Empress Game: The Empress Game Trilogy Book 1 (2 page)

Below, the crowd roared, drawing her attention once more to the man who sat curiously still amid the raucous spectators.

Lumar wanted a little drama, hmm?

* * *

Senior Agent Malkor Rua of the Imperial Diplomatic Corps stood in the tunnel that ran behind the Blood Pit’s stands, taking a break from the violence for a moment. The place was revolting, pit to dome. The tunnel smelled like piss and ruinth smoke, ozone from the faulty lighting stung his throat and a vandalized beverage synthesizer oozed slime from a ruptured calorie pack. The stands themselves were worse, dotted with puddles of vomit and rank with body odor. The hint of the smell of semen coming from the man beside him after the last match had been enough to send him off on this momentary retreat.

He checked the feed on his mobile comm. One of his octet members, still on board Prince Ardin’s starcruiser in orbit, had sent a message.

“IDs confirmed on the men following you and Hekkar. Lower-level guards in Master Dolan’s employ, as suspected.”

Now that was odd. As Grand Advisor of Science and Technology to the emperor, Master Dolan wielded plenty of power in the Sakien Empire. Why would he be concerned enough with the seedy goings on of such an inconsequential Protectorate Planet to send men here? And why did Malkor get the sense they were after the same thing—Shadow Panthe?

As much as Malkor had to feign interest in the Blood Pit to keep his cover as nothing more than a spectator, he didn’t have to feign any of his interest in Shadow Panthe. Something about her…

It was in the way she moved, the defiant way she stared at the crowd, the flawless technique she wielded. She was
in
the Blood Pit but not
of
it, as so many of its denizens were. She’d been trained somewhere other than Altair Tri, and for a purpose grander than this. Where? And why?

Malkor shook off the questions. Where and why didn’t matter. Who didn’t matter. She was an asset, a means by which to secure Princess Isonde a win in the tournament for the crown. A fierce, feral means, and exactly what they needed. Or would be, once he convinced her to join them.

Two men lounging by the broken beverage synthesizer straightened when a third man ducked into the dark space. A glassy-eyed woman followed him, hands cuffed together in front of her, manacles connected to a metallic lead, the end of which was tucked into the man’s belt.

Malkor stiffened—a slaver.

In the close confines of the tunnel, he could catch bits of the trading going on:

“Why hire a whore for a night when you could buy one for years? This one’s prime blood, disease-free, brought her from Altair Prime myself.”

One of the other two men muttered something Malkor couldn’t catch.

“Any whore can steam up the sheets, but my girl—you can have her on her knees all night and she’ll still have your breakfast ready for you in the morning. She’ll spread her thighs on command, pleasure any of your other friends and still keep your house tidy.” The slaver flicked a finger and the woman stepped closer. He gripped her jaw and angled her face to show off the scar behind her ear. “Discipline chip already installed, no extra charge.”

Bile rose in Malkor’s throat. It wasn’t the first such transaction he’d overheard in the Blood Pit—more like the tenth. Though usually the “merchandise” wasn’t on display. His fingers itched to draw his ion pistol and bring a definitive end to the discussion with three quick shots. He could do it, too, no one would miss them, but then he’d be ejected from the Blood Pit for making a mess. As much as it sucked, he had a larger mission at stake, and freeing this woman from her miserable existence wouldn’t serve the greater good tonight.

The announcer bot boomed out a five-minute warning until the next match. Time to get back in there. Hating himself as much as the slaver and buyers in that moment, Malkor turned his shoulder and walked away. He elbowed his way through the heat and noise of the crowd to take a seat beside Hekkar, his second-in-command and backup on the mission.

“Shadow Panthe’s the one, hmm?” Hekkar spoke just loud enough to be heard over the surrounding rabble.

“So it would seem.” Malkor drew his thoughts back to the mission. It had to take precedence, the fate of the empire depended upon it. He forced the image of the slave’s hopeless face out of his mind. “Of course we’d find Isonde’s body-double in the darkest, nastiest voidhole on Altair Tri.” If only Isonde knew how to fight, could win the hand-to-hand combat tournament without the need for subterfuge.

“This is a bad idea, Malk, and you know it. An IDC agent would be a better choice.”

“Any agent has an excellent chance of being recognized on Falanar, no matter how long she’s been undercover somewhere else. Besides, we need someone expendable if this whole thing goes to shit.” Which it very likely would. How had he let Isonde and Ardin talk him into this?

“Think Shadow Panthe’s good enough to win the Empress Game?” Hekkar’s gaze slowly traveled over the other occupants in the arena as he spoke, never resting in any one place.

“She’ll have to be. If we can’t put Isonde on the throne, the empire is in serious trouble.”

A bot announced the final match of the evening: Phoenix challenging Shadow Panthe. All the drug-dealing, slave-trading, gambling and bribing going on around them ground to a halt. Only one thing could hold the attention of so many disparate criminals at a time—the promise of violence. The pit drew Malkor’s gaze once more. Who was this Shadow Panthe that she could rule here, thrive in this environment? A section of the wall lining the pit swung open. Malkor unconsciously leaned forward, anticipating Shadow’s entrance. Every man in the room did the same.

Instead of her sleek and deadly form, flame burst forth, arcing from one end of the pit to the other. It vanished before Malkor could shield his eyes. In its place stood a voluptuous woman gowned in free-flowing fire silk. It slipped and shimmered with her every breath, giving the illusion that the woman was herself fire.

“Lady Phoenix!” the robotic voice announced, and the crowd hooted.

Phoenix raised her arms, the sleeves of her robe entwining her limbs like pyro-serpents.

“Not the most practical costume,” Hekkar commented over the crowd noise. Phoenix lifted a hand to the clasp at her shoulder. One deft movement swept the robe off, revealing scads of bare skin interrupted only briefly by two strips of red-orange cloth.

The cheering increased tenfold.

“Lady Phoenix, in whose honor do you fight this eve?” The words were tradition, asked of all who fought in the Blood Pit.

“I fight for the glory of Fierenzos!” The God of Fire, how original. They’d heard many similar claims tonight. Only Shadow Panthe’s answer stood out in his mind. It possessed a sincerity no one else came close to matching.

“Shadow Panthe, in whose honor do you fight this eve?”

“I fight only for myself.”

No doubt this had always been her only answer.

Phoenix postured and preened, enjoying her entrance, but began to lose the crowd. From what Malkor had gathered she was a visiting challenger, champion of a rival pit come to fight the Blood Pit’s reigning queen. Any woman of beauty—and scant clothing—could gain a man’s attention, but it took something special to hold it against one such as Shadow Panthe. Phoenix didn’t stand a chance.

The arena quieted to a hush.

A heartbeat passed.

Two.

Then she was there, standing in the doorway.

She needed no burst of flame, no flashy entrance. With only her presence, Shadow Panthe electrified the crowd. Malkor barely heard her name announced over the shouting.

“Stars be damned,” Hekkar said.

Malkor could only nod.

She was painted from eyelash to hair-line, head to toe in black body paint cut through with a maze of red slashes, a stylized version of a shadow panthe’s hide. The pattern continued in scarlet thread across the black halter-top and bikini bottoms she wore. The red lines scrawled across her face even, what little of it was visible above the black
ashk
she wore.

Completing the outfit were two kris daggers, one strapped to each thigh, and a gaze cold enough to burn. She strode across the pit, glaring at her admirers the whole way. They cheered her as if she were the Daughter of All.

When the gaze that raked the gathered men with such scorn turned on him, Malkor froze. Instead of contempt he read curiosity there. She weighed his appearance, judging him. Much as he had been judging her. Why had she picked him out of the crowd? Malkor cursed himself for not choosing a more shadowy spot to sit in, feeling more the hunted than the hunter as she continued to stare at him.

“Shadow Panthe,” came the robotic voice, “in whose honor do you fight this eve?”

Though they all knew her reply, the crowd quieted, listening for her arrogant dismissal.

She raised a black arm until her finger pointed straight at Malkor. “I fight for him.”

Frutt!

The crowd around him exploded—cheering, booing, grabbing, shouting. A dozen hands forced him from his seat and propelled him to the edge of the pit. He heard Hekkar cursing behind him, then Malkor was there, standing face to face with Shadow Panthe, who had ascended from the pit on a lift that had unfolded from the wall. A waist-high railing separated their bodies. She climbed on the barrier and crossed it slowly, one leg at a time, straddling it a moment while she checked her balance.

Around them men whistled and jeered. She didn’t spare them a glance. Her eyes, a blue as bright as a flame’s hottest crescent, locked on him.

Well, he
had
wanted to meet her. Somehow, though, he hadn’t imagined it going like this. He’d pictured himself with the upper hand, promising a desperate pit whore a fortune of credits to do his bidding, an offer she wouldn’t refuse. Instead he was caught up in the sway she held over the entire arena. Here she was not a woman to be forced or manipulated. Here, she ruled.

The noise died down again as she lowered her
ashk
, those nearest leaning in to hear what the infamous Shadow Panthe could possibly have to say to a mere mortal. Even under her
ashk
, paint obscured her features. A line of red, lurid against the black backdrop of her face, graced one cheek and cut across her lips, forcing Malkor’s attention there.

Her lips moved. “A token?”

“
F
or luck,” Kayla forced out, when the man continued to stare at her.

Around them the crowd roared their approval. Though Lumar would no doubt be pleased, Kayla already regretted her plan to stir up drama. The man didn’t have a pin or trade patch on his black duster that she could grab, or a scarf or something to tie on her arm. She couldn’t go through his pockets to find a suitable token to keep up the charade.

Do something so I can get down from here
, she silently urged him.
Play along.

A red-haired man struggled through the crowd to reach his side. Despite being caught off-guard, her supposed muse looked in control and far more sober than the rest of the spectators. Choosing him from the crowd had been a mistake.

Kayla was suddenly desperate to escape. When the man simply stood there, studying her, she knew the move was hers to make.
Lumar had better give me a bonus for this.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulled his lips down to hers and kissed him.

It was like kissing a rock. A warm rock, maybe, but a rock nonetheless. She hadn’t been kissed in five years, unless she counted attempted sexual assaults on Altair Tri, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to feel like that. She released him quickly and backed away. His hand flashed out and he grabbed her wrist when she turned to flee.

“I need to speak to you. Privately.” Calculation lurked in his intent gaze, and if he was shocked by her actions it didn’t show. “As soon as you can manage it.”

He wanted something from her, something he wouldn’t leave without, and that could only mean trouble. Kayla had hidden her brother from trouble on this backwater planet for five years, she wasn’t about to get caught now.

“The southeast gate. Under the launch dock, after the show.” She glanced at the red-haired man who had finally reached his side. “Come alone or not at all.”

Before he could answer she twisted her wrist free of his grasp and stepped away.

“Now, wish me luck.” Kayla ignored the waiting lift, too anxious to endure its slow descent. She gripped the railing at her back with both hands and spun over. The instant her toes touched the ledge on the other side she jumped again, flipping backward to land in a crouch on the pit’s floor.

The need to check on her brother surged through her veins. She still had the match with Phoenix ahead of her, and she’d have to wait for Lumar to settle up at the end of the evening. Now she had this stranger to evade on her way out. At least she knew where he’d be waiting and what door to avoid.

Kayla drew her kris daggers, eyeing Phoenix as the woman did the same. Despite her earlier show for the crowd Phoenix seemed to have tuned them out entirely and now focused laser-like on Kayla. No bit of fluff, this fighter, she had the potential to be a worthy opponent.

Kayla pushed her worry for Corinth to the back of her mind. There was no room for him in the pit.

* * *

Kayla strode down the airway, anxious to get her makeup off and return home. It was late, later than she usually finished, and the Blood Pit was empty. Normally she preferred the pit this way, with the lights down and filled with quiet shadows. She felt safer, more concealed. Tonight, though, the stranger in the crowd wouldn’t leave her mind, setting her on edge.

It was possible he was only interested in Shadow Panthe, not Kayla Reinumon and the younger brother she kept hidden kilometers outside of the pit district. Any hint of trouble had her fearing for Corinth, though. She couldn’t help it, it was in her genes, in her blood. She was Corinth’s
ro’haar
, now that both of their twins were dead, and he was her
il’haar
. Her responsibility, her life’s purpose, was to protect her
il’haar
. And protect him she would.