Deadly Games (45 page)

Sicarius nodded and held out the keg.
Basilard rammed his dagger through the wood. He started to pull it
out again, but Sicarius stopped him.

He mouthed something but swam away before
Basilard realized what. The dagger hilt stuck out of the wood, and
he left it there. Ah, cork. Yes, he could pull it out at the last
moment.

Basilard wanted to stay and help, but he
needed air. Maldynado and Akstyr swam past as he headed upward. He
hoped they would survive without him.

* * * * *

Amaranthe circled the vessel and swam beneath
its belly, following one of the corridors. Its ascent had slowed to
a crawl, and she wondered if it would ever break the surface. All
too aware of the kraken weaving after her, she stayed in the
craft’s shadow. She was out of harpoons and had dropped the
launcher. She still had her sword, and, though it made swimming
hard, kept it in hand.

She hoped she was giving Sicarius and
Basilard the time they needed.

Something batted her ankle. One of the
tentacles. It moved in to get a grip, but she bent double and sank
her short sword into it.

It jerked away and bumped against the hull of
the laboratory. Streaks of lighting ran up its length, dancing
between the clear cups on the underside of the tentacle.

The kraken jerked that limb away, but another
snaked in from the opposite side. Amaranthe pulled her legs up,
barely evading the grasping tentacle. She tried to spot Maldynado
and the others, but couldn’t see anyone. Ink and blood—all the
kraken’s, she hoped—muddled the water. With the creature so
obviously targeting her, she dared not swim out from beneath the
vessel. Besides, with the electrified hull so close, the craft
offered more than a hiding spot.

A tentacle swooped in five feet ahead, and
she reversed her strokes to halt herself. The two sinuous limbs had
her trapped; she could not evade them without swimming into the
open.

Amaranthe gripped her sword, a notion of
making a stand in her head. She stroked forward, eyes focused on
the tentacle blocking her route. It swept back and forth like a
cat’s tail, though it was careful not to touch the hull this time.
She timed the movements and stabbed the rubbery purple flesh. Too
bad she did not have poison on the tip. The tentacle did not seem
to notice her attack.

She tugged her sword free, intending to
search for a more vulnerable target.

Something wrapped around her leg. The other
tentacle. She’d taken her eye off of it for too long.

Amaranthe tried to yank her leg free, but the
grip tightened, applying bone-crushing force that smothered her
from calf to thigh. Her knee creaked, and she hissed in pain.

An image flashed through her mind of a
shattered knee with her unable to walk for the rest of her life. If
she
had
a rest of her life. Where was the rest of her
team?

She twisted and slammed her sword into the
tentacle. Though her blade sank in a few inches, the kraken
tightened its grip instead of releasing her.

Maldynado swam into view, but he carried only
that thin rapier, not a harpoon launcher. What would
that
do?

He stabbed gamely at the creature, but the
tentacle ignored him. The kraken pulled her from beneath the
vessel, its movements slow, almost leisurely.

Amaranthe hacked at the appendage, no grace
to her movements. She was like a logger hewing at a tree. A tree
that wanted to kill her.

Something snapped in her knee, and she
screamed, the noise half pain, half rage. She tore into the
tentacle with even more vigor.

Her breaths came in short gasps. She could
not get enough air.

Under her rain of blows, the tentacle
stiffened, then loosened. Had the creature finally had enough? Or
maybe it was only shifting its grip.

Amaranthe looked up, trying to spot the
kraken’s eyes, hoping she would find defeat there.

It hovered, ten feet below the
Saberfist
. Her harpoon still protruded from the right orb,
and the tentacles on that side of its body floated limply. Basilard
and Sicarius were weaving between them, approaching the underside
of the creature. The keg was still in Sicarius’s arms.

Hurry, she urged.

He swam the last few meters, yanked something
out of the keg, and thrust the poison into a dark orifice.

Amaranthe hoped that was it, the death blow,
but a spasm coursed through the tentacle restraining her. It
tightened about her leg, and she gasped as fresh pain erupted from
her knee. She fought back tears of frustration. What if Sicarius
had delivered the killing blow, but the kraken ripped her in half
in its death throes?

She hacked at the tentacle with renewed
vigor, determined to free herself or die trying. Inside her helmet,
sweat dribbled down her face, stinging her eyes. Dozens of
perforations marred the tentacle, and blood clouded the water, but
still it would not release her.

Finally, the limb relaxed. Amaranthe shoved
at it to pull her leg free. She stroked away from it and almost
lost her sword as lightheadedness overcame her. She was breathing
too hard, sucking in more air than the suit was designed to
deliver.

But the tentacle remained limp and
unmoving.

Two suited figures and one naked one were
treading water a few feet away.

Problem?
Amaranthe signed, cheeks
warming with sheepish chagrin, knowing Sicarius had observed her
wild hacks. Mercenary leaders were supposed to remain calm and
rational during a crisis, not descend into an animalistic
frenzy.

It’s dead
, Maldynado signed,
but if
you want to keep at the blade practice, we can wait.

She checked Sicarius’s face, wondering how
long it had been since he had taken a breath. He appeared fine, if
more serene than usual with those hooded eyes.

No,
she signed.
That was
sufficient.

Amaranthe started to swim toward the men, but
the first attempt at a kick sent fire flaring from her knee.
Someone gripped her upper arm. She lifted a hand to sign that she
could make it on her own, but it was Sicarius, so she stopped. No
doubt, he wanted to go up for air, not discuss her independent
streak.

She stroked with her arms, letting her
wounded leg hang limply, and he helped her toward the surface. He
angled away from the
Saberfist
as they rose. Good idea. No
need to tempt any marines by popping his million-ranmya head up in
the middle of the activity.

The top of the laboratory vessel was creeping
out of the water. That ought to keep the marines busy for a
while.

When she broke the surface, sun blazed into
her eyes. Morning sun. It seemed as if they had been underwater all
day, yet it must have only been a couple of hours.

Amaranthe squinted and tried to lift a hand
to shield her face, but, with her left leg dangling uselessly, she
needed both arms to stay afloat. Her eyes adjusted, though, and she
made out the marines scurrying about on the deck of their ship,
preparing their salvage crane and dinghies for boarding. The kraken
was floating on the surface now, too.

She struggled with the fasteners for her
helmet. She wanted the thing off, so she could breathe fresh air
again.

Sicarius caught her by the armpit with one
hand and unclasped her helmet with the other. He had no trouble
staying afloat using just his legs, but then both of his legs were
working. As soon as her head was free, she flung the helmet aside,
not caring if it floated away. She had had enough of suits and
krakens and underwater practitioners. Though she could not complain
about the outcome, she decided not to put subaqueous activities on
their official list of mercenary services.

“Your knee?” Sicarius asked, his gaze roving
the deck of the ship and the surrounding activity.

“Yes. I don’t think I’ll be joining you for a
morning run anytime soon.”

“Akstyr can fix it.”

“Surely, I’ll need to rest it for a couple of
weeks.”

“Days.”

Amaranthe spotted Maldynado, Akstyr, Books,
and then Basilard closer toward the shore. She waved for them to
head inland. It was time for her team to disappear.

“Aren’t I entitled to a vacation now and
then?” she asked. “Look, there’s a nice beach over there. If we
swim that way instead of meeting up with the men, we could enjoy
the summer day.” She nodded at Sicarius’s bare shoulders. “You’re
dressed for it.”

“You are not.”

“True.” She plucked at the heavy suit. “But
I’ve been wanting to get out of this. Whether that’s back at the
docks or on a secluded beach doesn’t matter to me.” She smiled
playfully.

He did not answer promptly, and she thought
he might actually be considering it. Until he said, “With Akstyr’s
healing, two days should be sufficient rest for your knee. Then
your training can commence again.”

Amaranthe sighed. “You’re an unrelenting
taskmaster.”

“Yes.”

A wave washed over them, and he wiped his
face. She eyed him, half-suspecting him of using the movement to
hide the barest hint of a smile. But surely that would be too
jovial for him.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

Something on the
Saberfist
caught his
attention, and he did not answer. Someone on the ship leaned
against the railing, someone in civilian clothing and a hat.

Amaranthe lifted a hand toward Deret, the
best “thank you” she could manage at this distance. He started to
wave back, but glanced at marines jogging past behind him and kept
himself to a nod.

“Ready to go?” Amaranthe repeated.

“Yes.” Sicarius’s humor had evaporated, and
his unreadable facade returned.

Amaranthe straightened the crimson,
braided-hide band across Basilard’s chest. Following in the
Turgonian style, he wore it diagonally across a crisp white shirt
with silver piping. According to imperial lore, the band was
symbolic of the across-the-back sword scabbards the original
conquerors had worn, a throwback to the days when the size of a
man’s sword had indicated...well, no man had dared carry one any
less than five feet long.

How do I look?
he asked when she
stepped back.

“Maldynado picked out your clothes and
dressed you,” Amaranthe said. “How do you think you look?”

Fabulous?

“Correct. How’s your shoulder?” They had
taken him to a surgeon to remove the pistol ball, and Akstyr had
applied his healing fingers, but she was still surprised he had
been able to compete in the final Clank Race. Compete and win. He’d
said he had realized his purpose—or perhaps remembered it—down in
that laboratory and had been motivated to kill himself, if that’s
what it took, to earn dinner with the emperor.

Basilard rotated his shoulder.
Good
enough. How is your knee?

Amaranthe grimaced. “Also, good enough.
Unfortunately. I was hoping for more of a vacation from our
training regimen.” She glanced toward the doorway of the rail car,
though she doubted Sicarius was anywhere nearby. He had been scarce
the last three days, and she wondered if there was something he had
not told her about the events below.

Sicarius does not know what a vacation
is.

“I’ve noticed.” She could use one though.
Earlier that day, she had talked to Keisha about Fasha’s death, and
the weight of that failure, along with so many others, hung heavily
about Amaranthe’s shoulders.

When I get to talk to the emperor,
Basilard signed,
what should I say about the team?

Everything, Amaranthe wanted to blurt.
Basilard should tell Sespian how much they’d done for the empire,
that they were responsible for stopping his assassins, for fixing
the water supply when it was poisoned, and for saving the athletes.
And he should let the emperor know Sicarius wasn’t the demon he
once knew.

Amaranthe exhaled slowly. “Don’t say anything
about us. That’ll get you thrown in the dungeon. You didn’t enter
the Imperial Games using the name you go by now, so, with luck, he
won’t know you’re part of a team of criminals. Wrongfully accused
criminals, but criminals nonetheless. Just talk to him about what’s
important to you.”

Basilard held her gaze for a long moment,
then nodded.
I understand.

Amaranthe waved to Books, who was sighing
dramatically and repeatedly as Maldynado fiddled with his clothes.
Since he no longer had a bounty on his head, Books would go with
Basilard to act as a translator. Sending two members of her team to
see the emperor was risky, but this was Basilard’s dream. Besides,
they were the quietest and least notorious of her crew.

What if we get thrown in the dungeon?
Basilard asked, as if he had been reading her thoughts.

“We’ll rescue you, of course.” She patted him
on his good shoulder and debated a moment before voicing her next
thought. “I’m glad you chose...to set aside the past to try to
improve the future.”

He stared at her.
You know? That I meant
to kill...

He did not finish. He didn’t need to.
Amaranthe knew.

“You’d been glowering suspiciously in his
direction for months,” she said quietly, so the others would not
hear, “and then suddenly you were avoiding looking his way at all.
And spending an inordinate amount of time with Akstyr.”

Oh.

“You don’t have to forgive people for their
past crimes, but if you believe they can do future goods, perhaps
it’s worth helping them along that path.”

Perhaps. It’s hard for one man to make
those kinds of choices. Normally a priestess would advise....
Basilard grimaced.
It doesn’t matter. No priestess will advise
me any more. Even if I avenged our people, it wouldn’t make a
difference. Not for me. I have no chance at redemption.