Basilard hopped up and down and swung his arms. He was one of six athletes left in the staging area, and he did not think anyone else appeared as nervous as he. Though it was the first day of events, and only a third of the benches in the stadium were filled, Basilard could not help but feel as if thousands of eyes watched him. Already, he had visited the washouts beneath the stands three times, both to urinate and to throw up.
He remembered being nervous before the pit fights, but not this nervous. Strange, considering his life had been on the line there, and people had shouted and jeered from above, calling out for bloodshed. Maybe it was because he had more to win here. It wasn’t just an extension of his own existence, but a visit with the emperor and a chance to speak for his people. If he did not get himself killed trying to take out Sicarius first. He growled at himself, annoyed with the situation. He never should have gone to visit that priestess.
Basilard distracted himself by studying a large blackboard near the furnace. So far, two people had beaten the best time he had recorded with Maldynado or Akstyr. He hoped daylight—and the exhilaration of the moment coursing through his blood—would help him improve. To go out in the first round would be a shame.
“It’s all right,” a familiar voice said. “I’m his coach.”
“You don’t look like a coach. You look like a professor.”
“Why, thank you,” Books said.
Basilard lifted a hand toward the young man tasked with keeping intruders from bothering the athletes in the staging area. He let Books through with a suspicious glower.
Books weaved past other athletes swinging their arms and stretching in the sandy pit. “Greetings, Basilard,” he said. “Are you prepared for your event?”
Yes.
“Good.” Books unfolded a piece of paper. “I found those other two names. They are indeed athletes here. One is a male boxer and one a female entered in the Clank Race.” He considered the men surrounding them. “Did the women already compete?”
Earlier this morning.
“She’s not missing yet—she’s the only one on that list who isn’t. The boxer disappeared last night. If we could find the girl and watch her, perhaps we could get a glimpse of the kidnapper.”
Books?
“Yes?”
I race soon. I must concentrate.
“Oh. Yes, of course. Do you want me to watch, or leave you alone?”
Stay. Cheer. He lifted an arm and imitated some of the enthused people in the stands.
“I’ve not attended many sporting events,” Books said. “Is that arm-pumping action required?”
Absolutely. Basilard flashed a grin.
“Clapping won’t suffice?”
Clap for others’ performances. Cheer for me.
“Ah, very well.”
“Temtelamak?” the man queuing the athletes called.
Basilard lifted an arm, then told Books, That’s my imperial athlete name.
Books’s eyes widened. “Temtelamak? Why?”
Thought enforcers would recognize ‘Basilard,’ and Maldynado said my Mangdorian name didn’t sound fierce enough.
“Did he tell you who Temtelamak was?” Books lowered his voice to mutter, “I’m surprised that uneducated buffoon knows that much history.”
A mighty warrior.
“A moderately famous general, yes, but he was notorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had seven wives at the time of his death, all near different forts and outposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the others existed. I believe there were copious mistresses as well.”
Basilard shrugged. It’s Maldynado.
“Yes, he doubtlessly thought it’d be amusing. We’ll see if the emperor finds it so, should you win the event and get your chance to meet him.”
Could make an interesting conversation starter.
Books opened his mouth to say more, but a scream of pain interrupted him. One of the athletes had stumbled in the axe crossing and fallen off the moving platforms. He rolled in the sawdust, one hand grabbing the opposite triceps. Blood flowed through his fingers and stained the wood chips. A medic trotted out to help him off the field while the people in the seats roared. Whether they were supporting the noble attempt or cheering at the sight of blood, Basilard could not guess.
“Perhaps you should have entered a running event,” Books said, eyeing the bloodstained sawdust.
If he were tall and lanky and fast, that might have been an option. For Books’s sake, or perhaps to reassure himself, he simply signed, One less competitor now. Besides, I had no trouble with the axes on the practice runs.
“Yes, but is it not different when a thousand gazes are upon you, and there’s something at stake? Suddenly, sweat is dripping into your eyes, your hands are unsteady, your senses are over-heightened, and—”
Basilard gripped Book’s arm. You’re not helping.
“Oh, pardon me.”
“Temtelamak,” the call came again. “You’re up now, or you’ll forfeit if you’re not ready. You coming?”
Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books and jogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The top seed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at 2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four more runners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, which would put him in third. That ought to be enough.
Easier said than done, he thought, as he walked to the starting line. The giant axe heads swinging on their pendulum arms appeared far more dangerous by the light of day. Their steel blades gleamed in the sun, and Basilard no longer had to imagine their ability to draw blood, since crimson drops spattered more than one of the platforms.
After taking a deep breath, he stepped to the line and nodded his readiness to the starter.
Though nobody in the stands could know who he was, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded his mind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before an audience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experienced there. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go on living.
Nausea stirred in his stomach again, and those memories almost overwhelmed him. It’s merely a race, he told himself. He was not here to hurt anyone.
A hammer hit a gong, signaling the start of the run. Thanks to his wandering thoughts, he lost a split second, and he cursed himself even as he sprinted up the ramp to the spinning logs. He sprang across them, bare feet navigating wood hot beneath the sun. Most of the other athletes wore shoes of some kind, but he could grip and scramble up obstacles more easily with toes available. He skimmed across the moving platforms, ducking and weaving the swinging axes.
He launched himself at a rope hanging from a beam. Below, a bed of three-foot-long spikes glistened in the sun. Basilard caught the rope and zipped up it. Thanks to Sicarius’s training, that was an easy obstacle.
No, no thanking Sicarius, he told himself. And no thinking about anything except the clock he had to beat.
When he reached the top of the rope, he thrust himself toward the first of several pegs sticking out of the beam. Sweat slicked his palms, and his hand slipped free. Basilard flailed with his other hand and, by a stroke of luck, caught the peg before he fell. His heart hammered in his ears. The thirty-foot drop to the spikes would do more than put him out of the competition; it would kill him.
The crowd roared shouts of encouragement, and, for the first time, he grew aware of them. He wished he hadn’t.
He caught the next peg, a couple of feet to the right, and swung from handhold to handhold, his feet dangling below. The pegs started in a straight line, but then zigzagged up and down, requiring strength and agility to maneuver through them.
Basilard reached the end and swung his legs to the right, catching a net stretched between two massive wooden supports. He skimmed halfway down to the ground, found the opening in the middle, and slithered through to land on a platform. One of his bare feet, just as sweaty as his palm, slipped on the smooth wood boards. He caught himself, but not before he rethought the wisdom of going shoeless.
Ahead of him, the small circular platforms moved, some linearly back and forth and others in orbits on mechanical arms, like those that rotated wheels on a train. The axes swung like pendulums.
He launched himself onto the first platform, planning his route on the fly. An axe whistled by behind him. If he had hair, the breeze would have stirred it. He did not look back or slow down. Basilard danced to the next platform, then the next. Some were barely four inches wide. Even without the axes slashing through, they would have been difficult targets.
Here, his bare feet helped. His toes wrapped over the edges, and he launched himself from spot to spot. At one point, he dove under an axe for a chance to skip two platforms ahead.
Thousands of people gasped at once as the blade skimmed past, an inch above his shoulder blades. He got his feet under him again and leaped the last couple of feet to the solid platform on the far side. Two more walls, net climbs, and a sprint across a spinning log, and he reached the ramp on the far side. Though weariness burned in his thighs, he sprinted the last few meters and catapulted over the solid wall, pulling himself up and over without using his feet. Relieved to be done, and out of some notion he should finish with a flourish, he leaped into the air as he passed the finish line, doing a somersault before landing by the timekeeper.
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.