Deadly Games (19 page)

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

Books weaved past other athletes swinging
their 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. “I
found those other two names. They are indeed athletes here. One is
a male boxer and one a female entered in the Clank Race.” He
considered the men surrounding them. “Did the women already
compete?”

Earlier this morning.

“She’s not missing yet—she’s the only one on
that list who isn’t. The boxer disappeared last night. If we could
find the girl and watch her, perhaps we could get a glimpse of the
kidnapper.”

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 and
imitated 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 a
grin.

“Clapping won’t suffice?”

Clap for others’ performances. Cheer for
me.

“Ah, very well.”

“Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletes
called.

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 fierce
enough.

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

A mighty warrior.

“A moderately famous general, yes, but he was
notorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had seven
wives at the time of his death, all near different forts and
outposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the others
existed. 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 and
get your chance to meet him.”

Could make an interesting conversation
starter.

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

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

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

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

Basilard gripped Book’s arm.
You’re not
helping.

“Oh, pardon me.”

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

Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books and
jogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The top
seed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at
2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four more
runners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, which
would put him in third. That ought to be enough.

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

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

Though nobody in the stands could know who he
was, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded his
mind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before an
audience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experienced
there. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go on
living.

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

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

He launched himself at a rope hanging from a
beam. Below, a bed of three-foot-long spikes glistened in the sun.
Basilard caught the rope and zipped up it. Thanks to Sicarius’s
training,
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, he
thrust himself toward the first of several pegs sticking out of the
beam. Sweat slicked his palms, and his hand slipped free. Basilard
flailed with his other hand and, by a stroke of luck, caught the
peg before he fell. His heart hammered in his ears. The thirty-foot
drop to the spikes would do more than put him out of the
competition; it would kill him.

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

He caught the next peg, a couple of feet to
the right, and swung from handhold to handhold, his feet dangling
below. The pegs started in a straight line, but then zigzagged up
and down, requiring strength and agility to maneuver through
them.

Basilard reached the end and swung his legs
to the right, catching a net stretched between two massive wooden
supports. He skimmed halfway down to the ground, found the opening
in the middle, and slithered through to land on a platform. One of
his bare feet, just as sweaty as his palm, slipped on the smooth
wood boards. He caught himself, but not before he rethought the
wisdom of going shoeless.

Ahead of him, the small circular platforms
moved, some linearly back and forth and others in orbits on
mechanical arms, like those that rotated wheels on a train. The
axes swung like pendulums.

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

Here, his bare feet helped. His toes wrapped
over the edges, and he launched himself from spot to spot. At one
point, he dove under an axe for a chance to skip two platforms
ahead.

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

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

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

Basilard gaped. That put him in first
place.

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

Amaranthe stood with them, too, her
broad-brimmed sunhat hiding her face to some extent. A lump formed
in Basilard’s throat. They—especially Amaranthe—were risking a
chase from the ever-present enforcers to be here to root for
him.

He did not want to call attention to them, so
he merely nodded that direction before accepting a towel from a boy
garbed in attendant’s yellow and white. Basilard swabbed sweat out
of his eyes and off his scalp.

“Congratulations on your time, sir,” the boy
said, eyeing the briar patch of scars crisscrossing Basilard’s
head. No imperial child would shy away from a man covered with old
wounds, but even here, in the militaristic empire, he was an
oddity. “There’s lemonade in the athletes’ lounge. I’ll show
you.”

The promise of a cold drink enticed him.
Besides, it was better not to go straight to Amaranthe and the
others, not when enforcers might be watching. Still wiping himself
off with the towel, he headed for the shady rooms beneath the tiers
of spectators. He had never had lemonade before coming to the
empire—importing a perishable item from hundreds of miles to the
south was an impossible feat for his people—but he admitted a
fondness for the drink, and he was salivating in anticipation when
he entered the shady concrete corridor.

He padded into the interior, his eyes
adjusting to the dim lighting. Just as he was wondering if it was
strange that nobody else occupied the passage, something stirred
the hairs on his arms. Magic?

When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw
only the towel boy strolling after him. With dark hair and tan
skin, he appeared a typical Turgonian youth, not anyone who might
have access to the mental sciences.

A few feet ahead, something tinkled to the
floor. Glass.

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

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

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

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

His steps turned to stumbles, and then he
could not feel his bare feet coming down on the cement at all. He
lost his balance and tipped backward. The ground came up far too
quickly for him to turn the fall into a roll, and his head cracked
against the hard floor.

Shapes drifted out of the shadows and
coalesced into men looming over him. Basilard could not lift his
arms, could not do anything to defend himself.

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

* * * * *

The last of the competitors finished the
Clank Race, and the timekeeper painted the results for all to see.
1:59. Nobody had beaten Basilard’s score. Amaranthe smiled to
herself, tickled that he had done so well against younger and
taller competitors, men who had trained all year for this event.
Albeit, the exercise sessions they endured with Sicarius could be
no less arduous than anything those athletes inflicted upon
themselves.

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

“What’s he doing down there for so long?”
Amaranthe murmured.

She wanted to collect Basilard and start
investigating the fountains near Raydevk’s flat. They did not have
many hours before her meeting with Deret. She was tempted to cancel
that, but he might have information about the kidnappings she did
not. Surely a journalist had as many informants in the city as the
enforcers did.

“He’s a contender for the trophy now.”
Maldynado removed his hat to scratch his head and nearly poked
Amaranthe in the eye with the ostrich feather. “I bet he’s getting
mobbed by women who want to grease his snake tonight.”

Amaranthe gave him a sidelong look. “The way
your mind works is unique.”

“Not amongst men,” Maldynado said.

“Amongst
some
men,” Books said.

Amaranthe fidgeted and watched the tunnel
entrance through which Basilard had walked with the towel boy
trailing behind. Several minutes had passed, and neither had
returned to the arena.