Deadly Games ee-3 Page 14

  She knelt, doing a last check of the areasbeneath the beds, when Velks spoke again. “Can we go?”

  “We cleaned everything and put everythingback that we took,” his brother said. “We even got rid of thosegummy food stains that we were not responsible for.”

  “We even did the windows!” Velks added.

  Maldynado snickered. He was lounging on thesofa, playing with a sliding puzzle block in which one had to findappropriate niches for various war implements. Apparently thethieves had not made an escape attempt in a while.

  “Yes, you may go.” Amaranthe returned thedagger she had taken from them and surveyed the flat. It sparkled.Huh. “Gentlemen?” she added, stopping them in the middle of asprint for the door.

  “What?” Velks asked, shoulders hunched.

  “You do good work. Perhaps you shouldconsider a career in the cleaning services.”

  “Cleaning services?” Their mouthsgaped open.

  “Men don’t clean, they fight!” one said.

  “And they run over imperial enemies withgiant steam trampers and they tear down massive fortifications withthose brilliant new rammers.” Velks sighed longingly.

  “Are you two planning to join the military?”Amaranthe asked, thinking they appeared old enough-Akstyr’s age atleast.

  Maldynado yawned and gave her awhy-are-we-spending-so-much-time-here look as he thunked a puzzlepiece into place.

  “Maybe.” Velks shrugged.

  Probably a no then. “Madame Rawdik on Fourthruns an industrial cleaning outfit. They have a steam pressurewasher as big as a tramper. If you worked for her, you couldprobably ride it.”

  Two sets of eyes grew round. “Really? Ididn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “If you decide to apply for a job, tell herthat her old school friend Amaranthe says you do good work.”

  Their eyes remained wide, and they exchangedgapes with her. It wasn’t that much of a favor. Had nobodyever vouched for them for anything before?

  “Thanks,” Velks said, and his brother noddedand scampered out the door. Velks hesitated, his face screwed up inconcentration. “I don’t know if it helps, but those miners alsosaid…the girl they were seeing had…fire hair? Fiery hair. Andshe was worth pounding like a steam hammer. I listened to thatpart, on account of, well-it was about a woman.”

  “I see,” Amaranthe said. “Thank you.”

  The young men left, and Maldynado thunked afinal piece into the puzzle before tossing it onto a chair. “How’dyou know?” he asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That they had more information.”

  “I didn’t.” She winked. “I just like toreform wayward youths whenever possible.”

  “That’s very noble. I bet Deret likes noblewomen.”

  “Don’t start with that again, or I’ll try toreform you.”

  “I’m hardly a youth.”

  “But you don’t argue against needing reform?”Amaranthe headed for the door.

  “Not really, no.” Maldynado opened it forher. “What’s next?”

  “We have Akstyr update his search. He’s notjust looking for that powder at the apothecaries; he’s askingclerks if they remember a sexy red-headed woman coming in and doingthe shopping. That’s far from a normal hair color in theempire.”

  “Ah, Akstyr will be doing the work?Excellent.” He followed her into the hallway.

  “Oh, no, we’ll be searching the neighborhoodand contemplating all the fountains within a two miles radius.”

  Maldynado stopped walking and flopped againstthe wall. “All the… This is Stumps! There are almost asmany fountains in the city as there are headless statues.”

  “There aren’t that many,” Amaranthesaid.

  “There’s one at every intersection.”

  “Every other intersection, at the most.”

  “That’s still a lot. And just becausethese people met at a fountain the other night doesn’t meanthey’ll be loitering nearby now.”

  “I know. It’s not much to go on. I’ll thinkon it while we watch Basilard compete this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” Maldynado snapped his fingers. “And weneed to get there early. No fountain searching on the way. What ifsomeone tries to kidnap him?”

  “I doubt anyone knows who he is,” Amaranthesaid, amused at how quickly Maldynado could start scheming his wayout of work. “He entered with his Mangdorian name, didn’t he?” Evenif people knew a “Basilard” ran with Sicarius, nobody in the citywould know his real name.

  Maldynado snickered. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Basilard hopped up and down and swung hisarms. He was one of six athletes left in the staging area, and hedid not think anyone else appeared as nervous as he. Though it wasthe first day of events, and only a third of the benches in thestadium were filled, Basilard could not help but feel as ifthousands of eyes watched him. Already, he had visited the washoutsbeneath the stands three times, both to urinate and to throwup.

  He remembered being nervous before the pitfights, but not this nervous. Strange, considering his life hadbeen on the line there, and people had shouted and jeered fromabove, calling out for bloodshed. Maybe it was because he had moreto win here. It wasn’t just an extension of his own existence, buta visit with the emperor and a chance to speak for his people. Ifhe did not get himself killed trying to take out Sicarius first. Hegrowled at himself, annoyed with the situation. He never shouldhave gone to visit that priestess.

  Basilard distracted himself by studying alarge blackboard near the furnace. So far, two people had beatenthe best time he had recorded with Maldynado or Akstyr. He hopeddaylight-and the exhilaration of the moment coursing through hisblood-would help him improve. To go out in the first round would bea shame.

  “It’s all right,” a familiar voice said. “I’mhis coach.”

  “You don’t look like a coach. You look like aprofessor.”

  “Why, thank you,” Books said.

  Basilard lifted a hand toward the young mantasked with keeping intruders from bothering the athletes in thestaging area. He let Books through with a suspicious glower.

  Books weaved past other athletes swingingtheir arms and stretching in the sandy pit. “Greetings, Basilard,”he said. “Are you prepared for your event?”

  Yes.

  “Good.” Books unfolded a piece of paper. “Ifound those other two names. They are indeed athletes here. One isa male boxer and one a female entered in the Clank Race.” Heconsidered the men surrounding them. “Did the women alreadycompete?”

  Earlier this morning.

  “She’s not missing yet-she’s the only one onthat list who isn’t. The boxer disappeared last night. If we couldfind the girl and watch her, perhaps we could get a glimpse of thekidnapper.”

  Books?

  “Yes?”

  I race soon. I must concentrate.

  “Oh. Yes, of course. Do you want me to watch,or leave you alone?”

  Stay. Cheer. He lifted an arm andimitated some of the enthused people in the stands.

  “I’ve not attended many sporting events,”Books said. “Is that arm-pumping action required?”

  Absolutely. Basilard flashed agrin.

  “Clapping won’t suffice?”

  Clap for others’ performances. Cheer forme.

  “Ah, very well.”

  “Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletescalled.

  Basilard lifted an arm, then told Books,That’s my imperial athlete name.

  Books’s eyes widened. “Temtelamak?Why?”

  Thought enforcers would recognize ‘Basilard,’and Maldynado said my Mangdorian name didn’t sound fierceenough.

  “Did he tell you who Temtelamak was?” Bookslowered his voice to mutter, “I’m surprised that uneducated buffoonknows that much history.”

  A mighty warrior.

  “A moderately famous general, yes, but he wasnotorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had sevenwiv
es at the time of his death, all near different forts andoutposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the othersexisted. I believe there were copious mistresses as well.”

  Basilard shrugged. It’s Maldynado.

  “Yes, he doubtlessly thought it’d be amusing.We’ll see if the emperor finds it so, should you win the event andget your chance to meet him.”

  Could make an interesting conversationstarter.

  Books opened his mouth to say more, but ascream of pain interrupted him. One of the athletes had stumbled inthe axe crossing and fallen off the moving platforms. He rolled inthe sawdust, one hand grabbing the opposite triceps. Blood flowedthrough his fingers and stained the wood chips. A medic trotted outto help him off the field while the people in the seats roared.Whether they were supporting the noble attempt or cheering at thesight of blood, Basilard could not guess.

  “Perhaps you should have entered a runningevent,” Books said, eyeing the bloodstained sawdust.

  If he were tall and lanky and fast, thatmight have been an option. For Books’s sake, or perhaps to reassurehimself, he simply signed, One less competitor now. Besides, Ihad no trouble with the axes on the practice runs.

  “Yes, but is it not different when a thousandgazes are upon you, and there’s something at stake? Suddenly, sweatis dripping into your eyes, your hands are unsteady, your sensesare over-heightened, and-”

  Basilard gripped Book’s arm. You’re nothelping.

  “Oh, pardon me.”

  “Temtelamak,” the call came again. “You’re upnow, or you’ll forfeit if you’re not ready. You coming?”

  Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books andjogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The topseed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four morerunners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, whichwould put him in third. That ought to be enough.

  Easier said than done, he thought, as hewalked to the starting line. The giant axe heads swinging on theirpendulum arms appeared far more dangerous by the light of day.Their steel blades gleamed in the sun, and Basilard no longer hadto imagine their ability to draw blood, since crimson dropsspattered more than one of the platforms.

  After taking a deep breath, he stepped to theline and nodded his readiness to the starter.

  Though nobody in the stands could know who hewas, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded hismind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before anaudience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experiencedthere. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go onliving.

  Nausea stirred in his stomach again, andthose memories almost overwhelmed him. It’s merely a race, he toldhimself. He was not here to hurt anyone.

  A hammer hit a gong, signaling the start ofthe run. Thanks to his wandering thoughts, he lost a split second,and he cursed himself even as he sprinted up the ramp to thespinning logs. He sprang across them, bare feet navigating wood hotbeneath the sun. Most of the other athletes wore shoes of somekind, but he could grip and scramble up obstacles more easily withtoes available. He skimmed across the moving platforms, ducking andweaving the swinging axes.

  He launched himself at a rope hanging from abeam. Below, a bed of three-foot-long spikes glistened in the sun.Basilard caught the rope and zipped up it. Thanks to Sicarius’straining, that was an easy obstacle.

  No, no thanking Sicarius, he told himself.And no thinking about anything except the clock he had to beat.

  When he reached the top of the rope, hethrust himself toward the first of several pegs sticking out of thebeam. Sweat slicked his palms, and his hand slipped free. Basilardflailed with his other hand and, by a stroke of luck, caught thepeg before he fell. His heart hammered in his ears. The thirty-footdrop to the spikes would do more than put him out of thecompetition; it would kill him.

  The crowd roared shouts of encouragement,and, for the first time, he grew aware of them. He wished hehadn’t.

  He caught the next peg, a couple of feet tothe right, and swung from handhold to handhold, his feet danglingbelow. The pegs started in a straight line, but then zigzagged upand down, requiring strength and agility to maneuver throughthem.

  Basilard reached the end and swung his legsto the right, catching a net stretched between two massive woodensupports. He skimmed halfway down to the ground, found the openingin the middle, and slithered through to land on a platform. One ofhis bare feet, just as sweaty as his palm, slipped on the smoothwood boards. He caught himself, but not before he rethought thewisdom of going shoeless.

  Ahead of him, the small circular platformsmoved, some linearly back and forth and others in orbits onmechanical arms, like those that rotated wheels on a train. Theaxes swung like pendulums.

  He launched himself onto the first platform,planning his route on the fly. An axe whistled by behind him. If hehad hair, the breeze would have stirred it. He did not look back orslow down. Basilard danced to the next platform, then the next.Some were barely four inches wide. Even without the axes slashingthrough, they would have been difficult targets.

  Here, his bare feet helped. His toes wrappedover the edges, and he launched himself from spot to spot. At onepoint, he dove under an axe for a chance to skip two platformsahead.

  Thousands of people gasped at once as theblade skimmed past, an inch above his shoulder blades. He got hisfeet under him again and leaped the last couple of feet to thesolid platform on the far side. Two more walls, net climbs, and asprint across a spinning log, and he reached the ramp on the farside. Though weariness burned in his thighs, he sprinted the lastfew meters and catapulted over the solid wall, pulling himself upand over without using his feet. Relieved to be done, and out ofsome notion he should finish with a flourish, he leaped into theair as he passed the finish line, doing a somersault before landingby the timekeeper.

  Cheers erupted, and he grinned. Those peoplewould root for any good showing, but knowing they appreciated hisathleticism, instead of his ability to stick knives into people,made him grateful.

  The cheers went on longer than expected. Anattendant was already painting his time on a sheet on a giant padof paper that could be spun to show both sides of the stadium.1:53.

  Basilard gaped. That put him in firstplace.

  A high-pitched, enthusiastic whistle floateddown from the seats near the stadium entrance. He glanced over intime to see Books swatting Maldynado in the back of the head,nearly knocking a hat off, one with a white plumed feather ofridiculous proportions. Though Basilard could not read lips, hecaught the gist of Books’s words, “Quit drawing attention to us,you big oaf. We’re wanted men.”

  Amaranthe stood with them, too, herbroad-brimmed sunhat hiding her face to some extent. A lump formedin Basilard’s throat. They-especially Amaranthe-were risking achase from the ever-present enforcers to be here to root forhim.

  He did not want to call attention to them, sohe merely nodded that direction before accepting a towel from a boygarbed in attendant’s yellow and white. Basilard swabbed sweat outof his eyes and off his scalp.

  “Congratulations on your time, sir,” the boysaid, eyeing the briar patch of scars crisscrossing Basilard’shead. No imperial child would shy away from a man covered with oldwounds, but even here, in the militaristic empire, he was anoddity. “There’s lemonade in the athletes’ lounge. I’ll showyou.”

  The promise of a cold drink enticed him.Besides, it was better not to go straight to Amaranthe and theothers, not when enforcers might be watching. Still wiping himselfoff with the towel, he headed for the shady rooms beneath the tiersof spectators. He had never had lemonade before coming to theempire-importing a perishable item from hundreds of miles to thesouth was an impossible feat for his people-but he admitted afondness for the drink, and he was salivating in anticipation whenhe entered the shady concrete corridor.

  He padded into the interior, his eyesadjusting to the dim lighting. Just as he was wondering if it wasstrange that nobody e
lse occupied the passage, something stirredthe hairs on his arms. Magic?

  When he glanced over his shoulder, he sawonly the towel boy strolling after him. With dark hair and tanskin, he appeared a typical Turgonian youth, not anyone who mighthave access to the mental sciences.

  A few feet ahead, something tinkled to thefloor. Glass.

  Immediately, Basilard thought of the corkAkstyr had found, the cork that had restrained a vial full ofknock-out powder.

  He backed away and stumbled into the boy, butthe youth made no move to stop him.

  Basilard’s mind spun. Had his fast time madehim a new target? Could these kidnappers work so quickly?

  He would not linger to find out. Though hecould see no one in the corridor, he continued backing toward theentrance, ready to defend himself if necessary. Before he had gonemore than a few steps, a strange lethargy came over him. Thefatigue that had turned his legs leaden at the end of the ClankRace was nothing compared to the heaviness that flooded them now.Heaviness and numbness.

  His steps turned to stumbles, and then hecould not feel his bare feet coming down on the cement at all. Helost his balance and tipped backward. The ground came up far tooquickly for him to turn the fall into a roll, and his head crackedagainst the hard floor.

  Shapes drifted out of the shadows andcoalesced into men looming over him. Basilard could not lift hisarms, could not do anything to defend himself.

  His instincts forgot he could not speak, andhe tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. One of the mengrabbed Basilard’s head and slipped a bag over it. Darknessswallowed him, and he knew no more.

  The last of the competitors finished theClank Race, and the timekeeper painted the results for all to see.1:59. Nobody had beaten Basilard’s score. Amaranthe smiled toherself, tickled that he had done so well against younger andtaller competitors, men who had trained all year for this event.Albeit, the exercise sessions they endured with Sicarius could beno less arduous than anything those athletes inflicted uponthemselves.

  Her smile faded at the thought of Sicarius.Guilt sat in her belly like an undigested meal; it was wrong toidly watch the Games while he was missing.