Lindsay Buroker - Deadly Games

Basilard distracted himself by studying alarge blackboard near the furnace. So far, two people had beatenthe best time he had recorded with Maldynado or Akstyr. He hopeddaylight-and the exhilaration of the moment coursing through hisblood-would help him improve. To go out in the first round would bea shame.

“It’s all right,” a familiar voice said. “I’mhis coach.”

“You don’t look like a coach. You look like aprofessor.”

“Why, thank you,” Books said.

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

Books weaved past other athletes swingingtheir 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. “Ifound those other two names. They are indeed athletes here. One isa male boxer and one a female entered in the Clank Race.” Heconsidered the men surrounding them. “Did the women alreadycompete?”

Earlier this morning.

“She’s not missing yet-she’s the only one onthat list who isn’t. The boxer disappeared last night. If we couldfind the girl and watch her, perhaps we could get a glimpse of thekidnapper.”

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 andimitated 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 agrin.

“Clapping won’t suffice?”

Clap for others’ performances. Cheer forme.

“Ah, very well.”

“Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletescalled.

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 fierceenough.

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

A mighty warrior.

“A moderately famous general, yes, but he wasnotorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had sevenwives at the time of his death, all near different forts andoutposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the othersexisted. 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 andget your chance to meet him.”

Could make an interesting conversationstarter.

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

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

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

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

Basilard gripped Book’s arm. You’re nothelping.

“Oh, pardon me.”

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

Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books andjogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The topseed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four morerunners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, whichwould put him in third. That ought to be enough.

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

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

Though nobody in the stands could know who hewas, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded hismind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before anaudience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experiencedthere. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go onliving.

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

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

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

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

He caught the next peg, a couple of feet tothe right, and swung from handhold to handhold, his feet danglingbelow. The pegs started in a straight line, but then zigzagged upand down, requiring strength and agility to maneuver throughthem.

Basilard reached the end and swung his legsto the right, catching a net stretched between two massive woodensupports. He skimmed halfway down to the ground, found the openingin the middle, and slithered through to land on a platform. One ofhis bare feet, just as sweaty as his palm, slipped on the smoothwood boards. He caught himself, but not before he rethought thewisdom of going shoeless.

Ahead of him, the small circular platformsmoved, some linearly back and forth and others in orbits onmechanical arms, like those that rotated wheels on a train. Theaxes swung like pendulums.

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