The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Epilogue

Basilard told the nerves fluttering in his belly to be still. The stubborn things refused to obey.

Tall, broad-shouldered imperial soldiers in blue uniforms with gold trim strode along the brick paths of the Oakcrest Conservatory, their boots so polished they reflected the flames of nearby gas lamps. The men’s expressionless faces reminded him of Sicarius, and so did those dark, cool eyes as they scrutinized the civilians and servants who crossed their paths. Youths carrying trays of lemonade, iced tea, and wine paid the soldiers no mind. Of course, they had no reason to worry about being detained, captured, or killed.

Basilard sucked in a deep breath, grateful a number of overhead panels were open, letting in fresh air. With sweat already trickling down his spine, it would have been unbearably stifling without the evening breeze. He adjusted his collar. Maldynado’s outfit was far more constricting than the loose garments his people favored.

“Problem?” Books asked.

There are as many soldiers as athletes, perhaps more.

“I don’t think you need to look so concerned,” Books said. “We made it past the phalanx of vehicles and soldiers outside, and the door guards let us in, despite much eyebrow raising over the fact that you brought a man as your one permitted dinner companion.”

Basilard smiled. I didn’t think the empire had issues with that sort of thing. Are you sure it wasn’t that they were surprised a victorious athlete wouldn’t have a younger, prettier man for an escort?

“I’m going to forgive you for that because of all that time you recently spent with—” Books glanced around, “—a certain disreputable sort. You probably feel the need to unleash your sense of humor.”

Or distract himself. Basilard feared their admittance had been too easy. Though Books had received a few questions about Basilard’s need for a translator, another soldier had jogged up during the interview and whispered something in the guard’s ear, resulting in Basilard and Books being waved inside. Could the soldiers have recognized them and let them in as a trap? Were they even now waiting to see if Amaranthe and Sicarius waited nearby?

Basilard and Books walked toward a long wooden table with sixty or seventy place settings laid out. Athletes and their companions chatted in pairs or small groups near trellised vines and citrus trees potted along the way.

“There he is,” Books said.

A glass door beyond the table had opened with two soldiers in black entering, the emperor’s personal guard. Sespian came next in blue, quasi-military attire. Unexpectedly, a gray-haired woman in a sapphire dress strode beside him. Not exactly beside. Basilard had the impression Sespian was trying to keep space between them.

“She’s old to be his escort,” Books murmured, also watching the woman. “A chaperone?”

Four more soldiers trailed after the pair.

The emperor gazed about alertly. Though his position must cause him a great deal of stress, he appeared no older than his nineteen years, perhaps even younger, and Basilard wondered how much power he commanded around the Imperial Barracks. Could Sespian do anything about the empire’s underground slave trade? About the fact that Mangdorians were often targeted?

Though the cadre of guards about him could have made the emperor seem unapproachable, he strode up to the first group of athletes and greeted everyone with a friendly smile. After the three young men managed flustered bows, Sespian started asking questions.

“This may be a good time to talk to him,” Books said. “Before he grows weary of people pestering him.”

Let’s meander that way, Basilard signed.