“What are you doing with her?” the enforcerdemanded.
Amaranthe blinked. “What?”
The enforcer, a young man who could not bemore than a year or two out of the academy, pointed at Fasha whilescowling so fiercely he threatened to snap a tendon in his neck.“She’s a Kendorian.”
Ah, of course. There must be quite a fewannoyed with the new policy, allowing foreigners into the ImperialGames.
Amaranthe shrugged. “She’s running in thesame events as I am.”
The second enforcer, whose rumpled uniformand bleary eyes might have meant he had been on shift all night,stabbed Fasha in the shoulder with a finger. “She was out here,spouting about magic last night. We ought to have thrown her in thewagon. And any imperial woman who colludes with her as well.”
Amaranthe groaned inwardly. She had neverseen Sicarius laugh, and she did not want the first instance tocome because she was foolish enough to get arrested for someoneelse’s crime.
Fasha lifted her chin. “I’ve done nothingwrong. You ignorant Turgonians should be ashamed of yourselves forheckling athletes.”
“Ignorant?” The first enforcer reached forthe handcuffs dangling from his belt hook. “You-”
Amaranthe pushed Fasha back and glidedbetween the enforcers. She lifted a hand to her lips and whisperedout of the side of her mouth, “I’m on it.”
“Er, huh?” The enforcers shared perplexedlooks.
“Watching the suspicious foreigner,”Amaranthe murmured. “She came to the track babbling aboutkidnappings and magic. As if either would happen at such awell-guarded venue.”
The wrinkled foreheads smoothed. “Oh. Ofcourse, that’s right.”
“You gentlemen can’t go inside the women’sbarracks,” Amaranthe said, “but I can. I can watch her andlet you know if she does anything suspicious.”
“Yes, yes, right,” they murmured. “You let usknow.”
They drew back and nodded for her to goinside. Fortunately, Fasha kept her mouth shut and did nothing toantagonize the men as they passed, entering an open bay dominatedby two long rows of bunk beds. A few held slumbering figures, butmost had been vacated. Women in various states of undress chattedand tended to their morning ablutions.
“That was embarrassing,” Amaranthe said, asshe and Fasha walked down the aisle.
“That your people are so ignorant aboutmagic?”
“That those enforcers fell for that. Academystandards must be slipping.” Amaranthe waved toward the bay.“Where’s your room?”
“Down there.” Fasha pointed toward a hallwayat the end.
Conversations ceased as they passed.Amaranthe wondered if she had made a mistake coming in with aforeigner. She might have acquired information more easily if shechatted with people independently. One of these women might verywell have something to do with the kidnapping. Another plot to oustoutsiders?
The sound of running water came from latrinesfarther down the hallway. Amaranthe would check that directionlater. The back door ought to be guarded similarly to the front,but perhaps someone could have escaped with a prisoner through awindow, especially if some magic had rendered the prisonerunconscious. She shook her head, reminding herself she had not yetdetermined if anything was truly amiss. Even if Fasha’s sister hadbeen a daughter of the warrior caste, the enforcers would not havestarted searching for her after only one night missing.
Fasha pushed open a door that lacked a lock.They walked into a simple room with footlockers, two narrow beds,and a chest between them doubling as a side table. Two tea mugs anda bag of nuts rested on top next to a low-burning kerosenelamp.
Amaranthe turned the flame up.
“I looked around to see if she left amessage.” Fasha lingered in the doorway. “But I didn’t touchanything otherwise.”
“What did you sense exactly to make you thinkthe Science was involved?” Amaranthe poked about, looking foranything out of place. She dropped to her belly to peer under thebeds, and her towel wrap flopped off her head.
“It’s hard to explain. Like a residue in theair.”
One of the tea mugs was half full. Amaranthesniffed the herbal concoction. “Is this hers or yours?”
“I’m not sure. They’re from yesterdaymorning, I think.”
“Hm.” That would be a slow-acting drug if ithad taken all day to go into effect. Amaranthe wished she had moreof a feel for what was and was not possible in the realm of magic.She might have to find Akstyr and come back to-
“Has anyone seen Anakha?” a woman asked inthe hallway.
A black-haired, bronze-skinned Turgonianwoman strode past the door, bumping Fasha without noticing. Shestrode out of sight, but Amaranthe followed her to the bay.
“Anyone?” the woman asked again. “Anakha?Tall woman with more muscles than the men.”
“Haven’t seen her since yesterday,” someonesaid.
“She never came to bed.”
Murmurs of assent came from others.
“Great grandmother’s bunions,” the originalspeaker growled and strode through the bay and out the frontdoor.
Amaranthe returned to Fasha. “Have you heardof any other kidnappings?”
“No.”
“This Anakha, she’s Turgonian?”
“If she’s who I’m thinking of, yes. There’reonly a few of us from outside of the empire.”
“Huh.” Amaranthe scratched her jaw. If thisother missing woman had disappeared in the same manner asKeisha…it would stomp out her theory of this being a plot againstforeigners.
She spent another ten minutes searching theroom, hoping to find something that would justify this trip intothe barracks, but she found nothing, not even dust balls. “I betterget going. I’ll come back tonight or tomorrow night and bring oneof my men.” Assuming Maldynado had not taken Akstyr to someweek-long brothel experience to celebrate their vacation. OnlyBooks had spent the night at their latest hideout. Even Basilard,not a notorious brothel-goer had been gone when Amaranthe awoke.“If you need help before then, you can find me in the locomotiveboneyard. It’s near the tracks, two miles south of here.”
“You live in a…junkyard? Is that whatboneyard means?”
“Temporary lodgings.”
Amaranthe took the towels, prepared to createanother bath-house-inspired costume, but, when she left thebarracks, nobody stood guard at the top of the steps. She did notsee the enforcers anywhere. A shout almost made her misstep andtumble down the stairs.
“Sicarius!” a male voice cried. “He went thatway! Enforcers! That way!”
Amaranthe groaned. What was hedoing?
The early morning sunlight brightening thecity did not reach the alley where Basilard stood on a half-rottedwood stoop before a door. Gang graffiti marked the chipped andbroken brick walls around it, and rusty bars protected a windowclosed off with oilskin rather than glass. A homeless man snored ona stoop farther down while a mangy dog pawed through excrementdumped on the ancient cobblestones. This old neighborhood was noton the city sewer system, as the smell attested.
Thanks to the knives at his belt and thescars covering his hands, shaven head, and face, Basilard doubtedanyone would bother him. He was more concerned about dealing withthe woman inside. A sign dangling from rusty hinges readApothecary.
Basilard lifted a fist to knock, but paused.A bushy tuft of greenery sprouting from a crack caught hisattention. Soroth Stick? Like dandelion and lizard tail, theTurgonians treated the plant as a weed, but he hopped down from thestoop and plucked several leaves. They made a tea that soothedcramps, and, given how much training the team did, such a beveragewas often necessary for replenishing the body.
Since he did not have the foraging satchel hecarried in the wilderness, he tucked the leaves into an insidepocket in his vest, with a mental reminder to wash them well beforeusing them. Given this dubious locale, they had probably been peedon. By multiple species.
Basilard returned to the stoop, but he casthis gaze about, wondering if the grungy alley might host any otheredible p
lants.
Stop it, he told himself. No moreprocrastinating. As grandpa used to say, “Cleaning a fish don’t getany more pleasant for having put the task off.”
He took a deep breath and knocked on thedoor.
A part of him hoped no one would answer. Notmany of his people lived in the Turgonian capital, and he had notsought any out since Amaranthe and Sicarius had killed the wizardwho had bought Basilard years ago. Nor had he had the freedom tovisit anyone during his tenure as a slave. He had never comeface-to-face with the Mangdorians that played a part in the citywater poisoning a couple of months earlier, so this would be thefirst he had met since… He swallowed hard at the memory of a youngman he had killed in a pit fight engineered by their owners. He hadkilled many in those forced battles, since it had been the only wayto preserve his own life.
The sound of footsteps came from within. Alock thunked, and the door opened.
A stooped woman with graying red hairsquinted at Basilard. An Eye of God necklace hung around her neck,and his breath caught. He had expected an apothecary, not apriestess. She peered up and down the alley before addressinghim.
“You must be here for my herbs,” she said inheavily accented Turgonian. Her gesture encompassed his scars.“Come in, come in. My services are very affordable. I don’t use nomagic though, so don’t expect that.” She glanced up and down thealley again.
Basilard guessed that meant she could use themental sciences, but would not risk it if there was a chance thelocals would find out.
He followed her into a one-room dwellingpartitioned into sections for sleeping, meal preparation, and work.The pungent aroma of dozens-hundreds? — of drying herbs thickened theair. She gestured for him to sit on a faded sofa, and he duckedbeneath bundles of leaves hanging from the ceiling to perch on theedge.
“What’s your problem?” She sat on a stoolbeside a desk piled high with flasks, tins, and tools. “You’re inpain from your scars? I’ve seen pin cushions less poked up.”
Basilard shook his head and touched the knotof scar tissue on his throat, the wound that had stolen his abilityto speak.
“No voice? I can’t fix that. No herb canrepair damaged vocal cords.”
He lifted his hands, but did nothing excepthold them in the air at first. As soon as he signed, she would knowhe was Mangdorian. As far as he knew, the hand code his people usedon the hunt-which Basilard now used to speak to his comrades-wasnot employed anywhere else in the world. He had brought pencil andpaper, too, because there were few female hunters amongst histribes, and she might not understand the code well. Maybe he shouldsimply write his message. But she would find out he was Mangdoriansooner or later, since he had come to discuss their people.
He signed, I seek information. Do youunderstand me?
Her eyes widened, and she drew back soquickly she almost fell off the stool. “You’re Mangdorian?” Sheeyed his scars. “Those are knife wounds, aren’t they? Did someonedo that to you…as punishment?”
He had not expected her to guess he was notresponsible for them, that he may not have violated God’s mandatesof peace and pacifism. Could he lie to her? And avoid hercondemnation? Maybe if she had been a simple apothecary, and notworn the necklace of a priestess as well. He could not lie to aholy servant. Besides, he told himself, this was a one-timemeeting. Her opinion of him did not matter.
I was a slave, he signed. I wasforced to fight for my life. Many times.
The priestess dropped her chin to her chest,clutched the bronze eye on her necklace, and whispered a prayer hehad not heard in a long time, but one that he remembered well. Itasked for God to pity him and give strength to his family becausehis actions had condemned him.
Basilard sighed. When she looked up, hesigned again, I seek to help our people. I need information on aman who might have wronged Mangdoria somehow.
“How would you help our people?” She frowned.“By killing this man?”
He hesitated. I would rather not, but ifhe has committed crimes against us, I feel it would be my duty toact.
Her frown deepened, and he realized she wasstruggling to follow his words. Over the last few months, he hadadded signs to his people’s sparse hunting code, so he could speakmore completely with Amaranthe and the others, but, of course,outsiders would not know the gestures he had made up.
I wish to do good, Basilard signed.If I…help our people, maybe God will forgive me.
The priestess straightened, her back as rigidas a steel bar. “God does not forgive killers. You havecondemned yourself to the darkest circle of Ethor, young man.Nothing you can do in this life can make up for it. That you wouldeven consider killing someone to avenge a wrong proves how far youhave fallen.”
Basilard closed his eyes. He had just met thewoman. Her opinion should not matter, but he knew it was areflection of the same opinion his family-his daughter-wouldshare should he ever return home. And it was an opinion he fearedheld far too much truth.
I need to know…. Have you spoken to anyother Mangdorians in the city? Have you heard anything about a mancalled…
He grabbed his paper, knowing she would notknow his made up sign for the name, and scrawled it for her. Hisfingers surprised him by trembling. Maybe he did not really want toknow the answer. What would he do if his suspicions provedcorrect?
Still frowning, the priestess read the name.“Sicarius? The assassin?”
Yes.
Her lips puckered in disapproval, whether forSicarius or for Basilard, he did not know. “What would you do withthis information if I told you. Attempt to kill him?”
His heartbeat quickened. There issomething to tell?
Her pucker deepened.
Basilard leaned forward. I mustknow.
“You should leave this place. The blood onyour hands taints my home.”
Basilard gripped the sofa’s faded floralarmrest so tightly his fingers ached. She watched his hand warily,perhaps anticipating violence from a man such as he. Condemned ornot, he would not threaten an old woman. He forced his fingers toloosen. How would Amaranthe talk this lady into giving up theinformation? By giving her what she wanted? What did she want?
If he has wronged Mangdoria, he shouldbe…dealt with. Our people cannot do it without damningthemselves, correct? If I am already condemned, then I’m thelogical choice to avenge the tribes.
In truth, Basilard did not want to pick afight with Sicarius. For one thing, he doubted he could win. Foranother, he did not dislike Sicarius, not the way Akstyr and Booksdid. Sicarius was cold and impossible to know, and he expectedeveryone to train as stringently as he did, but Basilard had notfound him cruel or vindictive. Hard but fair, he would say. But,that moment in the shaman’s cave, when Sicarius had destroyed thatMangdorian message before Basilard or Books could read it…. Thathad raised Basilard’s suspicions. Since then, he had thought oftenof the moment and wondered what the assassin was hiding.
“You do not treat your soul with respect,”the priestess said.
If nothing I do matters… Basilardshrugged.
“Very well. The rumor is Sicarius killedChief Yull and his family.”
Basilard flopped back so hard the sofathumped against the wall. Crumbled dust from the herbs dryingoverhead sifted down to land in his eyes. He barely noticed it.Good-hearted Chief Yull, the man Basilard had dreamed of workingfor as a boy, back when he had thought to become a forage leaderand chef. Basilard’s gut twisted. And there had been sons.Young sons. Jast and Yuasmif.
He closed his eyes. Why had he snooped? Whyhad he asked for this information?
And, now that he had it, how could he doanything but kill Sicarius? Or die trying.
CHAPTER 2
Dawn had come, and Amaranthe felt conspicuousas she sidled up beside one of the enforcer vehicles. She could notcount on darkness to mask her wanted-poster features any longer,but she could not leave without knowing if something had happenedto Sicarius.
Several men stood between two lorries withsmoke drifting from the stacks. The enforcers spoke in hushe
dtones, and she struggled to eavesdrop over the hissing boilers andidling machinery.
“…Sicarius doing here?”
“…missing girls?”
“…men will catch… Already woundedhim.”
Wounded? Amaranthe’s jaw sagged open. Surelynot. Not by enforcers.
One of the men frowned in her direction, andshe knelt to tie a shoelace. She dared not linger. It sounded likeSicarius had not been caught yet. What stunned her was that he hadbeen seen at all. Though it was true he did not usually favorcostumes, he had a knack for remaining unseen, especially at night.It rattled her beliefs to think he could have stumbled into someonehe shouldn’t have-and reacted too slowly to keep that someone fromraising an alarm.
When Amaranthe had spent as long tying hershoe as she could without attracting attention, she jogged toward apair of oaks spreading shade over the men’s barracks. Not wantingto return to their hideout without knowing Sicarius was safe, shestopped where she could watch the enforcers.
Birds chirped overhead. The smell of cookingeggs wafted from a vendor’s nearby tent. Early morning sun slantedthrough the oak’s lower branches and warmed the back of her neck.It was not a sound but the disappearance of that warmth thatalerted Amaranthe to someone behind her.
She turned to find Sicarius, hands claspedbehind his back, the sunlight limning his short blond hair. Nosweat dampened that hair and no dust smudged his black clothes. Hecertainly did not look like a man who had been on the run.
“What’re you doing?” She glanced at theenforcers.
He had placed himself so a tree hid him fromtheir view, but the sunlight and the people walking all about madeAmaranthe feel exposed and vulnerable.
“Standing,” Sicarius said.
“Where have you been? Why did you letthe enforcers see you?”
“I did not.”
“You find him?” someone called near thevehicles.
Amaranthe grabbed Sicarius’s arm. “We have toget out of here. You can explain later.”
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