Deadly Games (26 page)

The scars seemed systematic rather than the
result of sword or knife fighting. Some were stitched and partially
healed while others appeared more recent. Though blood saturated
the blonde hair, the face was oddly unmarred.

A jolt of recognition went through her. It
was Fasha, the woman who had first alerted Amaranthe to the
kidnappings. Either that, or the missing sister was a twin, but
given that Fasha had failed to show up for their last
meeting...

“Some of those scars.” Books coughed and
cleared his throat. “Some of those look like they’re over the
reproductive organs.”

Amaranthe stared at him. “What are you
saying? Someone removed her organs?”

“It seems likely someone did
something
to them.”

Another beam snapped, and burning shards of
wood fluttered to the floor.

“We ought to get out of here,” Maldynado said
from a few feet away. “I’m sure you two can further discuss the
creepiness of this whole situation outside.”

“Good idea,” Books said, stepping past
Amaranthe.

“Wait, we should remove the body,” she said.
A doctor could tell them more about the cuts and if anything
was...missing. “Can you help me—”

A massive crack boomed above her head.
Burning boards plummeted toward her.

Amaranthe leaped back. Someone’s hand gripped
her collar and yanked her further. Charred wood and rubble from the
floor above buried the body and hurled smoke and ash into the
air.

The rag about her mouth did little to keep
fine particles from invading her throat. Coughs wracked her body,
and she bent over, trying to find air. The heat and fumes brought
dizziness, and blackness encroached upon her vision again.

More wood snapped overhead. An arm snaked
around Amaranthe’s waist, and she found herself slung over
someone’s shoulder.

“Help you get out of here?” Maldynado asked
in response to her request. “Why, yes, yes I can.”

When Amaranthe opened her mouth to protest,
another series of coughs sent spasms through her body.

“You approve?” Maldynado said.
“Excellent.”

Despite her reluctance to leave without the
body, a surge of pleasure raced through her when they stepped
outside and cool night air replaced the heat of the building. Rain
splattered the back of her neck, and she didn’t mind it one
bit.

“Dear ancestors,” Books said, “what a
mess.”

“Me?” Amaranthe croaked.

“I believe he’s referring to the crash you
instigated,” Maldynado said.

He had not set her down yet. Amaranthe, butt
in the air, torso dangling down his back, twisted her head to the
side to view the tangled metal carnage in the middle of the
street.

“Take a good look,” Maldynado said. “I want
you to remember this the next time you bother me about running over
a street lamp.”

“Are you planning on destroying more street
lamps?” Books asked.

“Oh, I think that’s a given as long as we
work for the boss here.”

Amaranthe opened her mouth to tell him to set
her down, but motion up the hill stopped her. A vehicle had turned
onto the street and was rolling toward the crash. Night made it
impossible to make out details, but she could guess at the
occupants. “Enforcers coming. Time to go.”

“Right.” Maldynado jogged toward an
alley.

Amaranthe bumped and bounced on his shoulder
like a crate on a bicycle navigating cobblestones. “I can run on my
own,” she said, voice vibrating with Maldynado’s every step.

“Promise you won’t sprint back inside and try
to drag that body out?” Maldynado asked.

“Yes.” Unfortunately.

Maldynado lowered her gently. She scraped
damp hair out of her eyes, wincing when she brushed against a knot
the size of a chicken egg on the side of her head. She was
surprised to find she still clutched the jacket she had pulled out
of the carriage. Not exactly the chance for illumination the body
would have provided, but maybe a pocket would contain a useful
clue.

Several blocks away and back on the street
following the waterfront, Amaranthe paused beneath a streetlight to
examine it. The flame revealed heavy black material in the cut of
an army fatigue jacket.

“What’s that?” Books asked, stopping beside
her.

Maldynado stopped as well, though he turned
his attention the way they had come, watching for pursuit.

“It was in the carriage.” Amaranthe checked
the pockets and found nothing. So much for that hope. The rank pins
had been removed, though the nametag was still sewn on above the
breast pocket. She turned it toward the light. “Taloncrest,” she
read and paused. That name seemed familiar.

“Nobody I’ve heard of,” Maldynado said.

“Nor I,” Books said. “Amaranthe?” he asked
when her thoughtful silence continued.

“Colonel Taloncrest,” she murmured, an uneasy
flutter vexing her stomach at the memory.

“Who’s he?” Maldynado asked.

“He was the surgeon performing medical
experiments on people in the Imperial Barracks dungeon when
Hollowcrest had me thrown down there.”

Memories of that miserable place flooded
Amaranthe. The military could not be behind the kidnapped athletes
and her missing men, could it? No, Sespian would not allow that to
happen. Unless he didn’t
know
it was happening. He hadn’t
known of the experiments in the dungeon the winter before. But he
had been drugged then. The more likely scenario was that Sespian
had learned of the experiments in the dungeon and ousted Taloncrest
for being one of Hollowcrest’s lackeys. That would mean Taloncrest
was a rogue, perhaps hirable by someone else. Such as this
red-haired woman.

“You’re sure?” Books asked. “Medical
experiments?”

“Dear ancestors,” Maldynado said, looking
back the way they had come, toward the dead woman. “That’s
disturbing.”

Amaranthe tried not to think of Taloncrest
standing over Sicarius, a scalpel poised. It did not work.

When Basilard woke, his head ached worse than
it ever had after a night out carousing with Maldynado. He opened
his eyes to—thankfully—dim lighting emanating from a globe hanging
beside a metal door. The entire room—cubby might be a better
word—was made from dark gray metal. He lay on a narrow cot, staring
at riveting running along ridges traversing the walls from floor to
curved ceiling. He had never been on a steam ship, but guessed that
was his location. Engines somewhere rumbled, the reverberations
pulsing through the floor and up his cot.

Was he being transported somewhere? Though he
had never sailed, he had seen maps of the empire and knew that one
could travel from the Chain Lakes down the Goldar River and all the
way to the Gulf. From there, one could go...anywhere in the world.
Had he been captured to be sold into slavery once again? This time
someplace far away? Someplace so far away there was no chance he
would ever return home again to see his daughter?

The daughter you could have already gone to
see if you weren’t such a coward, he told himself.

Basilard sat up, and the pounding in his head
intensified so much he groaned and grabbed his temples. Toughen up,
he told himself. Sicarius would not bellyache so.

He sneered at himself. Why was he holding
Sicarius up as a model to emulate?

When the throbbing calmed enough to handle,
he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and found the floor—the
deck? Was that what ship people called it? The cold metal numbed
his bare feet. With a twitch of surprise, he realized everything
was bare. He patted himself down, checking for...he did not know
what, but one couldn’t trust people who kidnapped one and stole
one’s clothing.

Soft, rhythmic clangs sounded beyond the
door. Footsteps.

A scratch and thud echoed through the door.
Basilard slipped off the cot and dropped into a defensive crouch.
One that could easily turn offensive, if the situation permitted
it. Though he should perhaps figure out where he was before
attacking people. Who knew how long he had been unconscious?

Another thud sounded, then a clank. Multiple
locks being thrown? If so, they had secured him well.

The thick, metal door squeaked open.

A woman stood there, her long red hair pinned
into a swirling dervish atop her head. Two men framed her. They
wore the black fatigues of army soldiers, though no rank pins
adorned their collars. One appeared to be “the muscle.” He crowded
the hallway with broad shoulders and tree-trunk arms that even
Maldynado would have dubbed substantial. He aimed a pistol at
Basilard, though the challenging sneer curling his lips said he
would be happy to battle barehanded or perhaps with the sword
sheathed at his waist. The surname stitched on his jacket read,
LEV. The second man had neatly trimmed gray hair and wielded a
clipboard instead of a gun. His tag read, TALONCREST. A
warrior-caste officer involved in this scheme? Surprising.

The woman stepped inside first with no
apparent fear of Basilard. The men followed after, one at a time,
ducking and stepping over the raised frame of the door to
enter.

“Greetings,” the woman said. “I have
questions for you.”

Though Basilard would not have been in a rush
to answer their questions under any circumstances, he doubted it
was a possibility here. The soldiers would not understand his sign
language, and he did not think the woman was Mangdorian. Though
fair-skinned, she was not as pale as his people, and he thought she
might be Kendorian or perhaps from one of the island nations
between Turgonia and Nuria.

He touched the scar tissue at his throat and
shrugged. Maybe they would not think to ask if he could read,
though Arbitan had insisted Basilard learn that skill before he
took over as head of security for the wizard.

“You can’t speak?” the woman asked, eyes
narrowed.

Basilard shook his head and signed,
Who
are you?
more out of habit than because he wanted a response.
In reflection, maybe he should not have done that. Maybe it was
better if they believed he could not answer their questions at all.
Or would that mean they had no use for him?

The gray-haired officer’s eyebrows rose. “The
Mangdorian hunting code?”

Basilard nodded.

“That answers your question, Litya.”
Taloncrest scribbled something on his notepad.

“Yes, but race matters little for my
experiments,” the woman said in a lilting, almost musical accent
Basilard did not recognize. “I prefer Turgonian stock, given the
goals of my clients, but your people have such muddied bloodlines
that no one will be the wiser as long as we breed the foreigners
with darker skinned specimens.”

Breed? Basilard caught his mouth dangling
open, and he snapped it shut.

“If you don’t need him,” Taloncrest said,
eyeing Basilard as he tapped his pen on his clipboard, “I’m sure I
could use him.”

“You can have them all for your cuttings
after I’ve taken my samples.”

“Excellent,” Taloncrest said.

“I can move ahead with him as soon as my
sister returns with the anesthesia ingredients.”

Cuts were nothing new to Basilard, but
Taloncrest’s smile and the enthusiastic way he scribbled notes on
his clipboard made Basilard uneasy. As did the talk of “samples”
and “anesthesia.”

“Your speed in the race,” the
woman—Litya—said, “is that typical for you, or do you believe it
was a fluke performance? Your agility must have impressed our boy,
because he’d had another pegged as our last acquisition. I have no
data on you however.”

Basilard clasped his hands behind his back.
These people had nothing good planned for him, so he saw no reason
to assist them.

“Taloncrest,” Litya said, “can you understand
his hand codes? Can you make him speak?”

Basilard raised his chin. They could
try
to make him speak.

The young soldier stepped forward at this, an
eager smile tightening his lips.

“I don’t know enough of the signs,”
Taloncrest said.

“Maybe he’s learned to write Turgonian?”
Litya asked. “Or does anybody here read Mangdorian? They’re vaguely
literate, aren’t they?”

Basilard thought about waving for a pen, if
only so he could attempt to stab the woman in the belly with it
before the men stopped him, but it was probably better to pretend
he could not write and did not understand much of what they were
saying.

“When Metya gets back, we’ll question him
under the influence of
pok-tah
,” the woman said. “If he
knows anything, he’ll be eager to share it with us then, one way or
another.”

“It didn’t work on Sicarius,” Taloncrest
muttered, head down, scrawling notes again.

Had Basilard thought about it, he would have
assumed Sicarius was here somewhere, too, but hearing the name
startled him. He covered his surprise quickly and hoped nobody
noticed.

He waited, hoping they would say something
that would indicate whether Sicarius was alive or if they had
already...disposed of him, but nobody spoke again. After Taloncrest
finished scribbling his notes, he nodded to the woman, and the trio
left.

The door clanged shut, and the locks thunked
into place.

Basilard could only guess at what these
people were up to, but he knew he wanted to be no part of it. If he
was on a ship, steaming away from the city, he could not count on
Amaranthe and the others finding him and rescuing him. He would
have to escape.

He eyed the solid metal walls and the sparse
confines of the cabin. It would not be easy.

* * * * *

Amaranthe swept dust and food crumbs off the
top of the lookout car. Despite the busy night, she had slept
poorly when she, Maldynado, and Books returned to their camp in the
boneyard. She had woken at dawn, the lump on her head throbbing,
and frequent yawns had been tearing her gritty eyes ever since.
Morning sun beat against her back, making the night’s rain a faint
memory, but the warmth failed to cheer her. Akstyr had not
returned, and she was beginning to fear he had been captured, too.
Or worse.