Lindsay Buroker - Deadly Games

Here, his bare feet helped. His toes wrappedover the edges, and he launched himself from spot to spot. At onepoint, he dove under an axe for a chance to skip two platformsahead.

Thousands of people gasped at once as theblade skimmed past, an inch above his shoulder blades. He got hisfeet under him again and leaped the last couple of feet to thesolid platform on the far side. Two more walls, net climbs, and asprint across a spinning log, and he reached the ramp on the farside. Though weariness burned in his thighs, he sprinted the lastfew meters and catapulted over the solid wall, pulling himself upand over without using his feet. Relieved to be done, and out ofsome notion he should finish with a flourish, he leaped into theair as he passed the finish line, doing a somersault before landingby the timekeeper.

Cheers erupted, and he grinned. Those peoplewould root for any good showing, but knowing they appreciated hisathleticism, instead of his ability to stick knives into people,made him grateful.

The cheers went on longer than expected. Anattendant was already painting his time on a sheet on a giant padof paper that could be spun to show both sides of the stadium.1:53.

Basilard gaped. That put him in firstplace.

A high-pitched, enthusiastic whistle floateddown from the seats near the stadium entrance. He glanced over intime to see Books swatting Maldynado in the back of the head,nearly knocking a hat off, one with a white plumed feather ofridiculous proportions. Though Basilard could not read lips, hecaught the gist of Books’s words, “Quit drawing attention to us,you big oaf. We’re wanted men.”

Amaranthe stood with them, too, herbroad-brimmed sunhat hiding her face to some extent. A lump formedin Basilard’s throat. They-especially Amaranthe-were risking achase from the ever-present enforcers to be here to root forhim.

He did not want to call attention to them, sohe merely nodded that direction before accepting a towel from a boygarbed in attendant’s yellow and white. Basilard swabbed sweat outof his eyes and off his scalp.

“Congratulations on your time, sir,” the boysaid, eyeing the briar patch of scars crisscrossing Basilard’shead. No imperial child would shy away from a man covered with oldwounds, but even here, in the militaristic empire, he was anoddity. “There’s lemonade in the athletes’ lounge. I’ll showyou.”

The promise of a cold drink enticed him.Besides, it was better not to go straight to Amaranthe and theothers, not when enforcers might be watching. Still wiping himselfoff with the towel, he headed for the shady rooms beneath the tiersof spectators. He had never had lemonade before coming to theempire-importing a perishable item from hundreds of miles to thesouth was an impossible feat for his people-but he admitted afondness for the drink, and he was salivating in anticipation whenhe entered the shady concrete corridor.

He padded into the interior, his eyesadjusting to the dim lighting. Just as he was wondering if it wasstrange that nobody else occupied the passage, something stirredthe hairs on his arms. Magic?

When he glanced over his shoulder, he sawonly the towel boy strolling after him. With dark hair and tanskin, he appeared a typical Turgonian youth, not anyone who mighthave access to the mental sciences.

A few feet ahead, something tinkled to thefloor. Glass.

Immediately, Basilard thought of the corkAkstyr had found, the cork that had restrained a vial full ofknock-out powder.

He backed away and stumbled into the boy, butthe youth made no move to stop him.

Basilard’s mind spun. Had his fast time madehim a new target? Could these kidnappers work so quickly?

He would not linger to find out. Though hecould see no one in the corridor, he continued backing toward theentrance, ready to defend himself if necessary. Before he had gonemore than a few steps, a strange lethargy came over him. Thefatigue that had turned his legs leaden at the end of the ClankRace was nothing compared to the heaviness that flooded them now.Heaviness and numbness.

His steps turned to stumbles, and then hecould not feel his bare feet coming down on the cement at all. Helost his balance and tipped backward. The ground came up far tooquickly for him to turn the fall into a roll, and his head crackedagainst the hard floor.

Shapes drifted out of the shadows andcoalesced into men looming over him. Basilard could not lift hisarms, could not do anything to defend himself.

His instincts forgot he could not speak, andhe tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. One of the mengrabbed Basilard’s head and slipped a bag over it. Darknessswallowed him, and he knew no more.

The last of the competitors finished theClank Race, and the timekeeper painted the results for all to see.1:59. Nobody had beaten Basilard’s score. Amaranthe smiled toherself, tickled that he had done so well against younger andtaller competitors, men who had trained all year for this event.Albeit, the exercise sessions they endured with Sicarius could beno less arduous than anything those athletes inflicted uponthemselves.

Her smile faded at the thought of Sicarius.Guilt sat in her belly like an undigested meal; it was wrong toidly watch the Games while he was missing.

“What’s he doing down there for so long?”Amaranthe murmured.

She wanted to collect Basilard and startinvestigating the fountains near Raydevk’s flat. They did not havemany hours before her meeting with Deret. She was tempted to cancelthat, but he might have information about the kidnappings she didnot. Surely a journalist had as many informants in the city as theenforcers did.

“He’s a contender for the trophy now.”Maldynado removed his hat to scratch his head and nearly pokedAmaranthe in the eye with the ostrich feather. “I bet he’s gettingmobbed by women who want to grease his snake tonight.”

Amaranthe gave him a sidelong look. “The wayyour mind works is unique.”

“Not amongst men,” Maldynado said.

“Amongst some men,” Books said.

Amaranthe fidgeted and watched the tunnelentrance through which Basilard had walked with the towel boytrailing behind. Several minutes had passed, and neither hadreturned to the arena.

“The towel boy hasn’t come back,” shesaid.

“What?” Maldynado asked.

Even if Basilard had decided to find thelatrine or change out of his white togs, the boy should havereturned to attend to the remaining competitors. Why had hefollowed Basilard, anyway? No boys had accompanied any of the otherathletes.

“I think Basilard’s in trouble,” shesaid.

“What?” Books asked.

“He’s been gone too long.” Amaranthe wonderedif it signified paranoia that neither of them seemed concerned. “Doeither of you two ‘coaches’ want to try to go down there? See ifyou can get into that tunnel?” Amaranthe eyed a pair of enforcersstationed where they could keep spectators from wandering into thearena to bug the athletes. “I’ll go outside and see if I spotanything suspicious.”

“Which of us should-” Books started.

“Either. Both. I don’t care.” She was alreadymaneuvering through the packed benches toward the aisle, worryingthat they had wasted too much time. How long would it take to dragan unconscious man out through a back door? “Maybe I’moverreacting,” she muttered under her breath. “Maybe it’snothing.”

Though she said the words, they did not keepher from pushing past spectators and running down the stairs. Atthe bottom, she reluctantly slowed down, aware that a sprintingwoman might draw the enforcers’ suspicions.

Only when she reached the stadium exit didshe break into a run. Maldynado caught up with her.

“Books is going in since Basilard alreadyvouched for him today.”

“Understood,” Amaranthe said.