Deadly Games

  “With athletes disappearing days prior to the race, the odds will be adjusted accordingly.”

  “True, it’d make more sense to kidnap someone the night before, or minutes before the event if you wanted to upset the odds-makers.” Amaranthe took the notepad back and tapped it. “Still, it might be worth talking to some of the bookmakers.”

  Male voices sounded on the path in front of the bench. She parted the branches as a trio of muscular young men walked past. They did not wear athletes’ togs, but instead the sleeveless overalls of miners. That was odd. Most local companies only gave workers the final two days of the Imperial Games off because they were considered a holiday in the capital. Even if one man had finagled a day off somehow, it seemed unlikely a group could have managed the same. Mining outfits were particularly stingy with leave, as Amaranthe well knew. She had seen little of her father when she was growing up. Yet here these men were, wandering about, a day before the qualifying events were to start and a week before the holiday finals.

  “They are not bookmakers,” Sicarius said.

  The branches rustled as Amaranthe released them. “No, I know. I was just thinking...” She paused as the possible connotations of his comment slid over her. Was he displeased to have caught her ogling handsome young men? No hint of consternation marked his face; maybe she had imagined his words had underlying meaning. Besides, he knew she would happily ogle him if he gave her more opportunities. “I’m going to follow those men. I have a hunch.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but all he said was, “There are numerous enforcers about.”

  “I know. I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Just don’t wander off for too long at a time to attend biological needs.”

  Amaranthe tossed him a wink and slipped out of the brush without waiting for a response. She tugged the brim of her hat low over her eyes. It did a decent job of hiding her features, especially considering most enforcers were men, and her five-and-a-half feet put her face below their eye level, but she had best not chance getting too close.

  She trailed after the miners at a distance, keeping other people between her and them. One had a rolled up newspaper and a small leather-bound journal protruding from back pockets. That piqued her interest even more. Most miners only had the mandatory six years of schooling and started working young, so it was rare to find one who was comfortable looking to books or newspapers for information.

  A bent, old woman stepped out from the courtyard of an eating tent, and the miners stopped abruptly. She leaned on a cane and wore her gray hair in buns on either side of her head—hardly a formidable-looking person, but the young men darted back the way they had come, nearly running into Amaranthe. She hopped off the path to let them by. They must have been in their twenties, but they tore away like truant children avoiding a school teacher.

  “I saw you, Rill and Stemmic,” the old woman hollered after them, “and your mother will hear from me. You being off work this many days, you ought to be helping her out.”

  The men ran into the stadium and disappeared from view, but Amaranthe barely noticed. That woman’s voice... It was familiar. Something from her childhood.

  She squinted at the old lady, and it took a moment to place her. She was the mother of a friend of her father’s, and Amaranthe had stayed at her flat once as a girl when Auntie Memela had been sick.

  The woman had stopped yelling after the young men, but she continued to stand there, leaning on her cane and grousing under her breath. Though Amaranthe was curious what the exchange had been about, she found herself hesitant to go up to the woman. She had avoided everyone from her old life since becoming an outlaw, in part to keep them out of trouble, but also because she did not want their pity or condemnation. Once she found her exoneration, she could reconnect with old comrades.

  But this was different. This might be some sort of lead.

  Amaranthe girded herself and strode up to the woman. “Hello, ma’am?” She decided not to mention her name. What were the odds that the woman would remember her? “Do you need any help? Did those boys do something to you?”

  The woman tilted her head and squinted up at Amaranthe, peering beneath the hat. “Amaranthe Lokdon?”

  “Er, you remember me?”

  “I remember you.” Her face was difficult to read. No hint of a smile stretched her lips. “I see you remember me, too.”

  “Yes, but you look the same.”

  “That’s good. I think,” the woman said.

  “Wasn’t I only seven or eight the last time we met?”

  “Yes, but I’ve recently seen your face decorating a poster.”

  “Ah.” Amaranthe tugged her hat a little lower, reminded of the public nature of the place.

  “I imagine your father would be horrified.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I imagine so.”

  “He wanted so much for you, sacrificed so much.”

  “I know, ma’am. I’m trying to...make amends now.”

  “By loitering around the stadium grounds in the middle of the day? Are you betting on the events or something?”

  “No, I—” Amaranthe cleared her throat. She would be here all day—or until someone caught her—if she stood around, explaining her every action. “I was wondering about those miners. Don’t they have work?”

  “Indeed so. They’re not outlaws.”

  “Then why aren’t they at work?” Amaranthe asked, pushing the dig aside.

  “Some scheme of Raydevk’s. I haven’t the faintest notion of what, but they’ve been down here all week. My grandson is racing. That’s why I’m here. There’s no reason for young, able-bodied souls not to be laboring during the workday.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ah, is that the Foreman Raydevk my father knew?”

  “No, his son. Elder Raydevk passed on last year, Black Lung, same as your da.”

  “I’d like to talk to Raydevk,” Amaranthe said. It was a long shot, that off-work miners roaming around with journals had anything to do with the kidnappings, but she had no better leads. “He has a place in the city, doesn’t he?”

  “Not one he’d like me to direct some outlaw to, I’m sure. You thieving these days, too? He’s got a wife and two sons, and he scarcely makes enough to keep them fed. He doesn’t need any more trouble than what he’s already schemed up.”

  “No thieving, ma’am. If it matters, I was wrongfully accused, and I’m trying to clear my name. But now that you bring it up, I think I’ve been to Raydevk’s flat. Doesn’t he live down by the railway tracks?” She was guessing, but most of the low-income housing was down there, near the Veterans’ Quarter. “In that building on...” She wriggled her fingers, as if searching for the information in her head.

  “Nelview?” the old woman said.

  Amaranthe snapped her fingers. “Yes, that’s it. It’s right by that eating house, isn’t it? The...”

  The woman snorted. “I’d hardly call The Brewed Puppy an eating house. If you don’t stick to drinks, you’re like to get sick in there.”

  “That’s true enough,” Amaranthe said, conjuring a map of that part of the city in her head. “And Raydevk’s flat is on the second floor, right?”

  The woman opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again and gave Amaranthe a shrewd look.

  “Never mind,” Amaranthe said. “I’ll find it. Thank you for your time.”

  She hustled away, hoping she could escape before the woman shouted any parting messages, but her words followed Amaranthe anyway.

  “You’d better not thieve from him, girl. Your father’s spirit must be twisted in knots, knowing what came of you.”

  A pair of athletes walking past from the other direction gave Amaranthe quizzical looks. At least they weren’t enforcers.

  “Crazy old grandmother,” Amaranthe told them with a chuckle and hustled toward the stadium.

  She wanted to find the miners and see if they might give her more information on this “scheme,” but a knot of
people blocked the entrance to the stadium. A bare-chested man hopped onto a bench, his oiled muscles gleaming, a wooden megaphone held to his lips.

  “Sicarius, we know you’re out there!” he shouted.

  Amaranthe tripped and almost fell over.

  “I, Erton Garthcrest, challenge you,” the man went on. “If you’re half the man the rumors say, come and prove it. Enter the wrestling and see if you’re my match!” He finished by thumping his fist against his muscled chest, which was so puffed out that he looked like he could tip over backward and fall off the bench at any moment.

  The bystanders cheered at the short speech. Amaranthe wanted to go around and into the stadium, but the cheers went on. “More,” someone hollered, “Bring out Sicarius,” and that started a chant of, “Sicarius, Sicarius.” This drew more people to the scene.

  The entire episode had an orchestrated feel to it, and Amaranthe thought about creeping closer to see if she could identify the ringleader in the crowd, but several enforcers trotted out of the stadium and headed for the group.

  Amaranthe eased off the path. With the enforcers extra alert to trouble, this wasn’t the time for her to roam about inside.

  She headed for the shrubs where she had last seen Sicarius, but did not find him. She continued on toward the greenbelt, figuring he would have gone that way. They had been following the railways from the boneyard to the grounds the last couple of days.

  Before she had taken more than three steps into the trees, Sicarius’s voice came from behind the brush.

  “You found trouble,” he said.

  “I had nothing to do with those people calling your name,” Amaranthe said. “It seems you’re a popular fellow around these parts.”

  “Too popular.”

  “Yes, it’s suspicious. Think someone is trying to get you to make an appearance?”

  “Unknown.” He gazed toward the stadium, though foliage hid the crowd from view. Perhaps at the enforcers’ behest, the shouts of “Sicarius” had stopped.

  Amaranthe summarized her conversation with the woman for him. “I want to find this Raydevk’s flat, but let’s check in on Books and Akstyr first. It’s hard to imagine Turgonian miners coming up with a scheme that involves magic, but I’d like a better idea about what we’re dealing with, just in case. Unless you want to go off and start training for the wrestling event?” she asked, since his gaze was still toward the stadium. “Did that fellow with the megaphone tempt you?”

  Sicarius looked at her as if he suspected her of having received a brain-damaging head wound. “It would be foolish for me to go anywhere near the stadium once the Imperial Games begin, certainly not into the arena.”

  He turned his back on the grounds and led her deeper into the woods. They passed a human-sized statue of an arachnid that must have once had a head, for it was hewn off with the granite stump now fuzzed with moss. Another victim of Mad Emperor Motash’s mandate to decapitate all statues from the old religions.

  “True,” Amaranthe said, “but some men have egos that demand they prove themselves whenever challenged.”

  “That is why they are dead, and I am not.”

  “I guess that explains your longevity.” She grinned. “I knew it wasn’t a matter of your amiable, warm-hearted nature endearing you to people.”

  That comment received no look at all, and he said nothing during the trip back to the boneyard. With that much silence surrounding Amaranthe, her mind was left to its own musing, and, not for the first time, she wondered why Sicarius’s name kept coming up here—and why someone would risk impersonating him. She also wondered what had happened to Fasha to keep her from meeting Amaranthe.

  “Questions,” she muttered to herself. “Nothing but questions.”

  * * * * *

  “What are you doing? I thought you were going on two more runs before taking a break. You’re timing is still off on those swinging axes.”

  Basilard flopped onto his back, hot sweat streaming down his cheeks. Maldynado stood over him, fists propped on his hips. The Clank Race whirred and hissed behind him. Most of the other athletes had left, though a young man was timing himself on sprints up the nets.

  You’re a worse taskmaster than Sicarius, Basilard signed.

  “That’s because you don’t seem motivated. You have to win to have dinner with the emperor. I thought that mattered to you. You want to talk to him on behalf of your people and slaves in the city, don’t you?”

  Basilard sighed and rolled to his knees. If he attacked Sicarius, he would not live long enough to win anything. Unless he succeeded. And if he did, Amaranthe would kick him out of the group, and he’d have no one to translate his wishes to the emperor anyway.

  “Why don’t you get some water?” Maldynado said. “Then we’ll do another round.”

  Basilard stumbled to his feet with thighs rubbery from the previous twenty runs. We?

  “We,” Maldynado said. “We’re a team. You run the Clank Race, and I stand over here with the pocket watch and cheer you on. I think it works well. I’m...” His eyes shifted to watch something over Basilard’s shoulder. He frowned.

  Basilard turned around to follow Maldynado’s gaze, but did not recognize the man approaching. He wore simple, but tailored clothing and a wide-brimmed beaver hat. Walking with a cane made his gait uneven, but it slowed him little, and he appeared hale. Folded spectacles hung from his shirt collar, a pencil protruded from the band of his hat, and he carried a pad of paper under his arm. He strode directly toward Maldynado and Basilard.

  “What do you want, Deret?” Maldynado growled.

  Basilard wondered if he should know this person.

  “I’m working on a story.” The man gave Basilard a curious look before focusing his attention on Maldynado. “Interviewing athletes. Trying to figure out what’s going on around here with the missing people.”

  Ah, this had to be the journalist Amaranthe had gone to see the night before. Mancrest.

  “You could apologize for trying to kill my boss when I promised her you’d take her out to dinner and show her a nice evening,” Maldynado said.

  “You neglected to mention she was a notorious outlaw,” Mancrest said.

  “Seems you figured it out on your own. I’m lucky you don’t turn me in.”

  “For two hundred and fifty ranmyas? Why bother?”

  Maldynado’s fingers curled into a fist.

  Basilard waved to get his attention. Perhaps we should not irritate this man since there are enforcers around and he knows who we are.

  Maldynado sniffed. “I’m not going to irritate him. I’m not going to talk to him at all.” He turned his back on Mancrest and pointed at a couple of young men resting in the shade of the Clank Race’s massive furnace and boiler. “Those two look like your most promising competition, Bas.”

  Basilard kept an eye on Mancrest. If Maldynado’s dismissal bothered him, he did not show it.

  “I have information for your...what is she to you exactly?” Mancrest said. “A former lover? I can’t imagine you trying to arrange a courtship for someone you were currently involved with, but it’s also impossible for me to imagine you getting out of bed to exercise before dawn at the behest of a woman you have no feelings for. It is equally impossible for me to imagine you living in close quarters with a woman and not sleeping with her, or attempting to sleep with her.”

  During this spiel, Maldynado had slowly turned to face Mancrest again, and he eyed the other man with suspicion. “Bas, was there an implied insult to the boss in there, or is he just insulting me?”

  I...think the latter, Basilard signed.

  “All right.” Maldynado’s shoulders lowered, and he unclenched his fists. “That’s nothing unexpected then. What do you want me to tell her, Mancrest?”

  “What is she to you?” Mancrest asked.

  “My employer.”

  “You’ve never gotten up early for an employer before.” Mancrest eyed Maldynado up and down. “You look like you’re in the b
est shape of your life.”

  Maldynado brightened swifter than the night sky presented with a lightning flash. “I am! Look!” He dug his shirt out of his trousers to display the lean ridges of his abdomen.

  Basilard rolled his eyes. There aren’t any women around to impress.

  He caught a similar eye roll from Mancrest. Maybe the fellow wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Maldynado...” Mancrest sighed.

  “Look, she’s my boss and a friend, all right?” Maldynado lowered his shirt. “And...” He prodded the dusty clay earth with his boot. “She’s twenty-six.”

  Huh? What did Amaranthe’s age have to do with anything?

  At first, Mancrest appeared as perplexed, but then his lips formed an, “Oh.”

  “Tia’s age,” Maldynado said. “And real adventurous and quick to smile. She’s a good girl, and she doesn’t deserve that bounty, and she probably only has it because Sicarius is in the group. She thinks he’s useful, and I guess he is, but nobody’s going to pardon us as long as he’s around.”

  Basilard studied Maldynado’s face, wondering if he might have another ally to turn against Sicarius. Surely if the whole group wanted him gone...

  “Yes,” Mancrest said. “I wondered about that. If you’re not sleeping with her, is he?”

  “Listen, Deret. This isn’t one of those smutty Aleeta Dourcrest novels your mother has lying all over the house. We’re a professional team of mercenaries. Elite even. Nobody’s sleeping with anybody.” He hesitated and whispered to Basilard. “They’re not, right?”

  I don’t think so.

  A hint of relief lightened Mancrest’s face, and Basilard thought the man’s interest in Amaranthe curious, especially given that he had tried to turn her over to the army.

  “Didn’t my mother catch you reading one of those novels when you were over to play in the pond with me and my brother?” Mancrest asked.

  “No.”

  Mancrest folded his arms over his chest.

  “Well, fine, maybe. I wanted to know what women like, and some of that information has proved useful to me over the years.”