The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  “LEAVE?” The owl cocked its head and regarded him with one round gray eye. “BUT YOU ARE IN GRAVE DANGER.”

  “Thank you so much.” Kerickson walked back to the bedpost and examined the ring anchoring his chain. “I’m sure I would never have realized that without your help.”

  “IT IS PART OF MY FUNCTION TO ASSIST HEROES IN THEIR QUESTS.”

  “Heroes?” Sunk deeply into the wood, the ring showed definite signs of wear. Evidently old Catulus had chained more than one bodyguard here. “I’m just a servant, disposable protection for the night. What makes you think I’m a hero?”

  “YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU SEEM.” The owl hopped from his shoulder to the foot of the bed, then preened at its feathers. “BUT YOUR PURPOSE IS NOBLE.”

  “And what purpose is that?” He worked the ring back and forth in its hole and was rewarded with a few grains of sawdust.

  “TO RESTORE ORDER.”

  Up on the bed, Catulus flopped over, muttering, “Macedonian idiots!”

  The ring’s base wobbled. “Listen,” he said through gritted teeth, “it’s really very kind of you to be interested, but we heroes are proud. We like to do things ourselves.”

  “BUT THERE MUST BE SOMETHING I CAN DO TO HELP.” The owl craned its head. “SOME BOON I COULD GRANT, SOME WISH I COULD FULFILL? PERHAPS A NICE MORSEL OF MOUSE OR SNAKE TO CHEER YOUR EMPTY STOMACH?”

  The ring came free in his hand. He fell back with a clatter of chains. The snoring broke off; the general bolted up, gazing about him with a baffled look. The owl walked from the foot of the bed onto the general’s stomach and stared him in the eyes. “GREAT DEEDS WILL COME TO YOU, GENERAL OPPIUS CATULUS, FAVORED OF THE GODS, BUT THE TIME IS NOT YET RIPE. RETURN TO YOUR DREAMS.”

  “What . . . ?” Catulus blinked, then sank back against the pillow.

  “DREAM OF CAPTIVES AND BOOTY AND TRIUMPHS NEVER-ENDING.” The owl bent its beak close to his ear. “DREAM OF BRIGHT GREEN LAUREL WREATHS AND SMOOTH-SKINNED EGYPTIAN MAIDS TO SOOTHE YOUR OLD AGE.”

  The General’s eyelids fluttered.

  “DREAM OF GERMAN BODIES PILED AS HIGH AS THE ENDLESS SKY. SEE HOW YOUR TROOPS COLLECT THEM FOR THE BURNING? ONE . . . TWO . . .”

  “Three . . .” Catulus whispered, “four . . . fi—” He resumed snoring.

  The owl shook itself. “NOW, WHERE WERE WE?”

  Kerickson slid a blanket off the bed and wrapped the chain in it to muffle the noise. “I was leaving.”

  “A SENSIBLE GOAL. THE PRIZE YOU SEEK LIES NOT HERE.”

  He got to his feet. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who killed Micio and Wilson so I could forget this nonsense and go straight to the police?”

  The owl nibbled at its tail feathers for a moment. “VICTORY LIES IN THE SEEKING, NOT THE DESTINATION.”

  “Yeah, I thought not.” He paused at the door. “Well, if you’re not going to help, at least stay out of my way.” Glancing down the hall to reassure himself that it was empty, he started in the direction of the Emperor’s quarters.

  The owl flew down the corridor, gliding just above his head on soundless brown wings. His arms full of chain, Kerickson glared up at it. “Get out of here and leave me alone! Beat it!”

  “OH, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE,” the owl intoned, then disappeared with the slightest hint of static.

  * * *

  The Nubian maid’s black eyes regarded Amaelia reproachfully, as though it were her fault the Saturnalia would begin tomorrow and she had nothing to wear. “All my clothes are at the temple,” Amaelia said from the middle of the big canopied bed, “but it wouldn’t make any difference if I had them here. Vestal Virgins wear only simple white gowns.”

  “Perhaps some of the Empress’s clothes, then.” The maid’s eyes narrowed. “She was, of course, much taller than you, but we could alter something by tomorrow.”

  “Was?” Amaelia sat up. “Has there been news of her, then?”

  “No, mistress.” The maid gazed back at her stolidly. “Still, when a person’s been missing this long, it usually means only one thing.”

  “The Underworld.” Amaelia stared down at her clenched hands in her lap. Even though she and Demea had never gotten along, it was unsettling to face her stepmother’s disappearance so soon after her father’s death.

  “I will go through the Lady Demea’s things and see if there isn’t something that will suit you.” The maid picked up a steaming cup from the silver tray she had brought and handed it to her. “You’re a great lady now, probably the next Empress. You can’t appear at the feast in rags.”

  Amaelia sniffed the cup, then put it down in disgust—hot watered wine again. If she never saw another grape after she left this stupid game, it would be just fine with her. What she wouldn’t give right now for a cup of tea or even—she closed her eyes—sparkly dark cola like they sold down in the amusement sector. “Take this away.”

  “You have only to tell Flina what you desire and it will be brought.”

  “Tea?” Amaelia ventured, feeling excessively wicked. “The real kind, with caffeine?”

  Flina smiled serenely. “I think that can be arranged. Lady Demea did have a personal supplier of certain luxury goods from the outside, although you must not speak of it to others.”

  “What about a doughnut?” She hesitated. “With real chocolate?”

  “A perfect choice, lady. Chocolate is just the sort of thing to lift a young wife’s spirits.” Flina turned for the door.

  A young wife . . . Amaelia pulled a pillow over her head. She didn’t want to be a wife, not even the pretend sort that Gracchus seemed to require from her. At least he hadn’t touched her last night, hadn’t even come in her room. If he had, she would have killed him, or failing that, at least killed herself. Somehow, she had to contact the computer and get herself released from the Game. There was no law saying a person had to go on playing once they wanted out.

  She threw the pillow aside and padded barefoot across the rug-covered floor to look out the window at the red-tiled roofs of the city. Maybe she could disguise herself as a slave and run away. Everyone knew the Interface lay somewhere in the middle of town. If she searched, surely she would be able to find it and get out of this farce.

  “Uh—hello,” said a voice from behind her back.

  “What?” She whirled around to see a man in a plain gray tunic watching her from the doorway. He had a quiet face, topped with straight blond hair, and an unassuming, most decidedly un-Roman nose, not at all the sort of biosculpted face she was used to seeing.

  “Don’t be afraid, Amaelia.” He glanced over his shoulder, then edged into her bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

  “You’re . . .” She studied him more closely. “You’re the one who fetched me out of the temple when Vesta was so angry.”

  “Yes.” He sounded relieved. “I’m Gaius Lucinius. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, sure.” She sat on the edge of her bed and picked at the white silk coverlet. “In the last four days, my father has been murdered, and instead of going to his funeral, I’ve been tricked, demoted to slave, and then married against my will! Everything is just—” She broke off.

  “I’m sorry.” The Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck. “About your father, I mean. That was—terrible.”

  She glanced up at him. He looked so earnest and sad that she somehow felt better for the first time. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “You wouldn’t know where the Interface is, would you?”

  “The Interface?”

  “I asked to leave the Game, but the computer doesn’t answer me.”

  “Really?” He sat down on the bed across from her. “That shouldn’t happen.”

  “If I could find the Interface, I bet someone would let me out.” She shivered. “I don’t feel safe here anymore.”

  “Well, that might work.” He sound
ed unsure. “I guess I could take you there.”

  “Really? You wait right here!” She stood up, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. “I’ll change. If anyone comes in, tell them I’m taking a bath.”

  “YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING!” a female voice commanded. “I WON’T PERMIT A MARRIED WOMAN OF YOUR CLASS TO DISGRACE HERSELF BY RUNNING OFF WITH A MERE FREEDMAN.” Blueness shimmered by the door, then became the oversized figure of a woman in a flawless, off-the-shoulder white gown.

  Amaelia blinked in surprise. The voice seemed familiar.

  “YOU MIGHT HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH BEHAVING LIKE A LITILE STRUMPET DOWN AT THE TEMPLE OF VESTA, BUT I EXPECT MORE OF MY PLAYERS.” Angry blue-green sparks flashed in the goddess’s eyes.

  “Juno?” Amaelia ventured weakly.

  “YOU BET YOUR SWEET BEHIND, HONEY, AND HAVE I GOT A FEW THINGS TO LAY ON YOU!”

  “I remember now,” she said slowly. “You came to me in Gracchus’s villa—on his screens. Only you were a peacock then.”

  “WELL, THAT IS ONE OF MY BEST MANIFESTATIONS.” Juno delicately patted her intricately looped hair.

  “Screens?” The man, whom she had almost forgotten in all the fuss, stepped forward. “In a villa?”

  “NEVER MIND THAT.” Juno waggled a huge digit. “DON’T YOU THINK I’VE GOT ENOUGH TROUBLE KEEPING THAT RANDY OLD BIRD, JUPITER, IN LINE WITHOUT NEW BRIDES RUNNING OFF WITH THE FIRST MAN WHO TWITCHES HIS LITTLE FINGER?” The goddess cocked her head, then studied the man more closely. “A MAN WITH NO CHARISMA, AT THAT—AND WHAT IN THE NAME OF HADES IS THE MATTER WITH YOUR TRANSPONDER? YOU DON’T EVEN REGISTER IN THIS ROOM.”

  He glanced at his Game bracelet, then thrust his arm behind his back. “Not working? Guess I’d better get it fixed.”

  “JUST LIKE A MAN TO BE SO HELPLESS.”

  “So, Lady Amaelia.” He gestured at the door. “Could I prevail upon you to show me the way to the Palace repair shop?”

  “What?” She stared at him for an uncomprehending second. “Oh! Sure. Just let me throw on some proper clothes.”

  “WELL I NEVER.” Juno’s size-fifteen foot tapped the floor impatiently as Amaelia plunged into her closet. “DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT SLAVES ARE FOR?”

  “Of course I do,” she answered from inside the closet, as she looked for something plain enough to pass for slave clothing. Finally she selected a simple tunic of plain white cotton, then threw a sturdy maroon cloak over her shoulders and fastened it with a silver brooch. Emerging from the closet, she looked around brightly. “But I don’t see any slaves at the moment, so I just guess that I’ll have to go myself.”

  “YOU’LL LOSE POINTS ON THIS, MISSY, BIG-TIME.”

  “No doubt,” Amaelia muttered under her breath as she tucked her arm under the young man’s and pulled him through the door.

  “AND NOT JUST AUTHENTICITY, EITHER!” Juno called after them. “JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE, YOU LITTLE HUSSY! DID JUPITER PUT YOU UP TO THIS?”

  Closing the door behind them, Amaelia pulled Gaius down the hall at a half run. “Do you really know where the Interface is?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Sure.” He slowed to a walk as several naked Sardinian dancers passed them in the hall, bangles clinking around their wrists and ankles. “That’s not the real problem.”

  “Oh?” She dodged an orangutan and its trainer. “Then what is?”

  “Well, I’m, uh, investigating your father’s murder and I need some information.”

  Startled, she studied his face, then pulled him into her father’s old suite and closed the door behind them. “Investigating his murder? But aren’t the police supposed to take care of that?”

  “They . . . uh . . . kind of . . .” A red flush crept up his neck. “They . . . think that . . . I did it.”

  “You—a freedman?” She started to laugh, then looked away, embarrassed. It didn’t seem nice to mention his lowly rank when she wanted his help.

  “Well, I could have,” Gaius said defensively. Two brilliant specks of red appeared in his cheeks. “But I didn’t. At any rate, after your father was murdered, someone killed my friend, Wilson, and then abducted the Empress. I think it all ties together.” He took her by the shoulders and steered her over to a long, low divan in front of the window. “Do you have any idea who really sent the message instructing you to go to the Baths that day?”

  Amaelia thought back. “It was signed by my father. It said he needed religious advice, but a grubby little bald-headed man in a torn tunic delivered it. I’ve seen him around the Palace once or twice, but I don’t know his name.”

  “Someone wanted to compromise your status as a Vestal Virgin. You were set up so you would lose all your points.” Sitting down at her side, Gaius kneaded his forehead. “It’s all so frus—”

  A sudden frenzied fit of screaming from outside the Palace interrupted him. Amaelia bolted to her feet. Through the window she saw yellow-orange flames leaping high in the morning air. Out in the Imperial Gardens, a laughing, three-story-high figure dressed in red hurled lightning bolts into the leafless shrubs and trees.

  The flames were burning toward the Palace.

  KERICKSON jumped to his feet and started for the door.

  “Wait!” Amaelia clutched his hand and drew him back. “Where are you going?”

  “To stop Mars, of course.” His heart pounded as he glanced out the window again. “I can’t just stand here while he burns down the entire dome!”

  Still holding his hand, she followed his gaze to the roiling black smoke outside as the mulched flower beds burst into flame. “But what can you do about it?”

  He suddenly became conscious of the warm, tingly pressure of her slender fingers over his.

  “And anyway, look.” Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her soft cheek against his ear and pointed over his shoulder. The silvery fuselage of an automatic fire drone shot past, laying down flame-smothering foam. Than another darted into place beside it.

  The towering figure of Mars beat his great fists against his armored chest with crashes that reverberated like thunder, then stomped through the gardens toward the Market District.

  “See?” Her breath was warm against his neck. “He’s leaving. It’s going to be all right.”

  Kerickson shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’ll stop. A lot of people could get hurt, even with the fire drones, just like—” He paused, unwilling to say the name.

  “Like my father.” She pulled back, then noticed that she was still holding his hand. She blushed as her fingers loosened and she drifted out of reach. “Well, I suppose you could buy a bull or a goat to sacrifice at his temple.”

  Mars hurled lightning bolts at the terrified players as they fled his path. His height ballooned to over four stories. Inwardly, Kerickson cursed himself for listening to Wilson’s idea of allowing the gods to manifest themselves physically—and HabiTek for agreeing to it. “I think you’re right,” he said to Amaelia, “but I might have more luck at the Temple of Jupiter. After all, as the chief god, he rules all the rest.”

  He tried to think. “You stay here and I’ll come back to take you to the Interface when I’m done.”

  She lifted her chin. Her green eyes gazed steadily up at him. “No, I want to go with you.”

  “You’ll be much safer here in the Palace.”

  “Are you kidding?” A faint smile flitted across her face. “Would you want to stay here and play Quintus Gracchus’s wife?”

  He was suddenly aware of her soft, pale almond skin, the way she smelled of soap and roses, and how her hair was the color of newly polished copper. The room’s temperature seemed to jump ten degrees. He swallowed hard and held out his hand.

  Her fingers curled around his, bringing a warmth that vied with the sun itself. For the first time since Micio’s body had been found in the Baths, he felt as though things might work out. “We have to hur
ry,” he said, and in return she only nodded.

  * * *

  “Morning, your ladyness.”

  Demea sat up in the middle of a huge four-poster bed and stared around her in amazement. She was in a large apartment filled with lavishly carved ebony furniture and frescoes and even a gurgling fountain. And wherever she looked, everything was black, from the sheer draperies about her sumptuous, over-soft bed to the daring nightgown she wore. Placing a hand over the plunging neckline, she tried to remember arriving here last night.

  “I brought you a bit of the bubbly, to celebrate.” A hand parted the hangings, revealing the pudgy, unshaven face of Publius Barbus. He winked. “After all, it’s not every day that a girl becomes a goddess.”

  She shuddered, remembering now: that vile little inn . . . Barbus . . . and Pluto. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am no more a goddess than you are a—” She searched for the proper word. “—a . . . gentleman!”

  Setting his tray down, he handed her a midnight-black, cut-glass goblet filled to the brim with fizzing champagne. “You just need something to calm your nerves—hair of the dog, as they say. Go on, now—bottoms up.”

  Hair of the dog? Then the rest came back to her: downing glass after glass of wine in that deserted, depressing plaza last night while all around her those miserable screens showed her fellow players going on about the Game, piling up points while she languished in Hades, a pointless prisoner. No wonder she didn’t quite remember arriving in this vast bed.

  Her hand shook as she reached for the goblet. She probably should have just a sip, purely for medicinal purposes. The bubbles tickled her nose as she drank, and she had the most undignified urge to sneeze.

  “MY TRUE HEART.” The bass whisper had the distinct undertone of a funeral organ. “I AM MOST PLEASED.”

  She drained the goblet, then slammed it back down on the tray. “Well, I am not! When are you going to let me go? I can’t just stay down here drinking wine and champagne with you while everyone else has all the fun.”