“Oh, no, we’ll be searching the neighborhoodand contemplating all the fountains within a two miles radius.”
Maldynado stopped walking and flopped againstthe wall. “
“There aren’t
“There’s one at every intersection.”
“Every other intersection, at the most.”
“That’s still a
“I know. It’s not much to go on. I’ll thinkon it while we watch Basilard compete this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Maldynado snapped his fingers. “And weneed to get there early. No fountain searching on the way. What ifsomeone tries to kidnap him?”
“I doubt anyone knows who he is,” Amaranthesaid, amused at how quickly Maldynado could start scheming his wayout of work. “He entered with his Mangdorian name, didn’t he?” Evenif people knew a “Basilard” ran with Sicarius, nobody in the citywould know his real name.
Maldynado snickered. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Basilard hopped up and down and swung hisarms. He was one of six athletes left in the staging area, and hedid not think anyone else appeared as nervous as he. Though it wasthe first day of events, and only a third of the benches in thestadium were filled, Basilard could not help but feel as ifthousands of eyes watched him. Already, he had visited the washoutsbeneath the stands three times, both to urinate and to throwup.
He remembered being nervous before the pitfights, but not this nervous. Strange, considering his life hadbeen on the line there, and people had shouted and jeered fromabove, calling out for bloodshed. Maybe it was because he had moreto win here. It wasn’t just an extension of his own existence, buta visit with the emperor and a chance to speak for his people. Ifhe did not get himself killed trying to take out Sicarius first. Hegrowled at himself, annoyed with the situation. He never shouldhave gone to visit that priestess.
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?”
“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?”
“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.”
“Yes?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Do you want me to watch,or leave you alone?”
“I’ve not attended many sporting events,”Books said. “Is that arm-pumping action required?”
“Clapping won’t suffice?”
“Ah, very well.”
“Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletescalled.
Basilard lifted an arm, then told Books,
Books’s eyes widened. “Temtelamak?
“Did he tell you who Temtelamak was?” Bookslowered his voice to mutter, “I’m surprised that uneducated buffoonknows that much history.”
“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.
“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.”
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,
“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.
“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.
