Cheers erupted, and he grinned. Those people would root for any good showing, but knowing they appreciated his athleticism, instead of his ability to stick knives into people, made him grateful.
The cheers went on longer than expected. An attendant was already painting his time on a sheet on a giant pad of paper that could be spun to show both sides of the stadium. 1:53.
Basilard gaped. That put him in first place.
A high-pitched, enthusiastic whistle floated down from the seats near the stadium entrance. He glanced over in time to see Books swatting Maldynado in the back of the head, nearly knocking a hat off, one with a white plumed feather of ridiculous proportions. Though Basilard could not read lips, he caught the gist of Books’s words, “Quit drawing attention to us, you big oaf. We’re wanted men.”
Amaranthe stood with them, too, her broad-brimmed sunhat hiding her face to some extent. A lump formed in Basilard’s throat. They—especially Amaranthe—were risking a chase from the ever-present enforcers to be here to root for him.
He did not want to call attention to them, so he merely nodded that direction before accepting a towel from a boy garbed in attendant’s yellow and white. Basilard swabbed sweat out of his eyes and off his scalp.
“Congratulations on your time, sir,” the boy said, eyeing the briar patch of scars crisscrossing Basilard’s head. No imperial child would shy away from a man covered with old wounds, but even here, in the militaristic empire, he was an oddity. “There’s lemonade in the athletes’ lounge. I’ll show you.”
The promise of a cold drink enticed him. Besides, it was better not to go straight to Amaranthe and the others, not when enforcers might be watching. Still wiping himself off with the towel, he headed for the shady rooms beneath the tiers of spectators. He had never had lemonade before coming to the empire—importing a perishable item from hundreds of miles to the south was an impossible feat for his people—but he admitted a fondness for the drink, and he was salivating in anticipation when he entered the shady concrete corridor.
He padded into the interior, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. Just as he was wondering if it was strange that nobody else occupied the passage, something stirred the hairs on his arms. Magic?
When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw only the towel boy strolling after him. With dark hair and tan skin, he appeared a typical Turgonian youth, not anyone who might have access to the mental sciences.
A few feet ahead, something tinkled to the floor. Glass.
Immediately, Basilard thought of the cork Akstyr had found, the cork that had restrained a vial full of knock-out powder.
He backed away and stumbled into the boy, but the youth made no move to stop him.
Basilard’s mind spun. Had his fast time made him a new target? Could these kidnappers work so quickly?
He would not linger to find out. Though he could see no one in the corridor, he continued backing toward the entrance, ready to defend himself if necessary. Before he had gone more than a few steps, a strange lethargy came over him. The fatigue that had turned his legs leaden at the end of the Clank Race was nothing compared to the heaviness that flooded them now. Heaviness and numbness.
His steps turned to stumbles, and then he could not feel his bare feet coming down on the cement at all. He lost his balance and tipped backward. The ground came up far too quickly for him to turn the fall into a roll, and his head cracked against the hard floor.
Shapes drifted out of the shadows and coalesced into men looming over him. Basilard could not lift his arms, could not do anything to defend himself.
His instincts forgot he could not speak, and he tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. One of the men grabbed Basilard’s head and slipped a bag over it. Darkness swallowed him, and he knew no more.
* * * * *
The last of the competitors finished the Clank Race, and the timekeeper painted the results for all to see. 1:59. Nobody had beaten Basilard’s score. Amaranthe smiled to herself, tickled that he had done so well against younger and taller competitors, men who had trained all year for this event. Albeit, the exercise sessions they endured with Sicarius could be no less arduous than anything those athletes inflicted upon themselves.
Her smile faded at the thought of Sicarius. Guilt sat in her belly like an undigested meal; it was wrong to idly watch the Games while he was missing.
“What’s he doing down there for so long?” Amaranthe murmured.
She wanted to collect Basilard and start investigating the fountains near Raydevk’s flat. They did not have many hours before her meeting with Deret. She was tempted to cancel that, but he might have information about the kidnappings she did not. Surely a journalist had as many informants in the city as the enforcers did.
“He’s a contender for the trophy now.” Maldynado removed his hat to scratch his head and nearly poked Amaranthe in the eye with the ostrich feather. “I bet he’s getting mobbed by women who want to grease his snake tonight.”
Amaranthe gave him a sidelong look. “The way your mind works is unique.”
“Not amongst men,” Maldynado said.
“Amongst some men,” Books said.
Amaranthe fidgeted and watched the tunnel entrance through which Basilard had walked with the towel boy trailing behind. Several minutes had passed, and neither had returned to the arena.
“The towel boy hasn’t come back,” she said.
“What?” Maldynado asked.
Even if Basilard had decided to find the latrine or change out of his white togs, the boy should have returned to attend to the remaining competitors. Why had he followed Basilard, anyway? No boys had accompanied any of the other athletes.
“I think Basilard’s in trouble,” she said.
“What?” Books asked.
“He’s been gone too long.” Amaranthe wondered if it signified paranoia that neither of them seemed concerned. “Do either of you two ‘coaches’ want to try to go down there? See if you can get into that tunnel?” Amaranthe eyed a pair of enforcers stationed where they could keep spectators from wandering into the arena to bug the athletes. “I’ll go outside and see if I spot anything suspicious.”
“Which of us should—” Books started.
“Either. Both. I don’t care.” She was already maneuvering through the packed benches toward the aisle, worrying that they had wasted too much time. How long would it take to drag an unconscious man out through a back door? “Maybe I’m overreacting,” she muttered under her breath. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
Though she said the words, they did not keep her from pushing past spectators and running down the stairs. At the bottom, she reluctantly slowed down, aware that a sprinting woman might draw the enforcers’ suspicions.
Only when she reached the stadium exit did she break into a run. Maldynado caught up with her.
“Books is going in since Basilard already vouched for him today.”
“Understood,” Amaranthe said.
They ran off the path to follow the curve of the stadium’s outer wall. Twenty meters of neatly trimmed grass stretched away from the structure before trees and shrubbery started, hiding the locomotive tracks in the distance. Amaranthe scanned the leafy green canopy, searching for the telltale smoke trail of a steam-powered lorry. Anyone in the kidnapping business would need a getaway vehicle.
“I don’t see anybody,” Maldynado said.
“Me either.”
Intermittent metal doors marked the outside wall, too many for her and Maldynado to watch. Amaranthe took a guess at which one corresponded with the corridor Basilard had gone down and tried it. It did not budge, nor did it have a lock on the outside one might pick. A single pull-bar handle rose from a sea of brass rivets and steel.
“No way to pick the lock, huh?” Maldynado asked.
Amaranthe knelt to examine tracks in the earth. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people had been in and out of the door that day, so they told her little. A dirt trail led to the wider road ringing the s
tadium.
“We’re smart though,” Maldynado said. “We ought to be able to figure a way in.”
“Got an idea?”
Amaranthe touched a long gouge in the earth. Was it her imagination, or did that look like the sort of mark that might be left if a couple of men were dragging another?
“Lots of ideas.” Maldynado grabbed the pull-bar and heaved for all he was worth. Muscles strained beneath the thin fabric of the back of his shirt, but the door did not budge. He released it with a growl, then kicked it.
“Watching your mind work is always a pleasure,” Amaranthe said.
“Because it’s unique?”
“Something like that.” She pointed at the gouge. “I think they may already have him.”
She trotted to the opposite side of the road and examined the ground. If kidnappers had dragged Basilard out of there, they would not have stuck to the main path where witnesses would be many. Even now, a pair of female athletes was jogging along the road, warming up for the upcoming races.
Half-crouching, half-walking, Amaranthe searched for unusual prints. Too bad Basilard was the one missing; he was a great tracker.
“Afternoon, ladies.” Maldynado swept his hat from his head and dropped into a low bow when the athletes approached.
Amaranthe expected him to ask them to accompany him somewhere for drinks or other activities, but he stayed on task.
“Has either of you seen anything suspicious out here?” he asked.
One of the women eyed Amaranthe, who was still poking at the earth, looking for tracks, and asked, “Aside from you two?”
“Yes.” Maldynado offered a sparkling smile, the kind known for making the most standoffish ladies swoon, and the women’s visages softened. One blushed. “Anyone dragging an athlete across the grass, for instance,” he said. “Or a towel boy roaming around where he shouldn’t be?”
“Oh!” The blushing girl sidled closer to Maldynado and laid a hand on his forearm. “On our last lap, we did see a young boy standing at that door.” She pointed to the one Maldynado had tried to open. “It looked like he was beckoning to someone in the woods. I didn’t see anyone, and he ducked back inside when he spotted us.” She gazed up at Maldynado and batted her eyelashes. “Does that help?”
Amaranthe shook her head in bemusement. At times, Maldynado could be downright useful.
“Tremendously, dear,” he said. “Thank you.”
“We should go, Reeva,” the girl’s companion said. “Our race starts soon. If you don’t want me to win again, you should probably be there to compete against me.”
“Win again?” Reeva released Maldynado and propped her hands on her hips. “You only won last time because that stupid warrior-caste girl tripped and took me down with her.”
“On second thought,” her comrade said, “you should stay here and go off with him.” She resumed her jog, heels kicking up dust on the dry path.
Reeva pouted at Maldynado. “I have to go. Would you like to come watch my race? It starts soon. And then afterward, perhaps we could have an iced tea in the garden.”
“Why, I’m quite tempted, my lady,” Maldynado said.
Amaranthe gripped his arm. “No, he’s not. Our friend needs us.” She jerked her chin toward the trees.
The girl scowled at Amaranthe. She ignored it and tugged Maldynado along.
“Sorry, miss,” he called to his newfound friend. “I’m not the sort to put my own pleasure above a friend’s needs. Not a good friend’s, anyway.”
Amaranthe led the way into the trees, and Maldynado caught up with her. She was debating whether to look for tracks or go straight through to the railway when voices drifted to her ears.
Somewhere ahead of her, men spoke in urgent tones. She picked up the pace, though she stepped lightly, not wanting to be heard. She held a finger to her lips, and Maldynado softened his own footfalls.
“...got him,” someone said ahead of them. “Go, go.”
Machinery ground and clanked. An engine starting? Amaranthe sniffed and caught a whiff of burning coal mingling with the earthier scents of the woods.
She gave up stealth and ran full out, dodging trees and trampling through dry brush. Her hand strayed toward her belt, where she often wore her short sword, but it wasn’t there. Right. She’d decided a woman with a sword would stand out at the stadium. At least Maldynado had his.
The chugging of machinery floated through the trees clearly now. It sounded more like the great pumping pistons of a locomotive rather than the smaller engine of a carriage. But nobody had a train for an escape vehicle. She hoped.
The woods thinned ahead with sunlight streaming through a gap in the canopy. The railway tracks?
The sounds of the machinery were moving away from her. More, the distinctive clickety-clack of a car moving on rails joined with the chugs. No doubt now. She was listening to a train.
Amaranthe sprinted the last ten paces, burst out of the trees, and scrambled up the raised ballast bed supporting the train tracks. Twenty meters away, a combination locomotive-carriage was rumbling toward the city. Puffs of gray smoke wafted from a short stack. Though doors on either side held windows, the carriage had moved too far away for her to see through them. For a second, she thought of running after it, but it picked up speed even as she watched. No, she would never catch it.
Growling, she kicked at the gravel between the wooden sleepers.
Branches snapped and brush rustled, announcing Maldynado’s exit from the woods. Amaranthe pointed at the carriage dwindling in the distance.
Maldynado blew out a low whistle. “What a beauty. An expensive conveyance for a private owner to pay for, too. My father talked about getting one for the family businesses at one point, but we never did.”
“So our kidnappers are well-to-do,” Amaranthe said. “Or they stole it from someone well-to-do.”
“Always a valid vehicle acquisition strategy.” Maldynado threw a wink at her, no doubt thinking of the times they had borrowed enforcer wagons as a means of creating a distraction.
She could not muster a response, not with a second man now missing. Amaranthe squatted on the tracks, elbows on her knees, head hanging. If she had thought Basilard would be a target in the middle of the day, she never would have suggested he enter the competition. Well, not exactly true. She would have had him enter with the intent of using him as bait to lure the kidnappers, and she wouldn’t have been sitting hundreds of meters away in the stands when it was time to spring the trap.
“Did he ever run the Clank Race that quickly in your practice sessions?” Amaranthe asked.
“Nah. He got under two minutes once, but who knew he’d have the fastest time today?”
“Strange that the kidnappers went after him right in the middle of the day when all their other abductions have been at night. Did they know he didn’t sleep in the dormitories? Maybe this was to be their last abduction, and they figured it didn’t matter if someone saw them at work. Maybe they weren’t planning on targeting him at all, but he beat the person they had in mind so they switched—”
Crashes sounded in the woods from whence Amaranthe and Maldynado had come. She drew her knife and jumped down to take cover behind the four-foot-high ballast bed. Maldynado knelt beside her, a rapier in hand. This one had an opal gem on the pommel, and silver runes running up and down the steel blade.
“How many swords do you have?” Amaranthe whispered.
“Only thirteen. That covers most of my ensembles.”
The thrashing continued, closer now. Books raced out of the foliage.
Amaranthe started to relax, but the expression on his face stopped her. As he ran toward the tracks, he glanced over his shoulder twice. The second time, he tripped over a rock and nearly tumbled head long into the gravel.
“Time to depart,” Amaranthe said. She climbed up to the wooden sleepers and waved for Maldynado to follow. “Books,” she said, but he had already seen her.
He scrambled up the ballast bed a
nd joined them on the railway.
Amaranthe raced along the tracks, boots striking the wooden sleepers with each stride. She wanted to obscure their trail by running on a surface that wouldn’t leave telltale footprints, but only for a moment. “How far behind are your pursuers?”
“Not...far,” Books panted.
A steam whistle screeched in the distance, a train heading for the city. Good. Maybe it would cut off pursuit.
“This way!” a male voice shouted from the woods.
Amaranthe led the way off the tracks, jumping from the gravel to the weeds lining the edge of the woods, hoping not to leave prints in the dusty band in between. Maldynado and Books, with their longer legs, made the leap easily. The team weaved through the trees for a hundred meters, then came out on the paved trail that ran along the lake, the trail Amaranthe and Sicarius had run together so many times.
The ache that formed behind her breastbone had nothing to do with her running efforts. He hasn’t even been gone a day, she reminded herself. Nothing to worry about yet. Besides, they were going to find him. Basilard, too.
Thousands of footprints trampled the dusty red clay of the trail, and her fear of pursuit faded as she and the men continued along it.
“What happened?” Amaranthe asked Books.
“Basilard wasn’t back there,” he said.
“We know.”
She explained the towel boy and the rail carriage as they continued running. Popular beaches sprawled between the trail and the lake, many occupied with naked children running, playing, and swimming about. It was a workday, and most adults who could steal time away were at the Imperial Games, but a few nannies attended the youths. One voluptuous and quite nude woman waved to Maldynado who puffed out his chest and smiled back.
“Well, there’s one witness to our passing,” Amaranthe muttered. “Who was chasing you, Books? Enforcers?”