Deadly Games (3 page)

Stop it, he told himself. No more
procrastinating. As grandpa used to say, “Cleaning a fish don’t get
any more pleasant for having put the task off.”

He took a deep breath and knocked on the
door.

A part of him hoped no one would answer. Not
many of his people lived in the Turgonian capital, and he had not
sought any out since Amaranthe and Sicarius had killed the wizard
who had bought Basilard years ago. Nor had he had the freedom to
visit anyone during his tenure as a slave. He had never come
face-to-face with the Mangdorians that played a part in the city
water poisoning a couple of months earlier, so this would be the
first he had met since… He swallowed hard at the memory of a young
man he had killed in a pit fight engineered by their owners. He had
killed many in those forced battles, since it had been the only way
to preserve his own life.

The sound of footsteps came from within. A
lock thunked, and the door opened.

A stooped woman with graying red hair
squinted at Basilard. An Eye of God necklace hung around her neck,
and his breath caught. He had expected an apothecary, not a
priestess. She peered up and down the alley before addressing
him.

“You must be here for my herbs,” she said in
heavily accented Turgonian. Her gesture encompassed his scars.
“Come in, come in. My services are very affordable. I don’t use no
magic though, so don’t expect that.” She glanced up and down the
alley again.

Basilard guessed that meant she could use the
mental sciences, but would not risk it if there was a chance the
locals would find out.

He followed her into a one-room dwelling
partitioned into sections for sleeping, meal preparation, and work.
The pungent aroma of dozens—hundreds?—of drying herbs thickened the
air. She gestured for him to sit on a faded sofa, and he ducked
beneath bundles of leaves hanging from the ceiling to perch on the
edge.

“What’s your problem?” She sat on a stool
beside a desk piled high with flasks, tins, and tools. “You’re in
pain from your scars? I’ve seen pin cushions less poked up.”

Basilard shook his head and touched the knot
of scar tissue on his throat, the wound that had stolen his ability
to speak.

“No voice? I can’t fix that. No herb can
repair damaged vocal cords.”

He lifted his hands, but did nothing except
hold them in the air at first. As soon as he signed, she would know
he was Mangdorian. As far as he knew, the hand code his people used
on the hunt—which Basilard now used to speak to his comrades—was
not employed anywhere else in the world. He had brought pencil and
paper, too, because there were few female hunters amongst his
tribes, and she might not understand the code well. Maybe he should
simply write his message. But she would find out he was Mangdorian
sooner or later, since he had come to discuss their people.

He signed,
I seek information. Do you
understand me?

Her eyes widened, and she drew back so
quickly she almost fell off the stool. “You’re Mangdorian?” She
eyed his scars. “Those are knife wounds, aren’t they? Did someone
do that to you...as punishment?”

He had not expected her to guess he was not
responsible for them, that he may not have violated God’s mandates
of peace and pacifism. Could he lie to her? And avoid her
condemnation? Maybe if she had been a simple apothecary, and not
worn the necklace of a priestess as well. He could not lie to a
holy servant. Besides, he told himself, this was a one-time
meeting. Her opinion of him did not matter.

I was a slave
, he signed.
I was
forced to fight for my life. Many times.

The priestess dropped her chin to her chest,
clutched the bronze eye on her necklace, and whispered a prayer he
had not heard in a long time, but one that he remembered well. It
asked for God to pity him and give strength to his family because
his actions had condemned him.

Basilard sighed. When she looked up, he
signed again,
I seek to help our people. I need information on a
man who might have wronged Mangdoria somehow.

“How would you help our people?” She frowned.
“By killing this man?”

He hesitated.
I would rather not, but if
he has committed crimes against us, I feel it would be my duty to
act.

Her frown deepened, and he realized she was
struggling to follow his words. Over the last few months, he had
added signs to his people’s sparse hunting code, so he could speak
more completely with Amaranthe and the others, but, of course,
outsiders would not know the gestures he had made up.

I wish to do good
, Basilard signed.
If I...help our people, maybe God will forgive me.

The priestess straightened, her back as rigid
as a steel bar. “God does
not
forgive killers. You have
condemned yourself to the darkest circle of Ethor, young man.
Nothing you can do in this life can make up for it. That you would
even consider killing someone to avenge a wrong proves how far you
have fallen.”

Basilard closed his eyes. He had just met the
woman. Her opinion should not matter, but he knew it was a
reflection of the same opinion his family—his
daughter
—would
share should he ever return home. And it was an opinion he feared
held far too much truth.

I need to know.... Have you spoken to any
other Mangdorians in the city? Have you heard anything about a man
called...

He grabbed his paper, knowing she would not
know his made up sign for the name, and scrawled it for her. His
fingers surprised him by trembling. Maybe he did not really want to
know the answer. What would he do if his suspicions proved
correct?

Still frowning, the priestess read the name.
“Sicarius? The assassin?”

Yes.

Her lips puckered in disapproval, whether for
Sicarius or for Basilard, he did not know. “What would you do with
this information if I told you. Attempt to kill him?”

His heartbeat quickened.
There
is
something to tell?

Her pucker deepened.

Basilard leaned forward.
I must
know.

“You should leave this place. The blood on
your hands taints my home.”

Basilard gripped the sofa’s faded floral
armrest so tightly his fingers ached. She watched his hand warily,
perhaps anticipating violence from a man such as he. Condemned or
not, he would not threaten an old woman. He forced his fingers to
loosen. How would Amaranthe talk this lady into giving up the
information? By giving her what she wanted? What did she want?

If he has wronged Mangdoria, he should
be...dealt with. Our people cannot do it without damning
themselves, correct? If I am already condemned, then I’m the
logical choice to avenge the tribes.

In truth, Basilard did not want to pick a
fight with Sicarius. For one thing, he doubted he could win. For
another, he did not dislike Sicarius, not the way Akstyr and Books
did. Sicarius was cold and impossible to know, and he expected
everyone to train as stringently as he did, but Basilard had not
found him cruel or vindictive. Hard but fair, he would say. But,
that moment in the shaman’s cave, when Sicarius had destroyed that
Mangdorian message before Basilard or Books could read it.... That
had raised Basilard’s suspicions. Since then, he had thought often
of the moment and wondered what the assassin was hiding.

“You do not treat your soul with respect,”
the priestess said.

If nothing I do matters...
Basilard
shrugged.

“Very well. The rumor is Sicarius killed
Chief Yull and his family.”

Basilard flopped back so hard the sofa
thumped against the wall. Crumbled dust from the herbs drying
overhead sifted down to land in his eyes. He barely noticed it.
Good-hearted Chief Yull, the man Basilard had dreamed of working
for as a boy, back when he had thought to become a forage leader
and chef. Basilard’s gut twisted. And there had been sons.
Young
sons. Jast and Yuasmif.

He closed his eyes. Why had he snooped? Why
had he asked for this information?

And, now that he had it, how could he do
anything
but
kill Sicarius? Or die trying.

Dawn had come, and Amaranthe felt conspicuous
as she sidled up beside one of the enforcer vehicles. She could not
count on darkness to mask her wanted-poster features any longer,
but she could not leave without knowing if something had happened
to Sicarius.

Several men stood between two lorries with
smoke drifting from the stacks. The enforcers spoke in hushed
tones, and she struggled to eavesdrop over the hissing boilers and
idling machinery.

“...Sicarius doing here?”

“...missing girls?”

“...men will catch... Already wounded
him.”

Wounded? Amaranthe’s jaw sagged open. Surely
not. Not by enforcers.

One of the men frowned in her direction, and
she knelt to tie a shoelace. She dared not linger. It sounded like
Sicarius had not been caught yet. What stunned her was that he had
been seen at all. Though it was true he did not usually favor
costumes, he had a knack for remaining unseen, especially at night.
It rattled her beliefs to think he could have stumbled into someone
he shouldn’t have—and reacted too slowly to keep that someone from
raising an alarm.

When Amaranthe had spent as long tying her
shoe as she could without attracting attention, she jogged toward a
pair of oaks spreading shade over the men’s barracks. Not wanting
to return to their hideout without knowing Sicarius was safe, she
stopped where she could watch the enforcers.

Birds chirped overhead. The smell of cooking
eggs wafted from a vendor’s nearby tent. Early morning sun slanted
through the oak’s lower branches and warmed the back of her neck.
It was not a sound but the disappearance of that warmth that
alerted Amaranthe to someone behind her.

She turned to find Sicarius, hands clasped
behind his back, the sunlight limning his short blond hair. No
sweat dampened that hair and no dust smudged his black clothes. He
certainly did not look like a man who had been on the run.

“What’re you doing?” She glanced at the
enforcers.

He had placed himself so a tree hid him from
their view, but the sunlight and the people walking all about made
Amaranthe feel exposed and vulnerable.

“Standing,” Sicarius said.

“Where have you
been
? Why did you let
the enforcers see you?”

“I did not.”

“You find him?” someone called near the
vehicles.

Amaranthe grabbed Sicarius’s arm. “We have to
get out of here. You can explain later.”

They jogged toward a swath of trees
separating the stadium and grounds from the main railway tracks
that ran alongside the lake and through the city’s waterfront.
Amaranthe intended to push straight through and follow the rails to
their hideout, but Sicarius veered north as soon as they were under
cover.

“This way.” He slipped down a narrow path
clogged with shrubs and brambles.

Amaranthe winced as enthusiastic thorns
snagged at her togs and attempted to tug her stolen satchel from
her shoulder. “I hope you’re leading me to a place where answers
will present themselves.”

Not only did Sicarius not respond, he
maneuvered through the grasping foliage more deftly than she and
soon disappeared.

Amaranthe ducked a branch at
poke-her-in-the-eye height and, figuring Sicarius was out of
earshot, added, “This
might
be worth it if you were taking
me to a secluded nook where a picnic basket, blanket, and jug of
fresh juice awaited.”

Black clothing appeared through the leaves
ahead. Amaranthe pushed past a rhododendron and stepped into a
claustrophobic clearing only a few feet wide. At first, she could
see nothing beyond Sicarius’s back. When she realized he was
pointing at the ground, she eased around him, almost stepping on a
man’s hand.

“So...” she said, “no picnic basket.”

As usual, Sicarius ignored her
non-work-related comments. “While you were inside,” he said, “this
man ran out of the trees near the stadium, and someone shouted
‘That’s Sicarius.’ The enforcers took off after him. He raced
through a crowded area where a sergeant with a crossbow shot him in
the back. He evaded his pursuers and crashed through here, but then
collapsed.” Sicarius pointed at a crossbow quarrel protruding from
the man’s back. “It pierced a lung.”

Amaranthe crouched, all thoughts of picnics
gone. The dead man wore black, had short blond hair, and wore a
bandana over his face. She touched a tuft of hair still damp with
sweat. “This looks dyed.”

“My color, yes.”

“So, someone’s impersonating you. Someone who
couldn’t have known we’d be here at the same time. Is someone
trying to blame you for a crime? These kidnappings perhaps?”

“Unknown.”

She stood and frowned at Sicarius. “When I
recruited you for my team, I didn’t fully realize how many people
there were scheming up plots that involved you.”

“Regrets?” he asked.

Amaranthe almost said something flippant—how
often did he set himself up so nicely for teasing?—but a faint
variance to his usual monotone made her think the answer might
matter. It seemed impossible. She always figured she needed him on
her team far more than he needed her. Ancestors knew he had saved
her life more times than she could count. But maybe he had come to
care about what she thought of him.

She sighed and patted him on the arm. “Nah,
you know I like a challenge. Let’s get back to the hideout and see
if we can hunt down the others. I seem to have granted a vacation
prematurely. I think we’re going to need everyone in on this.”

“Agreed,” Sicarius said.

* * * * *

Morning sun burned into the rusted hulls of
decommissioned rail cars that filled the vast boneyard. Heat
radiated from them, some as yet unscathed by the years and others
so rusted each wall was a see-through latticework. The occasional
shiny bits glinted, throwing rays into Amaranthe’s eyes as she
passed. Weeds rose from cracks between faded and broken bricks that
lined the ground, suggesting the area had once had a nobler
purpose.