools that provided enough light for a crossbowman to see a head pop up and to shoot at it.

  Ahead lay the bridge her team had crossed under earlier. She thought of the grate Sicarius had unlocked. He had closed it, she remembered, but nobody had bothered to re-lock it. If she could get to it, maybe she could sprint through that tunnel and out the other side, then lose the enforcers in the city. How, though? Jump into the canal, swim to the grate, open it, climb in, and run? That seemed like an eternity where she would be a target to the crossbowmen—if she could get past them long enough to jump over the railing to start with.

  Most of the boat traffic had dwindled with twilight’s arrival, though a keelboat floated past now and then. Lanterns lit up one heading upriver, with six pole-bearers striding along the sides in sync, pushing the vessel with their long staves. It would float under the bridge before long. If Amaranthe slowed her pace, she might be able to time a trip over the canal at the same time as the keelboat passed below.

  “Hold up, please.” Without waiting for permission, she lowered the bags to the ground and made a show of shaking out her hands. “These are heavy.” She moved a couple of items from one bag to the other.

  A boot thumped against her backside. “Get going.”

  She picked up the bags one at a time, watching the approach of the vessel. That should do it.

  “This way.” Amaranthe headed for the bridge. “He’s in the attic of a factory over on Sankel Street.”

  The enforcers followed without comment. Her heart lurched into double time as she considered the escape. She might very well get herself shot. Or she might break a leg jumping off the bridge. Or they might simply follow her and capture her. This was foolish. She should wait for a better opportunity. But there might not be one.

  They started up the bridge as the keelboat approached.

  A harsh smell wafted through the air. She sniffed, trying to identify it. Varnish.

  She eyed the houseboats tied on either side of the canal. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she spotted something that may have been brushes, drop cloths, and a tin of varnish on the deck of a floating home.

  Between one step and the next her plan changed.

  Amaranthe slipped a hand into one of the bags, hoping Maldynado had been complete with his shopping. What good were stamina-promoting candles without matches to light them?

  As they reached the apex of the bridge, the sergeant moved a step closer, a shrewd gaze upon her. He must have noticed the keelboat and guessed at her plan.

  Well, she had a new plan now. Down at the bottom of the bag, past the vegetables, wine bottles, and candles, she found what she sought—a couple of sturdy wooden matches. While thanking Maldynado for overly thorough shopping, she slid them out.

  When they passed the apex without Amaranthe attempting to leap onto the keelboat, the sergeant’s attention shifted forward again.

  She found a round tin can in the bag. Some fancy spread? It didn’t matter. As they neared the bottom of the bridge, and the floating home in the process of being refinished, Amaranthe tossed the item down the slope.

  “Oops,” she said, “dropped something.”

  She bent, as if to try to catch it before it could roll away, and launched a backward kick into the enforcer who had been walking on her right. At the same time, she jabbed an elbow into the sergeant’s gut. Without waiting for them to gather their thoughts, she vaulted over the railing.

  Though she anticipated the drop, it stole her breath. With the water low this time of year, she fell twelve or fifteen feet before hitting the roof. She rolled to keep from breaking an ankle, but got tangled up with the shopping bags, and an ill-placed stove vent made the landing even more painful.

  Shouts sounded above. A crossbow quarrel thudded into the roof.

  Amaranthe scrambled over the side, landing on the deck near the finishing equipment. She found the varnish and unscrewed the tin.

  Thumps came from the roof—the enforcers following her down.

  “Over here!” one shouted.

  She dumped the varnish all about and struck a match. She dropped it in the liquid and darted around the corner of the house. Flames flared to life behind her.

  “Wait, don’t go down!”

  “She started a cursed fire!”

  Amaranthe hurled a deck chair into the water under the bridge, hoping the enforcers would think the splash resulted from her diving in. As she eased around another corner, she silently apologized to the poor homeowner whose house she was vandalizing. Maybe she could send money later.

  “Did she go overboard?”

  “I heard a splash. There!”

  “Somebody get a bucket! This fire is—” The order broke off in a round of coughing.

  Hoping they were all peering into the water under the bridge, Amaranthe slipped up a ladder leading to the ledge along the canal. She skimmed through the shadows to the grate. It remained unlocked. She eased over the side and alighted in the tunnel.

  When she leaned out to pull the grate shut, she glimpsed the fire she had started, and she gaped. The flames had spread to the wall and roof of the home. The intensity of the light illuminated the canal and turned the water a burnished orange. People on the street were gathering. If the enforcers did not give up their search and send someone to alert the Imperial Fire Brigade, the owners of that house would lose everything.

  She pulled the grate shut, pausing to lean her head against the cold bars. “Dumb move,” she whispered. Yes, she had escaped, but at what cost? She didn’t have the kind of money it would take to reimburse the homeowners.

  Amaranthe straightened, and a wine bottle in the bag clunked against the iron bars. How she had managed to keep the silly groceries with her she did not know.

  She turned her back on the canal, and the devastation she had wrought, and ran up the tunnel.

  In the alley behind the newspaper building, she checked both directions before crawling out of the passage. Careful to do it quietly, she eased the manhole cover back into place. She stood, then jumped with surprise when she found a shadow looming next to her.

  “It’s me,” Sicarius said before she could think of flinging a shopping bag at him.

  “Thank the emperor,” she breathed. “We need to go.” She trotted to the nearest street.

  “Yes.” He fell into step beside her, and they headed away from the canal. Shouts rang out behind them—people yelling at others to help or run for the fire brigade. “I saw the enforcers,” he said.

  Great. Another witness to her arson, though he would probably approve of such tactics. That didn’t make her feel better.

  They jogged past rows of factories, dormant for the night, and crossed into a residential neighborhood. Several blocks into it, on the edge of a park, Amaranthe dared to stop to catch her breath and collect herself. She dropped the canvas bags, hardly caring if she damaged something. The bottle of wine rolled out and bumped to a stop against a tree root.

  “What happened after I left?” she asked. “Did you follow Mancrest?”

  “Yes. An army lorry rolled into the alley and picked up two squads of soldiers. The Mancrests left out the front. They parted ways, and I followed the journalist to his house.” Sicarius eyed the shopping bags. “You still wish to speak with him?”

  “Yes.”
Amaranthe snorted. More than ever she needed to make friends with Mancrest. “I need someone to squash the front-page headline I foresee hitting the papers tomorrow: Notorious Criminal Amaranthe Lokdon Commits Arson on the 17th Street Canal.”

  “That can be arranged,” Sicarius said, though he hesitated before saying it, as if he was not certain they were thinking of the same way that deed could be done. Good guess.

  “Not with threats of pain,” Amaranthe said. “Or actual pain.”

  He said nothing.

  She crouched, putting her back to an oak, and looked up at him. Streetlights burned at both ends of the park, but full night had fallen, and darkness hid Sicarius’s face. His black clothing made it hard to pick him out, even a few feet away.

  “Out of all the enforcers you’ve...killed...” She had a hard time saying that. Whatever happened, she had still been an enforcer for nearly seven years, and it was painful to think of harm coming to her old colleagues. “Out of all of them, did you ever start the fight? Or was it all just a matter of them trying to kill you?”

  “If I perceived them as a threat, I eliminated them.”

  “But you never saw a couple of patrollers strolling down the street and decided, oh, yes, there need to be fewer enforcers in the world, so I’m going to leave the shadows and stick a knife in their backs?”

  “You know I did not,” Sicarius said, a hint of reproach in his normally emotionless voice.

  “I know. Sorry. I’m just trying to figure this out.” She dropped her head in her hands and dug her fingers into her scalp. She liked to think she was bright, but maybe she was just delusional. She ought to have been able to escape without wreaking havoc. If she truly were smart, she would not have been captured in the first place. But as long as they worked in the city, and went out and about to pursue missions, it seemed unlikely she could successfully avoid the enforcers every minute of every day. She needed them to look the other way, but her stomach clenched at the idea of blackmail or any strong-arming. “How can I make them understand that I’m on their side and they don’t need to try to capture me, no matter what the bounty says? I feel like we made some progress with that water scheme, but again so few people know we were involved. And every time something like this happens—” she waved back toward the canal, “—it’s a step backward. I’m not sure they’ll ever forgive me for what happened to Wholt and those other enforcers.” She thought of her discussion with Basilard and wondered if she was delusional for believing she could find a place in the history books as a hero. “Maybe I should give up on heroics and become a villain. The money’s better, I hear, and you’re a fine example of how easy it is to become notorious. You’re probably guaranteed a place in the history books.”

  She sighed and dropped to her knees to grab the wine bottle and shove it back in the bag. “All right, I’m done whining. Thank you for listening.”

  In the dim lighting, she did not at first notice when Sicarius grabbed one bag and extended a hand for the second. She gave it to him. She was cursed tired of carrying the things anyway. Maybe he knew that. He surprised her by offering his hand again, this time to grip her arm and help her up.

  “Hm,” she said. “If I’d known it would result in you carrying things for me, I’d have moaned and complained to you more often.”

  “Easy?” he said as they headed off down the tree-lined street.

  “What?”

  “You think it’s easy to become notorious?”

  “Well.” She managed a faint smile. “You make it look easy.”

  “Huh.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Top floor, eh?” Amaranthe followed Sicarius to one of only two doors in a short hallway. The one they stopped in front of was made of stout oak and featured a hand-carved image of a spear-toting man hunting a bear alongside a tree-lined river.

  “Yes,” Sicarius said.

  Since Mancrest was warrior caste, it made sense that he would have the resources to own a flat that took up half of the floor. What surprised her was that he lived in a neighborhood full of university students and modest-income families, in a building that lacked a doorman in the lobby to keep out riffraff. Maybe as a journalist, he favored being in the heart of the city.

  Amaranthe took the grocery bags from Sicarius. “Thank you. Do you want to wait outside while I—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “He may have a limp, but he’s a former officer. He’ll be a dangerous opponent.”

  “No doubt,” Amaranthe said, “but I’m not planning to fight him. Also, I find it difficult to...sway people to my way of thinking when you’re holding knives to their throats. That tends to render one unwilling to believe my entreaties of friendship.”

  Sicarius’s only response was to knock on the door.

  “You have an amazing knack for being almost personable one moment and, er, yourself the next.”

  He said nothing.

  Uneven footsteps and the rhythmic thump of a cane on a hard floor sounded on the other side of the door. Sicarius took up a position against the wall. She wanted to tell him not to jump out and put a knife to Mancrest’s throat, but the door opened too soon.

  Amaranthe had a glimpse of short, wavy brown hair, a strong jaw, and spectacles before Mancrest realized who she was and reacted.

  He jumped back, whipping his cane up. A click sounded, and the wood flew away from the handle. Amaranthe dropped the groceries and flung an arm up to block the projectile, but Sicarius blurred past her.

  He caught the flying cane and tackled Mancrest. Something—steel?—clattered to the floor.

  In the half a second it took Amaranthe to realize she could lower her arms, the skirmish was over. Mancrest lay sprawled face-first on the floor with Sicarius on top, pinning him. She cringed. At least knives were not involved. Yet.

  “Good evening, Lord Mancrest.” Amaranthe picked up her bags and the hollow husk of the cane. She spotted the handle attached to a rapier on the floor inside the threshold. Sword stick. “I thought we had a dinner date. Was my invitation received in error?”

  Having his face pressed into the floor muffled his response.

  “Pardon?” Amaranthe stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Sicarius, would you mind letting him up, please?”

  Sicarius yanked him to his feet, keeping Mancrest’s arms pinned behind his back. A pained grimace twisted Mancrest’s face, and his spectacles dangled from one ear.

  Amaranthe waved for Sicarius to loosen the hold. He did not.

  “I apologize for being tardy at your proposed meeting place,” Amaranthe said, “but there appeared to be a squad of soldiers lurking inside. What do you suppose they were doing there?”

  Mancrest glowered and said nothing.

  “Maldynado seems to think you’re an honorable fellow,” Amaranthe said, “and even knowing that you arranged to have me captured, or killed I suppose, he still thinks I should talk to you.” Actually, according to Maldynado’s candle selection, he thought they should do more than talk.

  “I am honorable,” Mancrest said, voice strained as he fought to stifle grimaces of pain that flashed across his face. “That’s why I tried to arrange your capture.”

  Sicarius stood a couple of inches shorter than Mancrest, but Amaranthe had no trouble meeting his eyes over the bigger man’s shoulder. “Let go,” she mouthed.

  At first he did not, but she held his gaze for a long moment, and he finally searched Mancrest for other weapons and released him. Mancrest took a couple of careful steps away from them, trying to hide his limp, but the stiffness of his movements gave it away. He positioned himself so his back was no longer to Sicarius.

  Amaranthe assembled his sword stick and extended it toward him. Mancrest considered it—and her—for several long seconds before accepting it. He rested the tip on the floor, though he did not lean on it.

  Despite what must be a permanent injury, he appeared fit. The rolled-up sleeves of his creamy shirt revealed muscular forearms. A
s Maldynado had promised, Mancrest had a handsome face, though what might have been pain lines creased his eyes and the corners of his mouth, making him appear a few years older than he probably was.

  “I guess it’s good I didn’t dress up for you then.” She hefted the bags. “Hungry? Mind if I find some plates?”

  “Depends.” Mancrest was spending more time watching Sicarius than her. “Will three be dining or just two?”

  “Ah, I believe my provisions were gathered with a pair in mind.” She gave an apologetic shrug to Sicarius. “Maldynado did the shopping.”

  Sicarius wore his usual guess-my-thoughts-if-you-can mask, though she sensed he did not approve. Of dinner or the entire situation? She did not know.

  “Where shall I set up?” she asked Mancrest.

  Masculine leather chairs and sofas, a desk, and a gaming table occupied the main room, but nothing looked like a dining area. A half a dozen doors marked the brick and wood walls, none of them with any enlightening ornamentation that proclaimed, “Kitchen this way.”

  Mancrest jerked his head toward one in the back. “In there.”

  At least he was cooperating. That was a good start, right?

  Amaranthe headed for the door. As she passed through, she noticed she had picked up a shadow.

  “I don’t think he’s going to try anything right now,” she whispered to Sicarius who was already taking up a post against the wall beside a long dining table made from a single thick slab of wood. “He must be curious about what I have to say. He’s a journalist, after all.”

  Mancrest stepped through the door, veering the opposite direction from Sicarius.

  “May I get you a drink?” he asked, pointedly not looking at Sicarius or including him in the offer.

  Amaranthe pulled out the wine bottle. “Just a corkscrew.”

  Mancrest examined the bottle. Checking the label to see if it met with his refined warrior-caste palette? No, she realized. He was seeing if the seal had been broken.