skinned face and head like brambles in a blackberry patch. Though he lacked the height of a Turgonian man-his blue eyes were level with hers-the powerful muscles revealed by his red, sleeveless shirt made him intimidating. His slitted eyes locked onto her accusingly, as if he could guess her thoughts.
She decided to try a smile. “Hello, I’m Amaranthe. Who are you?”
The scarred man’s eyes widened, but he quickly resumed his suspicious mien. What do I say to get rid of this fellow?
“Security?” Maldynado drawled. “Run along, chap. You’re blocking the view.”
Apparently, Maldynado’s condescending tone was the expected address, for the man inclined his head and strode off. He wore a utility belt bristling with daggers.
“Looks like we found a playmate for Sicarius,” Amaranthe murmured.
“Yup. Those were knife scars. I bet he’s a former pit fighter who won his way into a security gig.”
Larocka stepped onto a bench, so her head and shoulders rose above the crowd. “Thank you all for coming tonight. The first two fighters will be out shortly so you can assess them before making your wagers.” She waved toward a bettors’ cage carved into one wall. “You know the rules; all bets go through the house. Odds are provided. Take advantage of the complementary drinks and enjoy yourselves.”
She stepped down into Arbitan’s arms and took a glass from a passing servant. The couple’s closeness suggested more than a mere business partnership.
A grinding noise reverberated through the floor. The crowd jostled into place around the pit. Some sat in the bleachers, while others leaned over the edge. With Maldynado’s brawn, he and Amaranthe pushed their way into good seats.
Unlike the newly dug hole on the other side of the basement, the main pit had fifteen-foot brick walls with a tunnel leading into it. A steel portcullis was disappearing into the ceiling of the passage.
Four men marched into the pit: two nude fighters and two handlers carrying whips and wearing short swords. Chain leashes and collars secured the necks of the slaves, who trundled forward with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. On the pit walls, sconces held torches rather than lamps, lending a primeval feel to the arena. Mirrors hanging from the ceiling ensured a good view for all.
While the crowd appraised the fighters and made their bets, Amaranthe watched Larocka and Arbitan. The shaven-headed security man never strayed far from the couple. If he was a bodyguard, he would likely show up at any meeting Amaranthe arranged to present her deal. Blackmail, call it what it is, girl.
When the bets had been made, the two handlers unleashed their charges and retreated to the tunnel. One pulled a lever and the portcullis clanged into place.
Larocka held out her hand and waved for the security man with the other. Almost like one of the dejected slaves in the pit, his chest narrowed, and his shoulders sagged. He gave her two identical daggers from his collection, weapons for the fighters apparently. When Larocka held the security man’s eyes, he straightened and resumed his stern mien.
“Let the fight begin!” Larocka dropped the daggers into the pit.
The blades pierced the sand floor, hilts quivering. The fighters surged forward, each grabbing a weapon. They did not attack immediately though. They circled each other, hands guarding their knives. Neither growled, snarled, or shouted. They appeared not like riled wolves ready to rip each other’s throats out but like friends forced to fight. A few threats from the guards invigorated them.
When the battle engaged in earnest, Amaranthe felt like a twig in an avalanche of craziness: shouting, screaming, and cursing echoed from the ceiling beams. People stamped and jumped, and the wooden bleachers trembled beneath her feet. She would have thought the women in the audience would prove less bloodthirsty, but one rail-thin, gray-haired lady next to her chanted, “Kill him, kill him!” with alarming vigor. Though Amaranthe had ordered Maldynado not make any wagers, that did not keep him from choosing someone to root for.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs. It seemed like all the guests had arrived. She wondered if the majordomo had left his post upstairs. With the majority of the household in the basement, exploration of the upper floors might be possible.
In the pit, a dagger found a chest, and the crowd cheered.
The victor dropped to his knees, hands over his face. His handlers came out and chained him. One hoisted the corpse over his shoulder and carried it out as if it were a grain sack. Two more grim-faced combatants waited in the tunnel.
During the next battle, Amaranthe paid more attention to the hosts. As engrossed in the entertainment as her guests, Larocka cheered, fist pumping. Her partner wore a different expression. Arbitan viewed the fights with detached boredom. More often he surveyed the crowd, but even then he appeared bored, yawning and picking at his fingernails. If he was hosting the fights for profit, Amaranthe would have expected enthusiasm for the success of the event or at least calculation as he contemplated the money his guests were spending. She knew Larocka’s list of businesses; maybe it was time to find out Arbitan’s interests.
His cool gaze shifted, and he caught her staring.
She looked away, feigning interest in the combatants. In her peripheral vision, she could see him watching her. She swallowed. He couldn’t possibly know her thoughts. Could he?
Even when he resumed his scan of the crowd, her discomfort did not wane. Arbitan’s aloof detachment reminded her of Sicarius, and she had already seen how dangerous he was. She suddenly felt her grand plan terribly juvenile and doomed to failure. She needed more of an edge than some counterfeit bills. And this might be her best chance to find it.
She waited for two more fights to pass, so Arbitan would forget about her, and then tugged on Maldynado’s arm. He leaned closer without taking his eyes off the blood-spattered men in the pit below.
“I’m going to look around,” she said.
“Now?” Maldynado shouted to be heard. “This is a great fight! You won’t see who wins.”
“Darn.”
She ducked and twisted past gesticulating people and hopped off the bleachers. Someone’s elbow clipped her shoulder as the man pumped his fist and shouted. She slid free of the last audience member only to run into several servants with empty trays heading for the stairs. She turned back toward the fights and waited for them to leave.
Then, using the backs of the bleachers for cover, she headed up the stairs. She had not noticed a water closet in the subterranean arena and figured searching for one would make a plausible excuse should someone question her. At least it would if she was accosted early on. It would be a less persuasive story should someone find her on the fifth floor rummaging through the owner’s desk drawers.
When she entered the foyer, she saw no sign of the majordomo.
Plush carpeting swallowed her footfalls as she headed for the nearest hallway. Dishes clanked in a kitchen somewhere in the back of the house. Candles and gas lamps burned sporadically, but did little to stave off the depths of the winter night. Intermittent roars and applause floated up from the floor below.
The water closet was behind the first door she checked. As soon as she passed it-and her excuse for wandering-she grew more cautious. She clung to the shadows along the walls and paused to listen every few steps.
Just as she was coming to a staircase, a door creaked open and kitchen noises grew louder for a moment. Amaranthe darted into a closet. She left the door cracked to watch the hallway. A train of servants glided past, trays full of brandy glasses and chilled cider mugs.
Time to get off that floor. She assumed the bedrooms would be upstairs anyway.
She spent the next half hour winding through the numerous floors of the mansion, checking doors, and dodging servants and security guards. Just as she was cursing the house for not having a directory, Amaranthe spied a single door by itself at the end of a hallway. A golden, ornate LM marked it.
“Finally,” she whispered.
The door was unlocked, but she paused before stepping into the short, wide hallway that led into the first room. If magical wards protected the grounds, might not something protect Larocka’s suite?
Unfortunately, she had no idea what such wards might look like, if there were physical clues at all. She was about to chance walking in when she noticed a pair of lizard medallions on the walls behind potted rubber trees. The leaves almost hid the medallions. Set a couple feet above the floor, they were identical and level with each other. The intricate metalwork had more flair than most imperial art.
