Deadly Games

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 plants.

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