Deadly Games (48 page)

“We could add an evening training session to
your regimen.”

She groaned and dropped her head in her
hands. “You have a disturbing sense of humor.”

A long moment passed before he said, “Offer a
proposition.”

“I don’t know.” Amaranthe shrugged
helplessly. “I can wait. I just need to know.... Well, we’ve never
even kissed. How am I supposed to know if all this is worth
it?”

She winced as soon as the words came out. She
hadn’t meant to imply that
he
wasn’t worth waiting for, just
that she didn’t know if they’d actually have a physical connection
when they actually—

“
Worth
it?” Sicarius asked, sounding,
for the first time she could recall, offended.

Amaranthe groaned. She was making a mess of
this.

She stretched out an apologetic hand.
Sicarius took it and pulled her off the bench. Her feet tangled,
and she stumbled into him. His other arm came around her, and he
pulled her against him with none of his earlier gentleness.

He wouldn’t hurt her—at least she didn’t
think
he would—but her heart quickened, a jolt of concern
coursing through her. Maybe she had pushed him too far. The arm
wrapped around her tightened, mashing her against his chest. The
fabric of his shirt did nothing to soften the ridges of granite
muscle beneath it, and the thought crossed her mind that if she
ever truly did anger him, all her training would be no use.

Amaranthe swallowed and opened her mouth to
speak, though she was not sure whether she meant to apologize or
blurt some sort of bravado. It didn’t matter. His mouth found hers,
open, demanding, and she forgot about talking. And breathing.

The kiss crackled with intensity, and she
thought of the hull of that fortress, its electrical charge
knocking her on her backside. She wriggled her arms around him and
returned the kiss.

His fingers tangled in her hair, caressing
the back of her neck. An ache grew inside, and her toes curled
around the edges of her sandals. She thought of kicking them off,
of kicking
everything
off and—

Sicarius released her and stepped back,
leaving her stunned and breathless, her heart galloping in place
behind her ribs. Then, without a word, he strode away.

Amaranthe, legs wobbly, collapsed on the
bench. “He’s right,” she croaked. “It
is
different than
training.”

EPILOGUE

Basilard told the nerves fluttering in his
belly to be still. The stubborn things refused to obey.

Tall, broad-shouldered imperial soldiers in
blue uniforms with gold trim strode along the brick paths of the
Oakcrest Conservatory, their boots so polished they reflected the
flames of nearby gas lamps. The men’s expressionless faces reminded
him of Sicarius, and so did those dark, cool eyes as they
scrutinized the civilians and servants who crossed their paths.
Youths carrying trays of lemonade, iced tea, and wine paid the
soldiers no mind. Of course, they had no reason to worry about
being detained, captured, or killed.

Basilard sucked in a deep breath, grateful a
number of overhead panels were open, letting in fresh air. With
sweat already trickling down his spine, it would have been
unbearably stifling without the evening breeze. He adjusted his
collar. Maldynado’s outfit was far more constricting than the loose
garments his people favored.

“Problem?” Books asked.

There are as many soldiers as athletes,
perhaps more.

“I don’t think you need to look so
concerned,” Books said. “We made it past the phalanx of vehicles
and soldiers outside, and the door guards let us in, despite much
eyebrow raising over the fact that you brought a man as your one
permitted dinner companion.”

Basilard smiled.
I didn’t think the empire
had issues with that sort of thing. Are you sure it wasn’t that
they were surprised a victorious athlete wouldn’t have a younger,
prettier man for an escort?

“I’m going to forgive you for that because of
all that time you recently spent with—” Books glanced around, “—a
certain disreputable sort. You probably feel the need to unleash
your sense of humor.”

Or distract himself. Basilard feared their
admittance had been too easy. Though Books had received a few
questions about Basilard’s need for a translator, another soldier
had jogged up during the interview and whispered something in the
guard’s ear, resulting in Basilard and Books being waved inside.
Could the soldiers have recognized them and let them in as a trap?
Were they even now waiting to see if Amaranthe and Sicarius waited
nearby?

Basilard and Books walked toward a long
wooden table with sixty or seventy place settings laid out.
Athletes and their companions chatted in pairs or small groups near
trellised vines and citrus trees potted along the way.

“There he is,” Books said.

A glass door beyond the table had opened with
two soldiers in black entering, the emperor’s personal guard.
Sespian came next in blue, quasi-military attire. Unexpectedly, a
gray-haired woman in a sapphire dress strode beside him. Not
exactly beside. Basilard had the impression Sespian was trying to
keep space between them.

“She’s old to be his escort,” Books murmured,
also watching the woman. “A chaperone?”

Four more soldiers trailed after the
pair.

The emperor gazed about alertly. Though his
position must cause him a great deal of stress, he appeared no
older than his nineteen years, perhaps even younger, and Basilard
wondered how much power he commanded around the Imperial Barracks.
Could Sespian do anything about the empire’s underground slave
trade? About the fact that Mangdorians were often targeted?

Though the cadre of guards about him could
have made the emperor seem unapproachable, he strode up to the
first group of athletes and greeted everyone with a friendly smile.
After the three young men managed flustered bows, Sespian started
asking questions.

“This may be a good time to talk to him,”
Books said. “Before he grows weary of people pestering him.”

Let’s meander that way
, Basilard
signed.

The other athletes seemed content to wait.
They probably lacked his agenda.

As he and Books strolled over, the nerves
tormenting Basilard’s stomach redoubled their flutters. If this was
a trap, the soldiers would spring it before Basilard got close to
the emperor.

Books plucked an iced tea from a server’s
tray. He was either more comfortable here than Basilard, or he was
doing a good job of hiding his nerves. Basilard took a drink
without looking to see what it was; ice cubes clinked in the
glass.

The emperor moved to a second group of
athletes, this one made up of young ladies. He was courteous and
professional, and Basilard did not get the impression he was
searching for bed partners—a vibe warrior-caste men often exuded,
whether they were married or not. The emperor’s older chaperone
never said anything, and Basilard had the feeling she was there
only to keep an eye on Sespian.

“Think that’s someone from Forge?” Books
murmured.

Would they have someone here so openly?

Amaranthe had mentioned her belief that Forge
had a toehold in the Imperial Barracks, but Basilard had not
realized it might run so deeply.

“If so, that’s...a concern,” Books said.
“They might restrict his access to information and certainly his
ability to take action.”

So, he might not be reading the papers and be
aware of our heroics?

“If so, all our work would be for
naught.”

Sespian looked over the women’s heads, his
gaze coming to rest on Basilard and Books.

Basilard twitched, flushing guiltily. Had the
emperor overheard Books’s half of their conversation? They were
speaking quietly. He shouldn’t have, but who knew?

His first instinct was to look away and
pretend no interest, but that might appear more suspicious. He
forced himself to hold the gaze and nod.

After finishing his conversation with the
women, the emperor strode toward Books and Basilard.

Basilard glanced left and right, expecting a
legion of soldiers to stampede them at any moment. Books thumped a
fist to his heart and bent at the waist, his sword arm stretching
wide with the palm open.

“A pleasure to speak with you, Sire,” he
said.

Basilard mimicked the bow and signed,
Most
respect, Chief.
He hadn’t worked out hand signs for honorifics
for emperors yet. Books would know what he meant though.

Oddly, when Books translated, he left the
word for chief instead of correcting it. Perhaps he wanted Basilard
to sound quaint—and unthreatening—thanks to his Mangdorian
vernacular.

“Good evening.” Sespian pressed his own fist
to his chest in response. “Temtelamak, isn’t it?” His eyebrow
twitched.

Basilard swallowed. The emperor recognized
the name for a pseudonym and possibly knew Basilard had something
to hide.... Curse Maldynado for picking out something silly.

“Congratulations on your victory,” the
emperor went on.

Thank you, Chief.

The woman glided over to join them, and
Basilard signed,
Evening, ma’am
.

“This is Ms. Rockvic,” Sespian said, his face
difficult to read. “She’s...trying to find me a wife, I think.” He
arched an eyebrow at the older woman. Her lips thinned, but she
said nothing.

Basilard exchanged concerned looks with
Books. Amaranthe would need to know about this new development.

I’d hoped to talk to you about something,
Chief,
Basilard signed. Sespian would not chat forever, so he
had best make his request.

Sespian blinked. “Yes, of course. Go
ahead.”

I escaped slavery here in Stumps last winter.
I was one of hundreds taken out of Mangdoria and sold in your
underground market, where business owners in particular save money
by buying slaves instead of using day-paid laborers or paying for
expensive machines. Some slaves, like myself, are forced into the
pit-fighting circuit where they must battle for their lives every
night.

He paused so Books could translate, and he
watched Sespian’s face, trying to judge whether this was new
information for him or something he was aware of and had dismissed.
The emperor’s eyebrows climbed as Books spoke, and more than once
he glanced at his chaperone. The woman’s face was closed and hard.
If she
was
a member of Forge, Basilard hoped he was not
making trouble by revealing these facts in front of her.

I’m particularly concerned for my
people,
Basilard went on.
I believe they’re targeted because
they’re pacifists and not strong Science practitioners.

For the first time, Books edited the
translation, leaving off the last few words.

“I see,” Sespian said through a tense jaw. “I
wasn’t aware of this problem. My ignorance is not an excuse, and I
apologize for the ruthless way you were brought to the empire. I
will look into this slavery as soon as I’m able.” He glanced at
Rockvic, and his lip twitched in a brief grimace. He was being open
about his displeasure at having this companion. Was it possible he
wanted Basilard and Books to know? That made no sense.

Thank you, Chief
, he signed. He wished
he could do more—elicit a promise of some kind—but the emperor did
not seem to be in a position to promise much right now.

Sespian extended his arm and clasped
Basilard’s hand. The action surprised Basilard because the
standoffish Turgonians did not make physical contact during their
greetings. Maybe the emperor knew Mangdorian hunters clasped
forearms as a gesture of friendship? But it was Sespian’s hand that
pressed against his, not his arm, and something poked into
Basilard’s palm. Paper?

When Sespian withdrew his grip, he left the
object in Basilard’s hand.

“Have a peaceful evening,” the emperor
said.

Basilard pressed his thumb into his palm to
keep the object in his hand and dropped his arm to his side. It
felt like a piece of paper folded numerous times into a small
square.

“I don’t know if he’ll be able to do anything
for you right now,” Books said after the emperor had moved onto the
next group, “but perhaps someday. If not, maybe
our
team
could tackle the slave trade.”

Basilard barely heard him. He was searching
the conservatory, looking for an empty but lighted place where he
could unfold the paper, but two soldiers were frowning in his
direction. He ended up waiting through dinner and a theater show
during which university students reenacted some of the great
moments from the Games, often with amusing asides. All too aware of
the note in his pocket, Basilard had a hard time conversing or
enjoying the festivities. He let out a deep breath when they exited
the conservatory without any guards accosting them.

“Something wrong?” Books asked. “You’ve been
quiet all...”

Basilard strode toward a winding but lit
path. Books hurried to catch up. When they were out of sight of the
soldiers, guards, and other dinner-goers, he stopped, finally
unfolding the message.

“What is that?” Books asked. “Did the emperor
give it to you?”

Basilard already had the note open, and,
after another check of their surroundings, he held it out so they
could both read it.

Amaranthe Lokdon:

I wish to hire your outfit to kidnap me. I
can offer 100,000 ranmyas.

No signature marked the page, but there was
hardly a need, not when the emperor had personally handed the
message to Basilard.

Books let out a low whistle. “This could
change everything.”

Or get us all killed,
Basilard signed,
thinking of all the security they would have to get through to
abscond with an emperor. If it were easy to elude those guards,
Sespian would have escaped on his own.