The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 4 Part 2

After almost an hour of wandering the grounds, Basilard and Akstyr found something. Rather Akstyr found something, and Basilard waited while the younger man knelt in the grass behind the bathhouse examining it.

What is it? Basilard signed.

Head bent low, Akstyr did not see the question.

Basilard nudged Akstyr’s arm, drawing the younger man’s gaze, and repeated himself.

“It’s too dark back here,” Akstyr whispered. “I can’t see your fingers.”

Basilard waved toward a glass globe lantern hanging from a post and took a couple of steps that direction, but Akstyr did not follow. His head was down again, his eyes focused on some tiny object in his hand. Something magical? That was the only thing Basilard could think of that would explain Akstyr’s fascination—especially since it was too dark to examine much with eyes alone.

He headed to the lantern, figuring Akstyr would come show him his find sooner or later.

The number of people enjoying the summer evening had dwindled, but people still ambled along the trails. Voices drifted from the men’s and women’s bathhouses every time someone opened a door. Athletes strolled back to the barracks in pairs and groups, all friends now, but that would likely change once the events started.

The faint scent of blackberries lingered in the evening air. Basilard patted himself down, found one of his collection bags, and followed his nose toward a bramble patch in the shadows.

Frenzied grunts coming from nearby bushes made him pause, thinking someone might be embroiled in a battle and need help. His cheeks warmed when he realized it wasn’t the sort of battle from which one wanted to be extricated. He supposed he should move farther up the path and give the enthusiastic grunters their privacy, but a post-coital chuckle made him freeze. That laugh sounded familiar.

Basilard plucked the lantern from its wrought iron perch and returned to the bushes. He parted the branches, lifted the light, and revealed...

“Oh, hullo, Basilard.” A nude Maldynado propped himself up on an elbow.

A young woman squealed, snatched a grass-stained towel off the ground, covered herself, and sprinted toward the women’s barracks. Judging by the speed her long bare legs managed, she was one of the athletes, a rather embarrassed one.

You have the night off? Basilard signed, an eyebrow raised.

“Not exactly.” Maldynado stood, brushed grass off himself, and started retrieving clothing. A shoe from under the bush, a belt from the grass, and—how did that shirt get ten feet up in that tree? “The boss sent me to find you fellows and let you know she’d be late. I hunted all over and didn’t see you. I did see that exquisite young lady coming out of the baths all by herself, though, and she appeared lonesome so I struck up a conversation, asking if she knew how in the old days women used to compete at the Imperial Games to win the eye of eligible warrior-caste bachelors, and did she know I was warrior caste—I left out the part about being disowned naturally—and would she like to...”

There were times Basilard dearly missed having undamaged vocal cords. He would have liked to bark an, “Enough,” to cut Maldynado off. It was bad enough few people outside of his team could understand his sign language, but his scars and lack of height ensured no Turgonian women looked upon him with kind—or lascivious—eyes.

Akstyr trotted over, which fortunately resulted in Maldynado bringing his story to an end.

“Look.” Akstyr held his hand out, oblivious to the fact Maldynado had yet to find his trousers.