Deadly Games

Amaranthe watched Akstyr, hoping he wouldsuggest another explanation, but he merely shrugged.

“Is it even possible to have a hideout on thebottom of the lake?” she asked Books.

“If we were talking about something madeentirely with imperial technology, I’d say no, but with magic…”He spread his arms. “I have no idea.”

“All right,” Amaranthe said. “This is allspeculation at this point. We need to find out if there’s anythingto it or not.”

“So…we need diving suits?” Booksgrimaced.

“Unless Akstyr knows how to make one of thosebubbles to steer us around the lake depths.”

“Nope,” Akstyr said. “I’d sure like to learnfrom someone who could though.”

“You’re not thinking of apprenticing yourselfto the enemy, are you?” Amaranthe teased, though it was not as muchof a joke as she pretended. She watched him carefully for areaction.

“Naw,” he said. “Not unless… Do you thinkshe’d have me?”

“She seems the type who would prefer a manwho could grow a real mustache,” Maldynado said.

“I can!” Akstyr probed his upper lip. “It’sgetting there.”

Amaranthe nodded to Books. “I know you’re notexcited by the idea, but I think we’re going to need those divingsuits. Can you do some research and see where we might getsome?”

Books sighed. “Why do I have the feelingnothing good is going to come of this?”

“Because you lack optimism?” Amaranthesuggested.

“That must be it.”

CHAPTER 12

Footsteps rang on the other side ofBasilard’s door. He leaped out of his cot. The hours he had spentsearching, pressing, pulling, and pounding his fists had notrevealed any weaknesses in his prison.

The door opened, revealing the burly youngsoldier who had held a pistol on him earlier. An equally young andburly man accompanied him, though this one had a scraggily rat tailhanging down his back and wore no military clothing. Both pointedpistols at Basilard.

“Move,” Rat Tail said.

Basilard measured both men as he squeezedpast them. The tight doorway and corridor forced closeness, and hethought about trying for their weapons, but they watched himcarefully. And what if he did overpower them? He had no idea wherehe was or how to get back to the city. Hoping he would not regretit later, he decided to wait for a better opportunity toescape.

The men pushed him through a corridor sonarrow his shoulders brushed the walls, and he had to duckfrequently for pipes that crossed overhead. He waited for aporthole that would provide a glimpse of their location, butnothing broke the monotony of the dark gray bulkheads. The glowingorbs provided the only lighting, and he had no idea if it was nightor day outside. Oddly, though engines pulsed somewhere in thestructure, he had no sense of forward movement nor the rise andfall of waves.

Clanks, clacks, and a rhythmic sucking soundcame from ahead. The engine room? The corridor ended at a chamber,but a transparent barrier filled with glowing yellow tendrils thatwrithed about like snakes blocked the entrance. Basilard blinked,questioning his eyesight.

“Stop,” one of the guards said beforeBasilard reached the entrance.

The man pushed him aside and stepped forward.He leaned into a bronze box mounted on the wall at head level, andhe pressed his face close to a concave indention. A blue pulse oflight washed over his face.

The shimmering tendrils winked out, and theguard stepped through. The second guard shoved Basilard frombehind.

They entered a chamber cluttered with pipes,equipment, moving machinery, and tanks of yellowish blue liquid.Flesh-colored blobs floated in some. Machinery and pipes filled thecenter of the space and one could go left or right down confiningaisles jammed with consoles and narrow tables, or perhaps thosewere beds. Some lay horizontal and others were tilted upward tostand against the wall. Trays near them held scalpels, saws, andscissors.

Basilard swallowed. He did not know what thisplace was, but it was nothing so innocuous as an engine room.

The men prodded him toward the far aisle. Herounded a tight corner and stopped. Two red-haired women leanedtogether, heads almost bumping. One wore her hair in a long braidand the other had hers pinned up in a wild swirl of hair. Theyspoke in soft tones. Litya and the sister…. What was the name?Metya.

One of Basilard’s guards cleared his throat.The women turned in unison. They were twins, identical except for afew freckles and an old half-moon scar on one’s temple. He pickedLitya out as the woman without the marking.

As one, their eyes shifted up and down,studying Basilard. Under other circumstances, he might have flushedwith embarrassment-he was naked, after all-but there was nosexual interest in their perusal. He struggled to keep fromsquirming under their scrutiny.

The aisle behind them held more beds,occupied by nude men and women. Most were propped upright againstthe wall, the people held tight by leather straps, but the bedbehind the twins lay in the horizontal position with a muscular manon it, not strapped like the others but chained, the links sosecure that he could do no more than lift a hand or twitch a toe,though he did neither while Basilard watched. Cords snaked from amachine to coin- sized, spider-like devices with the tips of the“ legs” digging beneath the skin on the man’s naked chest.Translucent tubing ran from a pulsing green globe, and a viscousfluid of the same color flowed through it and into a needle in hisarm. Not just his arm. His vein.

“Put him on that table.” Metya pointed to anempty one behind her. “I have the pok- tah solution ready.”She stepped to the side, so the guards could shove Basilard past.“Once we hook him up, he won’t-”

Basilard sucked in a startled breath when theview opened up and he saw the face of the man on the table. Heshould have guessed. Sicarius.

His eyes were open. That surprised Basilardagain-he would have assumed, even with the restraints, someonewould keep Sicarius unconscious if they dared to detain him. Whenthose dark eyes swiveled toward Basilard, though, they were glazedand dull. No sign of recognition glinted in them.

The guard shoved Basilard, trying to forcehim around the end of Sicarius’s table and toward the vertical onea few feet away. He balked and groped for a way to communicate.

“Wait.” Litya pointed the pen at Basilard.“Do you know him?” She shifted the pen and tapped Sicarius on abare toe.

Basilard choked on her audacity. He didn’tthink even Amaranthe would poke Sicarius’s toe, and hetolerated more from her than anyone else.

“Well?” Litya demanded. She grabbed aclipboard from a wall where it dangled on a string, a penattached.

Basilard did not know whether admitting heknew Sicarius would help him or hinder him. He just knew he wouldhave to make his escape attempt soon-if these people strapped himdown and drugged him, he might never wake again.

Basilard lifted his fingers and signed,Can you understand me?

“Why does it matter?” Metya asked. She stoodnear the second bed, tapping buttons beneath a dark orb identicalto the green one at Sicarius’s station.

“Aside from this one-” Litya waved her pen atBasilard again, “-the assassin is the only one here whose lineagewe haven’t been able to discover. He proved resistant to the truthelixir, and he’s the one I’m most curious about.”

“It’s not crucial,” Metya said.

“No, but the information could prove usefulfor our studies. He’s already what our clients wish us tocreate.”

Basilard lifted his eyebrows. Assassins?Gifted warriors? Superior athletes?