“Take a good look,” Maldynado said. “I wantyou to remember this the next time you bother me about running overa street lamp.”
“Are you planning on destroying more streetlamps?” Books asked.
“Oh, I think that’s a given as long as wework for the boss here.”
Amaranthe opened her mouth to tell him to sether down, but motion up the hill stopped her. A vehicle had turnedonto the street and was rolling toward the crash. Night made itimpossible to make out details, but she could guess at theoccupants. “Enforcers coming. Time to go.”
“Right.” Maldynado jogged toward analley.
Amaranthe bumped and bounced on his shoulderlike a crate on a bicycle navigating cobblestones. “I can run on myown,” she said, voice vibrating with Maldynado’s every step.
“Promise you won’t sprint back inside and tryto drag that body out?” Maldynado asked.
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
Maldynado lowered her gently. She scrapeddamp hair out of her eyes, wincing when she brushed against a knotthe size of a chicken egg on the side of her head. She wassurprised to find she still clutched the jacket she had pulled outof the carriage. Not exactly the chance for illumination the bodywould have provided, but maybe a pocket would contain a usefulclue.
Several blocks away and back on the streetfollowing the waterfront, Amaranthe paused beneath a streetlight toexamine it. The flame revealed heavy black material in the cut ofan army fatigue jacket.
“What’s that?” Books asked, stopping besideher.
Maldynado stopped as well, though he turnedhis attention the way they had come, watching for pursuit.
“It was in the carriage.” Amaranthe checkedthe pockets and found nothing. So much for that hope. The rank pinshad been removed, though the nametag was still sewn on above thebreast pocket. She turned it toward the light. “Taloncrest,” sheread and paused. That name seemed familiar.
“Nobody I’ve heard of,” Maldynado said.
“Nor I,” Books said. “Amaranthe?” he askedwhen her thoughtful silence continued.
“Colonel Taloncrest,” she murmured, an uneasyflutter vexing her stomach at the memory.
“Who’s he?” Maldynado asked.
“He was the surgeon performing medicalexperiments on people in the Imperial Barracks dungeon whenHollowcrest had me thrown down there.”
Memories of that miserable place floodedAmaranthe. The military could not be behind the kidnapped athletesand her missing men, could it? No, Sespian would not allow that tohappen. Unless he didn’t
“You’re sure?” Books asked. “Medicalexperiments?”
“Dear ancestors,” Maldynado said, lookingback the way they had come, toward the dead woman. “That’sdisturbing.”
Amaranthe tried not to think of Taloncreststanding over Sicarius, a scalpel poised. It did not work.
CHAPTER 11
When Basilard woke, his head ached worse thanit ever had after a night out carousing with Maldynado. He openedhis eyes to-thankfully-dim lighting emanating from a globe hangingbeside a metal door. The entire room- cubby might be a betterword-was made from dark gray metal. He lay on a narrow cot, staringat riveting running along ridges traversing the walls from floor tocurved ceiling. He had never been on a steam ship, but guessed thatwas his location. Engines somewhere rumbled, the reverberationspulsing through the floor and up his cot.
Was he being transported somewhere? Though hehad never sailed, he had seen maps of the empire and knew that onecould travel from the Chain Lakes down the Goldar River and all theway to the Gulf. From there, one could go…anywhere in the world.Had he been captured to be sold into slavery once again? This timesomeplace far away? Someplace so far away there was no chance hewould ever return home again to see his daughter?
The daughter you could have already gone tosee if you weren’t such a coward, he told himself.
Basilard sat up, and the pounding in his headintensified so much he groaned and grabbed his temples. Toughen up,he told himself. Sicarius would not bellyache so.
He sneered at himself. Why was he holdingSicarius up as a model to emulate?
When the throbbing calmed enough to handle,he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and found the floor- thedeck? Was that what ship people called it? The cold metal numbedhis bare feet. With a twitch of surprise, he realized everythingwas bare. He patted himself down, checking for…he did not knowwhat, but one couldn’t trust people who kidnapped one and stoleone’s clothing.
Soft, rhythmic clangs sounded beyond thedoor. Footsteps.
A scratch and thud echoed through the door.Basilard slipped off the cot and dropped into a defensive crouch.One that could easily turn offensive, if the situation permittedit. Though he should perhaps figure out where he was beforeattacking people. Who knew how long he had been unconscious?
Another thud sounded, then a clank. Multiplelocks being thrown? If so, they had secured him well.
The thick, metal door squeaked open.
A woman stood there, her long red hair pinnedinto a swirling dervish atop her head. Two men framed her. Theywore the black fatigues of army soldiers, though no rank pinsadorned their collars. One appeared to be “the muscle.” He crowdedthe hallway with broad shoulders and tree-trunk arms that evenMaldynado would have dubbed substantial. He aimed a pistol atBasilard, though the challenging sneer curling his lips said hewould be happy to battle barehanded or perhaps with the swordsheathed at his waist. The surname stitched on his jacket read,LEV. The second man had neatly trimmed gray hair and wielded aclipboard instead of a gun. His tag read, TALONCREST. Awarrior-caste officer involved in this scheme? Surprising.
The woman stepped inside first with noapparent fear of Basilard. The men followed after, one at a time,ducking and stepping over the raised frame of the door toenter.
“Greetings,” the woman said. “I havequestions for you.”
Though Basilard would not have been in a rushto answer their questions under any circumstances, he doubted itwas a possibility here. The soldiers would not understand his signlanguage, and he did not think the woman was Mangdorian. Thoughfair-skinned, she was not as pale as his people, and he thought shemight be Kendorian or perhaps from one of the island nationsbetween Turgonia and Nuria.
He touched the scar tissue at his throat andshrugged. Maybe they would not think to ask if he could read,though Arbitan had insisted Basilard learn that skill before hetook over as head of security for the wizard.
“You can’t speak?” the woman asked, eyesnarrowed.
Basilard shook his head and signed,
The gray-haired officer’s eyebrows rose. “TheMangdorian hunting code?”
Basilard nodded.
“That answers your question, Litya.”Taloncrest scribbled something on his notepad.
“Yes, but race matters little for myexperiments,” the woman said in a lilting, almost musical accentBasilard did not recognize. “I prefer Turgonian stock, given thegoals of my clients, but your people have such muddied bloodlinesthat no one will be the wiser as long as we breed the foreignerswith darker skinned specimens.”
Breed? Basilard caught his mouth danglingopen, and he snapped it shut.
“If you don’t need him,” Taloncrest said,eyeing Basilard as he tapped his pen on his clipboard, “I’m sure Icould use him.”
“You can have them all for your cuttingsafter I’ve taken my samples.”
“Excellent,” Taloncrest said.
“I can move ahead with him as soon as mysister returns with the anesthesia ingredients.”
