Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9)

by Lindsay Buroker

  No, most of Turgonia’s massive republic lay to the west of the capital, because that’s where the fertile land was. They had appropriated a lot of the mountains for timber and ore, but few people lived out in this range. It was more of a buffer zone between Turgonia and its neighbors.

  A few more miles, Basilard signed, making sure Maldynado was watching.

  “Around the next bend,” Maldynado informed the driver, his mouth full as he munched on an apple.

  Would it distress you terribly to translate my signs verbatim? Once in a while? Basilard did not want to sound ungrateful, since it wasn’t as if Maldynado was a trained translator, but Starcrest had sent him along for this purpose.

  “I like to add flair,” Maldynado said.

  Jomrik frowned back at him. “You’re not getting crumbs on the floor of my cab, are you?”

  “Of course not. Apples don’t have crumbs.”

  Jomrik glared at him, pulled a rag out from under his seat, and tossed it at Maldynado before turning his attention back to the road. The corporal couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but he was not intimidated by Maldynado’s warrior-caste airs or the fact that Maldynado was, as he mentioned daily, friends with the president. He did keep the lorry in meticulous condition. There wasn’t so much as a smudge of coal dust in the grooves of the textured floor.

  Maldynado took another bite of his apple and peeked through the opening behind the furnace, a small window that allowed a person to see into the cargo bed. “Don’t see her.”

  Why do you keep checking?

  The Kendorian woman had been even less garrulous than their assassin comrade, Sicarius. The night before, she had slept in the back of the lorry instead of around the campfire with everyone else, and she was taking her meals by herself, too, eating ration bars that looked as appealing as the soles of boots.

  “To make sure she didn’t fall out?” Maldynado shrugged. “I’m curious. She doesn’t look like someone who knows anything about trees or blights.”

  What does someone who knows about trees and blights usually look like?

  “Well.” Maldynado jerked a thumb toward the corner by the boiler. “That.”

  Mahliki sat cross-legged on the floor, a cloth spread out before her with flowers, leaves, and bark samples, along with several tools on it. She plucked up something with tweezers, dropped it into a vial of colored water, shook it, then peered inside with a loupe held to her eye.

  I saw Ashara pick a few edible berries last night to go with her ration bar. She knew to avoid the poisonous ones and probably has a background in woodland lore. Maybe we can have some interesting discussions on foraging. Of course, he would have to teach her his hand signs for that. Would she have any interest in learning?

  “Oh, Basilard. I thought now that you were a high-powered ambassador you wouldn’t need to scrounge in alleys for weeds to throw in your stews.”

  Those were herbs. A surprising number of edible and flavorful varieties have survived in your city of concrete and mortar.

  “I did see her scrounging in the weeds last night, now that you mention it.” Maldynado massaged his jaw. “It wasn’t just berries. She plucked some leaves and stuck them in her pack. She has some glass and ceramic vials in there. Did you see? You don’t think she’s a witch, do you?”

  Because she forages?

  “Could be collecting poisonous plants. To make potions with. And poison us. Like a witch.”

  Basilard thought about sharing that Shukura had mentioned she had potion-making skills, but doubted that would assuage Maldynado’s concerns. Nor did he know if he should assuage his concerns, not when the woman was surely there to spy upon them.

  I forage, and you don’t call me a witch.

  “That’s because you dig up tasty things and put them in a stew pot.”

  Maybe she’ll surprise us with fresh flatcakes for breakfast.

  “Or a poisoning. I’ve had women try to poison me before, you know.” Maldynado wiggled his eyebrows. “Witches.”

  Or jilted lovers?

  “Jilted witches maybe. You—”

  The cab door opened, startling the driver. The vehicle swerved as he whipped up his rifle. With one hand, he managed to straighten the wheels before they rolled off the road, but he glowered over at that open door. They were cruising along at fifty miles per hour, so visitors were unexpected.

  Ashara dropped inside, brushing Jomrik’s rifle aside so that the muzzle did not point at her. She shut the door behind her. “We have trouble.”

  Basilard could not imagine what sort of trouble might be chasing them at fifty miles an hour. He lowered the window and peered out. He did not spot anybody driving on the road behind or ahead of them.

  “Aside from the fact that you’re clambering about on the outside of the lorry like a monkey?” Maldynado asked, looking Ashara up and down.

  Her gaze flicked to his hat, then settled on Basilard. “Yes. Several flocks of birds rose from thickets up ahead, their departure sudden and swift. The hills on either side of the road are still now. Silent.”

  “How can you tell with us chugging and clanking up the grade?” Maldynado tapped the wall of the cab. The steam vehicle was as stealthy as an army riding elephants through brush.

  “I also caught the smell of something big,” Ashara said. “Grimbals, I believe.”

  Mahliki, still sitting in front of her samples, lifted her head at this comment, her brow furrowed. “How would you smell that over the smoke from the stack?” She waved toward the ceiling.

  Even though they could not see the billowing black smoke from inside the cab, Basilard had no trouble picturing it. And he agreed with Mahliki: even a hound would have trouble picking up the scent of an animal with burning coal plaguing the air.

  “I have a keen nose,” Ashara said flatly.

  There aren’t any grimbals this far south, Basilard signed. They were too dangerous to allow near human villages, so, as with the makarovi, my people and the Turgonians drove them north generations ago. A feat that had not been easy, according to the legends. The northern predators were difficult to kill without giant weapons like cannons, and with their powerful limbs and claws, they could tear through an army. Basilard remembered his own encounter with makarovi the year before. That had been in these very mountains, and his team had almost lost Amaranthe during it. But those creatures had been coerced into coming this far south by a shaman. Neither makarovi nor grimbals should be anywhere within five hundred miles.

  “Well, they’re back. I know what I smelled.”

  Her certainty made Basilard uneasy. I’ll check, he signed and opened the door.

  “Maybe you should slow down, Corporal,” Maldynado said. “Since people are making a habit of strolling in and out of the lorry while it’s moving.”

  Outside, the wind clawed at Basilard, so he did not hear if the driver responded. The vehicle slowed down as he climbed atop the cab. Dark plumes streamed out of the stack, filling the valley behind them with smoke. The mountains towered on either side, their peaks blanketed with glaciers and snow, even in mid-summer. He sniffed, testing the air. Even upwind of the smokestack, he struggled to smell more than the scent of burning coal. He wondered again at Ashara’s supposedly keen olfactory senses. After spending most of the last five years in the city, he admitted that his own senses might not be as sharp any more, but he was skeptical of her claim.

  Still, he crouched there, watching, listening, and breathing in the mountain air. The area, a mix of new growth and stumps left by Turgonian loggers, did seem still. He glimpsed a lake through the trees, but did not see any fowl floating on the water. Ashara’s birds might have been startled into the air at the approach of the steam vehicle, a rare sight up here, not necessarily because of the approach of predators.

  The lorry rounded a bend, and the hide and wood yurt that served as Mangdoria’s closest border outpost came into view. Jomrik had slowed the vehicle, and they trundled toward it.

  Ashara’s head app
eared. She considered Basilard, eyed their surroundings, then climbed up next to him, her sword clanking on the roof of the cab. It was still in its scabbard, but she had found her bow and wore a quiver bristling with arrows on her back. Neither weapon would do much damage if they encountered irate grimbals. They were distant cousins of bears, but larger and with thicker hides. In his youth, Basilard had hunted them with his clan on a trip to the northern fjords, and they had dug pit traps and used spear launchers to bring down the heavily furred and powerful creatures. Basilard’s daggers would only work if he could get in close—very close—and that was a dangerous place to be with a grimbal. He might have to borrow a Turgonian rifle.

  “Do you smell it?” Ashara asked. “The breeze was coming from up there when I caught the scent.” With her bow, she pointed toward the hills beyond the shack.

  Nobody had come out of the small building yet. When on foot, Basilard could walk through the door of the yurt before anyone heard his approach, but none of his people would have missed the clanks of the steam vehicle.

  “There’s nobody inside,” Ashara said, perhaps thinking the same thing. Her certainty was strange, since the door and shutters were closed. There was no way to see inside. “Maybe they saw the grimbals in the area and left.”

  Or maybe they were dead. Basilard’s earlier concern that taking Mahliki on this trip would be a bad idea if they found trouble came back to him. He forced himself to inhale deeply and slowly. So far, he didn’t have any proof that anything was wrong.

  There are not always people in the outposts, Basilard signed.

  Remembering that she would not understand, he did not expound. His people did not guard their borders, not the way the Turgonians and many other nations did. Traveling scouts kept watch over the trails into the country, but yurts like these were places to meet and trade, so there was no guarantee that visitors would find it staffed.

  The scent of rotting meat mingled with a musky odor wafted toward him at the same time as he glimpsed movement near the path leading north from the yurt. The path leading into his homeland.

  “You smell it,” Ashara said, looking at him. It wasn’t a question.

  Basilard nodded.

  “There’s more than one. They’re right by that path up there.”

  Grimbals are solitary creatures, he signed, holding up a single finger for emphasis.

  “That’s what I’ve always heard, too, but I promise there are a number of them loitering up there. This will sound silly but…” She paused, frowning past the yurt. “I get the feeling they’re waiting. Are grimbals smart enough to plan ambushes? I’ve only encountered one before. They’re extremely rare as far south as Kendor.”

  They’re rare here too. Basilard shifted on his haunches, uneasy at the idea of grimbals planning ambushes, but also made uneasy by Ashara’s woodland acuity. Her hunches had yet to be proven correct, but if she was right, he might suspect her of having skill in the mental sciences. Could she have a shaman’s training? Shukura hadn’t mentioned it, but that was hardly surprising.

  He held up a hand, indicating he would return, then slipped over the edge, swinging into the cab again.

  Do not slow down, he signed, nudging for Maldynado to translate for Corporal Jomrik. Continue at maximum speed. This area is not safe.

  Basilard glanced at Mahliki, who had stowed her scientific gear in a pack and now stood with the butt of a rifle resting in front of her boots. She had also belted on a sword and dagger. If not for her youth—and the jeweler’s loupe still on a band around her head—she might have passed for a warrior. Basilard took some comfort from that. Everyone here could fight if they had to, but there were other routes into Mangdoria. There was no reason to endanger his team if they could drive past and avoid trouble. He could not risk losing the president’s daughter.

  “You sure, Bas?” Maldynado asked. “What if there are people in that hut who need help?”

  Ashara says the hut is empty.

  “And how would she know?” Maldynado’s eyebrows lifted.

  We may have to ask her about that later. But for now, let us assume there are grimbals waiting at the turnoff. We want to avoid them, but they may be able to catch us if we go that way. The lorry won’t be able to travel swiftly on the dirt paths through Mangdoria. Basilard did not know if the wide vehicle would be able to travel along them at all. He pointed at Jomrik. Tell him.

  “Emperor’s balls,” Maldynado said, all of the usual humor evaporating from his expression. He didn’t even remember that the emperor was a thing of the past now and that such curses no longer made sense. If they ever had. “Grimbals? This far south? Are you sure?”

  Basilard hesitated. Ashara had been. Yes.

  “They’re almost as bad as makarovi.” Maldynado grimaced and touched his abdomen, the spot where Amaranthe had been clawed, the wound nearly fatal.

  Jomrik accelerated, the vehicle rattling and bumping on the highway. The stones had been expertly laid by Turgonian engineers during the imperial expansion period when they had been building their cross-continental road system, but this stretch had not been maintained as well as the roads that lay within their borders.

  “If we stay on the highway,” Jomrik said, “we’ll end up in Kendor.”

  Not for a couple of days. There are many mountains to traverse first. There are other routes into Mangdoria along the way. Don’t turn down any paths without asking me first. My people don’t guard the borders, but we do use trickery to keep out unwelcome visitors.

  “Like what?” Maldynado asked after translating.

  Pit traps with spikes, paths that go nowhere, paths that turn into mazes.

  “Pit traps with spikes? I thought your people were pacifists, Bas. What kind of pacifists gouge people with spikes?”

  Those who do not wish to have their people kidnapped by slavers anymore. There are signs at the beginnings of the routes into Mangdoria, warning of the dangers to those who would enter uninvited. My people were driven to this in the last few years. There are some who take advantage of pacifists. Basilard arched his eyebrows, knowing Maldynado knew about his own history as a Turgonian slave.

  “Ah, right.” Maldynado removed his hat to buff the tinkling disks.

  The lorry rounded another bend, then lurched as the corporal pulled on the brake. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Basilard leaned against the control panel, almost pressing his nose to the windshield. Six white-furred creatures stood on the road ahead, the shaggy animals three times larger than grizzly bears. Grimbals. Ashara had been right.

  They were gathered around a fresh kill. With the big animals blocking the view, he could not tell what it had been. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

  “I’ve never seen a grimbal before,” Maldynado said. “What are they doing this far south? Shamans? They’re not wearing collars, are they? Like those makarovi we fought last year?”

  I am starting to think it’s likely that magical persuasion is involved. Basilard did not see collars or the gleam of any manmade device in the creatures’ shaggy fur, but that did not mean something was not there, attached to the big animals’ hides. Not only is this not the usual range for such animals, but grimbals are not pack animals. This sharing of a meal is unheard of.

  “The lorry has two guns on the front,” Jomrik said. “Am I clearing the road so we can continue on, or leaving them to eat their dinner?”

  Normal animals would scatter at the sound of gunfire, but if these were affected by some magic, would they stand their ground? Or attack? In a battle against so many, Basilard worried the big shell guns would not be enough. The lorry would not be maneuverable when compared to the animals. Also, those guns could only be fired once before having to be reloaded. His people had killed grimbals with spears, but only after the animals had been trapped in pits, and only one at a time. It took many, many spears to bring down a grimbal.

  One of the four-legged creatures leaned back on its haunches, wiping its blood-smeared face with the back
of a massive paw. The creature next to it roared, the thunderous rumble echoing through the valley, then lunged at the one cleaning its shaggy beard. Before Basilard had figured out what had prompted the squabble, two more joined in, slashing at each other and snapping with their powerful jaws.

  “Not pack animals,” Maldynado agreed.

  “Can we go around them while they’re engaged?” Mahliki asked.

  Jomrik looked doubtfully at the highway—the grimbals were taking up all of it. “Ground’s muddy on either side of the road along here. We might get stuck if we veer off, and I’m not leaving my lorry out in some grimbal-forsaken wilderness.” His mouth twisted, as he perhaps realized how apt the expression was at the moment.

  “Can we drive through them?” Maldynado asked. “Will they get out of the way?”

  Each one of them weighs as much as this vehicle, Basilard signed.

  “Even with Mahliki’s trunks in the back?”

  Basilard waved his hand in a maybe sign while Mahliki glared at Maldynado. If we hit one, it will damage the vehicle.

  “Damage? Like irreparably?” Maldynado frowned through the windshield.

  “I’ll damage those monsters before they damage my girl,” Jomrik growled, tapping his hand on levers that activated the weapons. “There are rifles on that rack back there. Arm yourselves, and we’ll have grimbal steaks for dinner.”

  “Wait, do we want to pick a fight with them?” Mahliki asked. “Maybe we can shoot over their heads and scare them away.”

  Grimbals are territorial, Basilard signed. They’ll attack any higher-level predator that enters their domain.

  “Will they see a steam lorry as a higher-level predator?”

  Basilard could only shrug. The possibility of magic made the situation unpredictable.

  The grimbals continued to fight with each other. As they did so, several moved away from the corpse, mud spattering their white coats as they battled. Even though two continued to tear away at their meal, Basilard had the unobstructed view of it that he had sought before. The remains would have been impossible to identify, except he glimpsed tatters of clothing on the road underneath the corpse. A person. He closed his eyes.