Seconds passed as they stared at each other, her hand around his wrist. She might have the advantage in a physical confrontation, but she was far tenser than he, with far more to lose. Would he call the Turgonian authorities down on her? Try to have her extradited? Would she have to run? Start all over again?
“Your country needs you,” Shukura said calmly. He never lost his easy smile.
Once, that may have persuaded her, but Kendor had turned its back on her. She would only fight for it again if her children’s safety was at risk. “The country that wants me shot?”
“There’s a message coming in from Mangdoria to their ambassador that my contact was not able to intercept. I don’t know the contents yet, but it is likely a request for assistance. At this time, our people would not find it fortuitous for the Mangdorians to receive Turgonian assistance.”
“Darn.”
Did he think she cared about political machinations? What could this have to do with her?
“Your skills may be of some use in this matter,” he said.
“Potion making?”
“No. As I told you, I’ve learned what you were, as well as who you are.”
“Yeah? Did you get a medal for that notable achievement?”
His smug smile was annoying. She supposed this was another place where sarcasm would not serve her well, but she would have enjoyed it if she could find a way to break through his calm facade and visibly irk him.
“Perhaps it will come in the mail once I’ve achieved my objective,” Shukura said, then his face grew more serious. “Now that I have confirmed that you are here, I will have to report your presence to our government. Unless…”
Ashara stared at him, not giving him anything. She did not want him to know that she was worried, that she was already dreading the idea of running again. She was already so far from her children that it was hard not to feel that she had abandoned them forever.
“If you were to work for me, prove your usefulness once again to Kendor, then perhaps the government would not mind so much if you were alive in another country.”
“You don’t have the power to promise that,” Ashara said.
“I promise nothing but an opportunity.”
She fought the urge to rub her face; that would show him she was rattled. “I’m in school, as you noticed, in the middle of my summer courses.” Courses that wouldn’t have been required if she had done better on her studies this past spring, but required they were. “What is it you want me to do?”
“It will depend on the contents of that note.” For the first time, his lips thinned in annoyance. Irritated that his “contact” had failed to intercept it, was he? “I may need you to travel to Mangdoria.”
“That definitely doesn’t fit into my class schedule.”
“I will speak with your professors if needed.”
Ashara grimaced. She didn’t want him speaking to anyone on her behalf. She wanted him to disappear.
As if she had spoken aloud, he inclined his head and backed away. “Expect to see me again soon.”
“I can’t wait.”
She dropped her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. Mangdoria. What across all of the plains and forests could he want her to do in Mangdoria? It didn’t matter. She didn’t plan to be in her room when he came looking for her again. Even if she could have started a successful business and provided a stable home for her children, she could never apply to be a citizen now, not under the false name she had planned to use or any other. He would be watching her, and he would know. He would tell them about her past, and she would have to flee from yet another nation. There was no future for her here. She wondered if there was a future for her anywhere.
• • • • •
Leyelchek “Basilard” of the Walking Bear Clan smoothed the woven grass strands, the tremor in his fingers only slightly less noticeable than the anxious flutters assaulting his stomach. He tried to tell himself that there was no reason to be nervous, but this moment could change his life forever. How could he not be nervous?
“Leyelchek?” came a soft call from the gateway to the presidential gardens.
As Basilard turned, gazing over the row of fragrant young lavender bushes and rose vines starting to twine up trellises, the flutters in his stomach increased in intensity, threatening to make him sick. If he threw up at Elwa’s feet, it wouldn’t encourage a positive response to his question.
Since he could not call out to her, thanks to the scar tissue that had formed over his vocal cords after a pit fight years earlier, Basilard raised an arm and waved. Over here, he longed to call. Fortunately, unlike most people, Elwa could understand his hand signs. As soon as she reached him, he would be able to “speak” with her—he had lit a few lanterns in the fading light of the gardens to ensure it. All he had to do was find the courage to sign the words he had rehearsed. And not throw up on her.
Elwa came into sight, a light summer dress swishing about her ankles as she strolled toward him. Her long red hair hung freely around her shoulders, and Basilard gulped, his legs growing weak. At work, when she was serving as his translator, she usually wore it bound in a braid or up in a coiffure. He rarely saw her hair down, where it accented her small, knowing smile, her warm blue eyes, and the smooth glow of her skin.
Needing support, he leaned a hand against the rim of a large pot holding a young maple tree. In his other hand, he clutched the braided cord he had crafted with the blue-green grass from their homeland. So the strands would be supple enough to work with, he’d had to import the seeds and grow the plant fresh here, out on his windowsill. He had carved the flat disk that hung from the grass cord, the Mangdorian flame maple also imported. It was the traditional wood for this purpose.
As Elwa approached, Basilard slid the necklace behind his back, afraid she would see it before he was ready. Before she was ready.
“What is it, Leyelchek?” Elwa asked, stopping in front of him.
He loved that she used his real name—that she knew it when so few here did—even if he wasn’t sure he deserved it anymore. The Basilard moniker that the Turgonians had pegged him with seemed all too applicable to him. Sometime in the last few years, he had come to think of himself by it. With all of the knife scars marking his flesh, what was more apt than being named after a blade? The name, and the proof that he had killed often in battle, horrified his pacifist people back home, but as long as it did not horrify Elwa…
She glanced at the darkening sky, at the first stars appearing on the eastern horizon. Wondering why he had asked her to meet him here when the workday was done? She peered up and down the flagstone aisle, the air fresh with the smell of myriad kinds of flowers. It was the perfect night for this, but she seemed to be looking for other people, expecting that he had called her down to some meeting where he would need a translator.
It was time to let her know what he wanted.
Basilard slipped the necklace into his pocket, since he needed both hands to speak with her. Thank you for coming, Elwa, he signed, hoping she wouldn’t notice that vexing tremor to his fingers. I wish to tell you… how much I’ve enjoyed working with you these last six months. Well, that was true, but it wasn’t what he wished to tell her. Not right now. He glared at his fingers, willing them to get to the point.
“Oh,” Elwa said, her voice as sweet and appealing as the roses behind her. “Thank you. I was nervous when my father chose me, because—” She glanced at the flagstones. “Well, I wasn’t sure what to expect from you. I mean, what it would be like to work with you, after you’d, ah, spent so much time here in Turgonia.”
Basilard found it heartening that she seemed nervous too. Did she have some inkling of what he intended to ask? Was she, too, thinking of life-changing moments? He hoped that was the reason she was fumbling her words and not that he was making her uncomfortable.
“I hope you’ve found my service acceptable.” Her forehead wrinkled, as if she worried he might want to relieve her of her position.
That was the furthest thing from his mind, though he did wish they didn’t have the relationship of employer and employee, even if Chief Halemek had made Basilard the ambassador to Turgonia because nobody else wanted to deal with the warrior society and because it had been more comfortable for all if Basilard wasn’t back in his homeland that often. The job didn’t convey any particular power; he was basically a messenger between the two nations.
You are extremely capable, Basilard signed. You know far more languages than our insular people usually study, and most importantly, you can understand me. He raised his eyebrows, hoping the small joke might make her laugh. It always pleased him when he could cause that.
Elwa did not laugh, but she did smile. “I would not be a very good teacher—or student—if I couldn’t. It’s not as if your hand language isn’t based on our people’s hunting signs. Yes, you’ve added many terms, but the basics are there for anyone who knows them.”
Yes. Basilard did not want to talk about languages or signs, not then. Elwa? Have you ever thought of… Could you see yourself as… He took a deep breath. Elwa, will you marry me?
Her eyes grew round with surprise. So much for his hypothesis that she might be anticipating his question. Basilard dug into his pocket, noticing how sweaty his hand was as he wrapped his fingers around the necklace. He tried to wipe his palm on his trousers at the same time as he withdrew it. He held it out toward her, the braided grass strands dangling from his fingers. For some reason, his eyes focused on the necklace instead of looking up at her face, to see if her surprise had turned into delight or at least interested consideration.
“I—Leyelchek,” she said, her voice difficult to read. It didn’t sound delighted.
Hesitantly, Basilard lifted his gaze. He hoped that wasn’t a wince tightening her eyes.
“I didn’t expect—” This time, she looked down, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
Basilard willed himself not to panic, not yet. She hadn’t said no. She was just surprised. He had been too subtle. Yes, he had invited her to numerous after-hours dances and dinners at the presidential manor, but she must have always assumed he had brought her for work reasons. Even though he had kissed her goodnight more than once, those kisses had all been on the cheek. After so much rejection in his life, especially in these last few years, he had been afraid to presume, afraid she would realize he longed for more than chaste kisses and that she would be… horrified. It had seemed nobler to make his intentions clear first. As he was doing now.
He swallowed, the necklace bumping awkwardly as he signed with it dangling from one hand: Is it something you would consider? I have come to value you a great deal. You are one of the few people who understands me and the only one of our people who doesn’t condemn me for what I’ve had to do to survive. He grimaced, wishing he were explaining himself better. He didn’t want her to think that the only reason he cared for her was because she didn’t scowl at him and promise he was going to Hell because he had chosen violence over death.
“Leyelchek,” Elwa said slowly. “You’re kind and loyal, and have many other wonderful qualities. Now that you’re working on behalf of our people, I’m sure more of them will be able to look past your scars and see that. You’re a good man, and maybe you’ll even be a great man someday, but I’m not… attracted to you in that way.”
Basilard’s hands drooped, the wooden disk bumping against his thigh. Even if he’d still had access to his voice, he couldn’t have spoken then, not with his throat constricting and disappointment pricking at his eyes.
Elwa shifted her weight, wrapping one hand in the fabric of her dress, her face twisting with discomfort. “I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise. I didn’t mean…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. Amid his own disappointment, Basilard also felt miserable for having made her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, then strode away.
Her sleeve brushed some of the thorns on the rosebushes, and she pulled it away hastily, the fabric ripping. She kept walking, her pace almost a run as she fled the garden.
For a long moment, Basilard stood there, his chin drooped to his chest. He did not know where to go. Back to his room? A room next door to Elwa’s? Would it make her more uncomfortable to know he was so close? Would knowing she was only a wall away and would always be at least a wall away make him miserable? More miserable?
He stuffed the woven necklace into his pocket. He almost dropped it into the pot instead, since it wasn’t as if he would need it again, but he didn’t want to explain himself if some gardener found it, recognized it as a Mangdorian item, and brought it to his door.
With slow shambling steps, Basilard headed for the gate. Full darkness had fallen, and he had no idea where he would go. Perhaps he would wander the streets of the capital, a city so populous and so different from his mountain homeland that he sometimes felt the press of all the people choking him, making him long for the sparsely populated forests that no longer wanted him.
“Psst,” came a male voice from the shadows outside of the garden gate.
It was an indication of Basilard’s distraction that he hadn’t noticed Maldynado lurking nearby. Once, he had been a great hunter with keenly honed senses, and he had survived countless life-or-death fights here in Turgonia. Maybe his months of sitting at tables and talking to the Turgonian president and other diplomats had dulled his skills.
“How did it go?” Maldynado asked, ambling out of the shadows, a broad-brimmed hat masking his features. Not that Basilard wouldn’t have recognized his voice from miles away. “Or should I not ask? Usually, it’s not a good sign when the woman flees. I’ve heard. Marriage proposals aren’t something I’ve tried often. Why marry a woman when you can simply charm her into your bedroom, eh?”
Basilard sighed and stopped walking, though a part of him was tempted to continue past, ignoring Maldynado. But when Maldynado leaned against the wrought-iron frame of the gate, folding his arms over his chest, his expression held more sympathy and concern than the flippant words would have implied. He tilted back the brim of his hat, the excessive width appropriate for keeping him dry in a storm and perhaps gathering a few gallons of rainwater for later, as well, then smiled down and thumped Basilard on the shoulder.
Like most Turgonians, even the women, Maldynado was taller than Basilard, standing nearly six and a half feet, and he was proportionately broad of shoulder and chest. Basilard always felt too short for his stocky build, and Elwa’s words stood out in his mind: not attracted to you. Where Maldynado had flawless bronze skin, high cheekbones, and wavy brown hair that women liked to run their hands through, Basilard kept his head shaven. He felt he had to, thanks to all of the scars that he had acquired on his scalp when he had been forced to fight in pits on a nightly basis. His hair grew in patchy, making him look like a mangy dog, and the less said about that premature bald spot on the top, the better. The rest of his face served him well enough—he had been told by his first wife that he was handsome in his youth—but he always feared the scars it now held made him look like some villain masterminding a plot against the government. Maybe he should have sent Maldynado in to propose for him.
Charming women is not my specialty, Basilard signed. He gazed down the path toward the wide driveway that led in one direction toward the vehicle house and the multi-story presidential manor, and in the other toward the gate in the wall that surrounded the compound. He didn’t know which route he wanted to take, but he decided he wanted to be alone.
“That’s because you don’t take my advice,” Maldynado said. “You’ve been treating that woman like a colleague, not like the love of your life. Did you ever kiss her? I know I’ve tried to thrust you two together a few times, but if you don’t do some lip pressing with a girl, how’s she supposed to know how you feel?”
Basilard did not care much for Maldynado’s relationship advice under the best of circumstances, and he certainly was not in the mood for it now. Goodnight, Maldynado, he sig
ned. I’m going to take a walk.
“Alone?” Maldynado followed Basilard as he headed for the front gate. “We should go get some apple brandy together. If you wander off alone now, you might fall into a canal. And you might not care if you get out.”
Basilard increased his pace, waving Maldynado away. He had almost reached the gate when a call from the entrance to the manor stopped him.
“Mister Basilard?” A private in the black uniform of the Turgonian army jogged down the steps, waving for him to stop. He was one of the youngest soldiers that Basilard had seen around the manor—being chosen to work here was a high honor usually reserved for older, distinguished men. Then he spotted the insignia on the private’s collar and realized he worked for the intelligence division, the headquarters of which were on the grounds. Odd, what did the intel people want with him?
“Mister,” Maldynado said with a snicker as he strolled up. Apparently, he wasn’t inclined to let Basilard flee into the city on his own.
Ignoring him, Basilard raised his brows as the young soldier approached.
“I was looking for you, sir. A courier from your country came in this afternoon and delivered this.” The private handed Basilard an envelope that had been sliced open. The contents remained inside, but appeared to have been taken out, read, and then inserted again.
Did it come like this? Basilard signed.
The soldier tilted his head.
Without Elwa at his side, Basilard was forced to look to Maldynado to translate.
Maldynado pointed at the letter. “Mister Basilard wants to know who read his mail, and if there was anything juicy in it.”
Basilard elbowed his comrade, but Maldynado only smiled, not correcting his “translation.”
“It went through the intelligence office,” the private said.
Diplomats and Fugitives Page 2
