Age of X01 - Gameboard of the Gods (29 page)

He smiled at her, like this was just some kind of funny joke he hadn’t quite caught the punch line on. “My hair?”

“Sure. If I win, I want you to cut it.” Mae helpfully mimicked using scissors. “I want to keep it on my dresser.”

More people—especially those who knew him—quieted to listen eagerly. Porfirio’s smile went away. “I am
not
cutting my hair.”

“Of course you aren’t. Because you’re going to win, right?” Mae felt like she was getting control of this situation now and had taken his measure. She raised her voice, playing to the crowd. “I mean, there’s no real risk—unless you’re afraid.”

This got catcalls and cheers, and then everyone waited in anticipation for his response. After several tense moments, he relaxed, and the old arrogance returned. “Fine. If that’s the wager you want, so be it. Like you said—makes no difference to me. But what do I get when I win?”

Mae smiled at the choice of “when” over “if.” “Pick,” she told him. “You want me to cut my hair?”

He looked her over with as much intensity as he had in his initial assessment
of her, a brazen look that had an almost tangible quality. Only this time, not sitting behind the table, she had more to show. Some semi-reasonable voice inside her suggested signing on for a fight in a dress and heels was, perhaps, not the wisest choice.

“That would be a shame,” Porfirio said mildly. “Especially since I plan on seeing it fanned across my sheets. When I win, I want
you
. That’s my wager. You come home with me.”

There was a collective breath. This was high drama. The prætorians loved it.

“Done,” said Mae without hesitation. She shook his hand as the others whooped, and she tried not to imagine how those strong hands would feel on her body.

Porfirio’s lackey surfaced soon thereafter and had amazingly turned up two sticks, which, although certainly not regulation, weren’t that far off from what
canne
players used. A space was cleared on the far side of the room, despite some of the Maize prætorians’ unease that their venue was about to get trashed. Mae realized then that they actually had no clue what was about to go down. Porfirio strode boldly toward the makeshift arena’s center. Mae followed, and Val fell into step with her.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Mae scoffed. “Of course I do. Can you imagine their reaction if I bailed? Besides, it’s like Dag said. It’s the principle of the matter. And stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Val’s eyes fell on Porfirio’s powerful body walking ahead of them. “If I were you, I think I might throw it.”

“Never,” said Mae fiercely. “I’m going to send him crawling back to his cohort.”

Val glanced back and gave her a searching look. “So help me, you’re serious. Goddamn it, Finn. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.”

“I do,” said Porfirio, catching that last bit. “Let’s do this.”

Mae kicked off her shoes and took up a position opposite him, both of them striking starting poses. Val subbed in as a ref, beginning the match, and then scurried out of the way as it started. Mae had mostly
sobered up by then, and the implant was now fully on board as she engaged in the fight. Its positive feedback system, sensing her body producing neurotransmitters, encouraged it to create even more. Honestly, she didn’t even believe she needed the implant to beat him. She’d meant what she said: She’d nearly played professionally. She was good. Very good. And she could tell within the first few minutes that that took him by surprise.

The prætorians also seemed surprised. Most had no clue what
canne de combat
was. All they’d known was that some sort of competition would go down and that floor space was needed, leading most to believe it would involve people and objects being thrown around. In reality, it was far more controlled.
Canne
resembled fencing and involved a lot of the same precision and alertness. Every part of Mae had to be on guard to anticipate what Porfirio would do, both to dodge and to plan her attacks. She became in tune with the way he breathed and the way muscles flexed in that remarkable body. They had agreed on Mae’s favorite variant, one that allowed a number of fairly acrobatic maneuvers. Porfirio made a small grunt of approval when she pulled off a particularly graceful backflip that eluded his reach.

“You’re flexible, I’ll give you that,” he said, his eyes watching her with just as much scrutiny. “That’ll be to my advantage later, I suppose.”

“Yeah?” She tried to get inside his guard, but he was too fast. “Then why haven’t you landed a hit on me yet?”

“I don’t like to rush things, as you’ll soon find out.”

Mae made no response as she narrowed her world back into the fight. Exhilaration filled her. She loved this bizarre, antiquated sport with all of her heart, and even though she knew the military had led her to a nobler calling, there was still a part of her that ached with the realization that if not for her mother’s strong will, Mae could have very well devoted her life to it. Porfirio had been right that it was an art. She threw herself into this match, and despite his continuing commentary, she loved that she finally had someone to play against who was such an even match. She had him on speed, hands down. That and agility were both skills she’d honed over the years, skills she’d had to develop against male opponents who almost always outweighed her. Porfirio still moved
admirably fast, but it was his strength that took its toll on her whenever their canes slammed together. It was magnificent.

The observing prætorians, however, were less enchanted. After the initial cheering and shouts of encouragement, their enthusiasm had dimmed when no real action or hitting occurred. Mae was vaguely aware of shouts of “Get on with it!” and then eventually, no commentary at all. Porfirio noticed as well.

“We didn’t set any round limits. We should’ve had someone timing this,” he said. A faint sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead.

He was right about the time. Matches were usually only a couple of minutes long at most. Neither of them had thought about that when starting. They’d just wanted to get right to it. She had no idea how much time had passed and didn’t care.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got trouble going a long time after all.”

“Darling, I can go as long as—shit!”

Mae’s stick made contact with his abdomen. Apparently, all it took was one dig about his sexual prowess to throw him off. Typical. She expected some kind of reaction from the crowd but heard nothing. That was when she noticed something that brought her to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, still in his attack stance but not advancing.

“They’re gone,” she said in disbelief.

He looked at where she nodded, his face mirroring her astonishment. The prætorians, bored, had all gone back to their drinking and bantering on the other side of the room. If he really did share a similar background in
canne,
Mae suspected that he too was used to audiences composed of enthralled fans who could appreciate the subtleties of the sport. Porfirio’s lips curled in contempt.

“Children. All of them. Oh, well.” And with speed that Mae didn’t anticipate, Porfirio lunged forward and tapped her on the calf—twice. “Match.” He tossed his stick onto the floor.

“Hey,” she exclaimed. “That’s not fair at—ahh!”

He picked her up bodily and literally threw her over his shoulder. “I had more points. Ergo, I win. Let’s go home.”

She pounded on his back as he effortlessly carried her out of the hall
like some sort of war prize. Both knew she was fully capable of freeing herself, or at least doing serious damage—which would’ve probably restored their audience—but she held back and contented herself with verbal protests and Finnish insults. Once they were outside in the misty night, she finally broke his hold and pushed herself away, settling onto her own two feet.

“You did
not
win,” she told him vehemently, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t establish round lengths or ever discuss—”

Porfirio pulled her to him, his hand sliding up the back of her neck and tangling up in her hair. She felt his lips crush hers in a kiss of victory, making liquid fire ooze through her body. His mouth searched hers, hungry and demanding, and she responded in kind, her body straining toward his, wanting to feel those muscles against hers, those hands on her skin. When he at last pulled back, leaving them both breathless, he asked, “Look, are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?”

Mae swallowed, still flushed and dizzy from the kiss as adrenaline and endorphins spiked within her. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hard.’”

Which was how she ended up in his bed after all—without being forcefully carried there. It was the kind of aggressive, backbreaking sex that prætorians thrived on, and as she stretched out in the tangle of sheets afterward, she experienced a rare moment of exhaustion. It wouldn’t last, and if a squad of assassins suddenly burst through the bedroom door, her implant would have helped her muscles and heart get the energy they needed to contend with danger. But even prætorians needed to rest sometimes, and it was a nice feeling to lie there with all of her muscles pleasantly worn out. It would’ve been better still to sleep. Post-sex was one of the few times she missed sleep. It seemed like a natural conclusion to the act of passion, being able to drift off in a lover’s arms.

There was no sleep for either of them, though Mae stayed in bed while he showered. When he returned, he tossed something on the bed that made her sit up in alarm. For half a second, she thought he’d thrown some animal at her. Then she recognized his ponytail.

“Your hair,” she said in amazement, peering up at him. He looked as though he’d simply lopped it off in one cut. The ends of his remaining hair were uneven, but he was still dazzling to behold. “You didn’t have to do that. Or you should’ve at least gotten it done properly.”

He waved it off. “A deal’s a deal. I didn’t win. Well, not in
canne
. You want to keep it as a trophy?”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s actually pretty creepy. I was just joking about keeping it on my dresser.”

“Good to know.” To her amazement, he unceremoniously threw the hair away and then sat back down beside her in bed. “But now you don’t have anything to remember me by.”

“Do I need something?” She drew him toward her and felt her pulse start to quicken again. “You aren’t going to return my calls?”

He smiled and ran his lips along her neck. “
Were
you going to call?”

“Well…” She allowed him to ease her back down on the bed. “I might need another
canne
warm-up. You know, to keep me in practice before a real match.”

“Well, then, for that, you can call me anytime.”

CHAPTER 17

THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN THE REPUBLIC

The Nipponese were pleasantly deferential when Justin and his entourage showed up. Reactions to servitor visits varied widely, and he and Mae had received lukewarm ones at the previous three grants they’d visited. A lot of castals resented federal interference, even if it was for their own good. Servitors especially made them nervous, because if a servitor found a dangerous religious group on the grant, he or she could pretty much call in a military invasion. None of them wanted that. The relationship between the Gemman government and “the patriarchies,” as they called themselves, was tenuous enough. The fledgling RUNA, fearing the kind of separatism and resistance to authority that had sparked Mephistopheles’s creation, had had to be careful in allowing its wealthy supporters the ethnic solidarity they’d requested. Patricians had been exempted from the mandates, at their own risk of Mephistopheles and Cain, and given their own land—with very strict regulations.

The entrance to the Nipponese land grant resembled that of all the other grants: a gated road with a checkpoint and a sign welcoming others in both English and the caste’s native language. The guards were lightly armed, per the agreement with the government. The RUNA’s flag was the only ornamentation since no unique castal symbol was allowed either.

Justin’s contact inside was an older police officer who went by his Japanese name: Hiroshi. He didn’t fall all over himself the way the gate security had, but it was clear he was floored at the idea of hosting a servitor and prætorian in his jurisdiction.

“The victim’s wife moved out,” he told them when they reached the house in which the murder had occurred. “But nothing has been changed whatsoever in the building. We got extensive pictures and documentation at the time, and I verified this morning that everything is the same.” He hesitated. “I hope that’s all right.”

“That’s great,” said Justin, earning a relieved smile.

Leo, though pleased at having uncontaminated evidence, was less thrilled at the house’s size. “It’s huge. This is going to take forever.”

To be fair, the house
was
enormous, especially for two people. The architecture was in keeping with common Gemman luxury homes, though the pointed roof and a few other flourishes hearkened back to the caste’s Japanese roots. The inside told a similar tale. Painted screens and clean lines paired with trendy lush furniture and media screens. Here was a family in possession of stereotypical castal wealth.