The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 1 Part 2

She left Sicarius to the shadows and led Fasha to the athlete complex, a mix of permanent structures and brightly colored tents set up to house visiting competitors from across the empire. Men and women jogged or bicycled past, some heading off to train, others stopping at the food pavilions first. A steam carriage chugged past, rumbling up a circular drive to the majestic travertine lodge reserved for warrior caste athletes. Enforcers guarded the front door of the women’s barracks. Amaranthe mulled over how to get in and out before full daylight came, making it easy to recognize faces.

Instead of veering in that direction, she angled off the main road toward a pair of dome-shaped brick buildings: men’s and women’s bathhouses. Smoke wafted from the chimneys, signifying the floors and pools were already warm.

“You wish to bathe before investigating?” Fasha asked.

“I could use it.” Amaranthe plucked at her shirt, still damp from the stair-running session. “But, no.”

She headed for the entrance of the women’s bathhouse—no enforcers guarded those doors.

Steam wrapped about them as they headed in, obscuring visibility, but Amaranthe had visited the complex before and knew the layout. She slipped into the dressing room, found no one inside changing, and plucked someone’s white togs out of a niche.

“You’re stealing people’s clothing?” Fasha asked.

Already changing, Amaranthe thought about spouting some justification about it being for the good of the empire, but she never would have bought that from a thief when she had been an enforcer. Oh, well. “Sandals, too,” she said.

On the way out, she grabbed a few towels. She wound one around her hair, draped another across her shoulders, and handed Fasha a third. She found a satchel and hid her own clothing and her knife—the closest thing to a weapon she had brought for the morning training session—inside.

“Two lady athletes returning from the baths to change before breakfast,” Amaranthe said.

Fasha sniffed at her. “Let’s hope the enforcers’ sense of smell is as poor as their sense of magic.”

“Your Turgonian is quite good,” Amaranthe said instead of responding to the dig.

It occurred to her that this could be a setup. What if some early-rising enforcer had spotted Sicarius and her training and, knowing he could not take them on in the open, arranged a trap? More than one bounty hunter had attempted to get close by feigning an interest in hiring them.

“I’m the daughter of a chief,” Fasha said. “I’ve been educated.”

“What did you say your sister’s name is again?”

“Keisha.”

“And she’s how old?”

“Sixteen.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about your tribe and why you’re here competing,” Amaranthe said, heading toward the barracks.

Fasha’s brow crinkled, but she complied. Amaranthe listened to the story and asked more questions as they walked, seeking inconsistencies or hesitations that would suggest the woman was making it up as she went. Everything sounded plausible, though, and by the time they neared the barracks, Amaranthe decided she was being paranoid.

Two men with short swords and crossbows stood guard on either side of the front door. She did not recognize either—since Barlovoc Stadium was located on the southern end of the city, there was little chance of her running into someone she had worked with—but that did not mean they would not recognize her. Though her wanted poster did not decorate the city as profusely as Sicarius’s, it was out there.