Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

  Why? Basilard asked.

  “I think that’s standard protocol around here,” Maldynado said. “If you don’t want your mail read, you should have it sent to a secret flat in the city. Or you could send it to my place. I doubt Yara would read it. She prefers those Lady Dourcrest novels. Ah, but don’t tell anyone I said that. She wouldn’t want people knowing that her tough enforcer heart likes sappy romance stories. I certainly don’t mind. They give her the most fascinating ideas.”

  For more reasons than one, Basilard wished he hadn’t driven off his usual translator.

  My missives from Mangdoria don’t usually arrive in this state, he signed.

  “Sure they do. You fellows always rifle through the mail, don’t you, Private?” Maldynado asked.

  “Ah, that’s standard operating procedure for messages sent to the presidential manor—”

  “The Montichelu Manor,” Maldynado corrected.

  “Sir?” the private asked.

  “That’s the name on the plaque on the wall. I know on account of that being my middle name and on account of the building being named after me, due to my heroic efforts in saving it while it was still in the construction phase.” Maldynado removed his hat and smoothed the felt on the broad brim.

  The private looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. Basilard didn’t blame him, but he did want to know if all of his mail from Mangdoria was indeed being read by intelligence soldiers. He had nothing to hide, but he would be certain to let the chiefs back home know, if it was the case. They might want to take more care or develop a code. Not that the Turgonians couldn’t break codes. If Basilard recalled correctly, one of the reasons President Starcrest’s wife had been chosen to run the intelligence office was specifically because she had such experience.

  “All messages that come into the presidential—uhm, here,” the private said, “are previewed, yes. For security purposes. In the past, Intelligence was less blatant about it.”

  “Tikaya making changes, eh?” Maldynado asked.

  “Lady Starcrest,” the private said stiffly.

  “Uh huh. You delivered your pawed-over note. Run along.”

  The private looked to Basilard, as if wondering what role Maldynado had and whether he had to obey. Since he was a touch perturbed about the mail, Basilard did not respond, even if, as far as he knew, Maldynado didn’t have any official duties in the manor. Now and then, the president sent him on some errand or another, but Basilard doubted Starcrest would miss him if he disappeared.

  Basilard opened the message and moved to a gas lamp along the driveway to read it.

  Leyelchek ~

  The blight I mentioned this spring has progressed at an alarming rate, affecting multiple species in the forest, including many of the nut trees we rely upon for flour and winter stores. The small animals depend upon them, too, and we fear there will be less game for us to hunt this autumn. As you know, it is not our way to ask for help from outsiders, and we would especially be loath to deal with the Turgonians, but you do have stronger contacts and relationships with their government than our ambassadors to Kendor and the desert city-states have with those nations. Will you make inquiries and see if President Starcrest would be open to trading us food—particularly their rices, beans, and other staples that can be stored for the winter? I know we have little that they value, but we can offer furs, bone carvings, beadwork, and priestly totems. Please respond as swiftly as possible. We must come up with a plan before winter approaches.

  ~ Chief Halemek

  Basilard read the note for a second time, an uneasy feeling burrowing into the pit of his stomach. Halemek was one to understate troubles rather than exaggerate them, and he would never ask the Turgonians for a favor. Who would? Even if Halemek was offering trade, not requesting charity, he must know the Turgonians would not be impressed by furs or beadwork, not when they could make anything they wished in their enormous factories. And priestly totems? The Turgonians abhorred magic. Even if Starcrest had changed policies and it was no longer forbidden in the republic, it was still feared and mistrusted by the majority of the people. The chief must be even more concerned than the message suggested, and that concerned Basilard. Anything that affected his people would affect his daughter. Even if he was no longer allowed to be a part of her life, that did not mean he did not care for her and worry about her. Further, the idea of some blight ravaging the forests of his homeland, where he had hunted and foraged in his youth, upset him.

  “You look worried,” Maldynado said. “Something challenging?”

  After a moment of consideration, Basilard translated the letter for him. Even if Maldynado was a pest, he was one of Basilard’s oldest friends here, and he didn’t care a whit about politics, so he wouldn’t be thinking of ways to take advantage of the situation.

  “Uh,” Maldynado said when he finished. “Furs and totems? I can’t see Starcrest being excited at the idea of a warehouse full of those. What’s he going to do? Sell them in the Quaint and Quirky aisle at the farmers’ market when he’s not busy presidenting?”

  That’s not a word, Basilard signed, finding it easier to focus on that instead of the real problem.

  “Presidenting? Are you sure? This is my native language, not yours.”

  Yes, maybe that’s not something you should point out.

  Maldynado snorted and waved at the letter. “Keep insulting me, and I won’t give you a negotiating tip you’ll need tomorrow.”

  If it’s to challenge Starcrest to a wrestling match and beat him to earn his respect, I’ve already done that.

  “You’ve beaten him? He’s wily and spry for a man in his sixties.”

  Basilard nodded.

  “Huh. Well, that’s not my tip.” Maldynado returned the letter. “Ask for Mahliki, not a bag of rice. She figured out that crazy plant that tried to take over this spring. I bet she could figure out a blight.”

  I don’t think Starcrest is going to give me his eighteen-year-old daughter to take home.

  “Not willingly no, but you can use your ambassadorial charisma to get her.”

  My people are extremely knowledgeable about nature, including plants, trees, and diseases that affect them. I’m sure that if there was an easy solution, they would have found it already.

  “Bas, your people run around the mountains with bone knives and beads. Mahliki grew up on the Kyatt Islands. Everyone there has a big brain and goes to school for at least twenty years. They probably throw you to the sharks if you don’t. And she’s a specialist in botany. Biology. Something with a B. I don’t remember, but she knows all about plants. And trees are just big plants, right?”

  Basilard sighed. As insulting as Maldynado was, he had a point. His people did know a great deal about nature, but they didn’t have microscopes and other advanced tools that might be useful for studying whatever bacteria or fungi were affecting the trees at a cellular level. And it would be better to solve the problem, rather than to rely on another nation for trade. Maybe if he could be the one to facilitate that, more people than Chief Halemek would come to value him. He closed his eyes. Maybe he would be allowed to visit with his daughter more.

  A jostle to the ribs pulled him from his daydreams. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? It’s a good idea. Admit it.”

  I will speak with Starcrest, Basilard signed vaguely. Even if he believed it might be a good idea, he wasn’t positive that he could ask the president to send his daughter to Mangdoria. He would doubtlessly be held responsible, and what if something happened to her?

  Chapter 2

  After breakfast the next morning, Basilard stopped outside of Elwa’s door before heading for his meeting with the president. Not a private meeting, unfortunately. It was a weekly gathering between the president and any of the foreign ambassadors who wished to come and push their agendas, so Basilard might have to wait for the Nurian, Kendorian, and Kyattese diplomats to question him on matters first. No, he had to be aggressive to make sure his chief’s request was
heard. To make sure his request was heard. He still had reservations about asking the president to send his daughter to Mangdoria, but his people were peaceful, so there should not be any danger.

  He knocked on Elwa’s door. It would be easier to be aggressive—and understood—if he had her with him to translate. He had not seen her since his fumbled proposal, and he had no idea what he would sign to her, but he could not avoid her indefinitely.

  She did not answer the door.

  Basilard chewed on his lip. It was late enough in the morning that she should be awake. She wouldn’t be ignoring the knock because she knew it was he, would she? No, she was more of a professional than that. Maybe she had gone for a walk or to have breakfast. But even if she was unaware of the courier’s message, she knew about this meeting, since it repeated at the same time every week. It was not like her to be late. Usually, she knocked on his door well before they had to be at an appointment.

  After another round of knocking, Basilard was tempted to try the doorknob, but he did not wish to invade her privacy. He would have to make do without her for this meeting. The president always seemed to understand Basilard’s signs before the translation came out, anyway. It would simply be the other ambassadors he would struggle to speak with. Not that he wanted to speak with them. The chief had specifically asked him to make his request to Turgonia, not any other nation.

  Lost in thought as he walked into his room to get his medallion of office, Basilard did not notice the folded paper on his bed until he was on his way back out. Though he was on the verge of being late, he paused to pick it up, a hollow sense of unease settling over him. Even before he recognized the tidy Mangdorian writing on the front, he suspected who had written it.

  Leyelchek, Elwa had written, I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but you were gone last night and also this morning when I came by to speak with you, so I had to resort to this message. I feel that it would be uncomfortable for us to continue to work together. I’m returning home. I’ll make sure my father finds someone else who would be an appropriate translator for you, so you will not be without for long. Our courier arrived yesterday—you have probably already received a message from him—and when I spoke to him, he offered to escort me out of Turgonian territory and into the mountains. It has been an honor to work with you, but I hope you’ll understand why I do not think I can continue to do so. May the forest breezes all carry good omens for you. Elwa.

  Basilard leaned against the wall, letting his head thunk back against it. He had driven her away. That was the last thing he had wanted to do. How had it all gone so wrong so quickly?

  With his arms and legs leaden, and all of his sense of urgency forgotten, he plodded down the hallway toward the door that led to the outdoor meeting area behind the manor. A child’s laughter came from a stairwell as he passed it. Sespian Savarsin, the former emperor and a current twenty-year-old architecture student, strode up the steps with a black-haired girl riding on his shoulders. Mu Lin was gripping his short hair with one hand and appeared to be drawing on his ear with a crayon with the other. Sespian smiled and waved at Basilard as he turned to head up the next flight of stairs, but the smile didn’t quite erase the beleaguered expression on his face. Even if Sespian seemed to find raising his adopted daughter challenging, Basilard couldn’t help but feel wistful as he paused to watch them disappear up the stairs. Not only did he miss being a part of his daughter’s life, he wondered if he would ever find the opportunity to have another chance at fatherhood. If he did, it wouldn’t be with Elwa.

  His thoughts glum, he continued down the hallway and outside where early summer sun beat down and the garden flourished. Sleet and ice would have been more appropriate for his mood.

  Grunts, thumps, and gasps of pain came from the rings ahead of him. It seemed to be a longstanding Turgonian tradition that important meetings could only take place inside a gymnasium or a boxing and wrestling arena. Occasionally, men discussed events in heated baths and steam rooms, but this was usually a post-exertion activity. This morning was no different, and flesh smacked against flesh amid more grunts and gasps as Basilard walked to the centermost of three arenas, the fine green clay inside circled by black marble. A handful of people sat on bleachers overlooking the active ring, where a bare-chested, silver-haired man boxed with a middle-aged, blond-haired man. Basilard recognized them both. Since the president and Shukura, the Kendorian ambassador, were still sparring, perhaps that meant nobody had noticed his tardiness. A new Nurian diplomat was among those sitting on the bleachers, as well as a couple of men from the desert city-states wearing robes and headdresses fashioned from scarves.

  Basilard headed for the bleachers, though he hoped none of the others attempted to communicate with him. He was not in the mood to play political games. He would sit through the meeting and hope President Starcrest had time to speak privately with him at the end.

  While the combatants grappled, Basilard’s gaze drifted toward the sprawling three-story manor, toward the window that represented Elwa’s room. He was aware of the president and the Kendorian discussing politics, bribes, and concessions every time they parted, but he could not bring himself to pay attention. He wished he had gotten a chance to say goodbye to Elwa; no, he wished she hadn’t gone at all. Would she be safe traveling back to Mangdoria with no one except the courier to protect her? Even though bandits were rare in Turgonia and even rarer in Mangdoria—few lucrative wagons and no trains traveled to his homeland—there were dangerous predators. Elwa wasn’t incapable, but she also wasn’t a warrior. None of his people were, including the courier.

  “Basilard?” someone asked.

  Blinking, Basilard pulled his gaze from the windows. How long had he been staring in that direction? More, how long had President Starcrest been standing in front of him, saying his name and waiting? He had toweled off and put his shirt back on, though the dust of the ring smudged his hands and his loose gym togs. His silver hair was tousled and his knuckles bruised, but even in the casual clothing, he had the presence of someone accustomed to commanding.

  The Kendorian and one of the desert representatives stood to one side of the ring, gesturing and talking to each other. Realizing he had probably daydreamed through the whole meeting, Basilard stood hastily and signed, Yes, Lord President?

  Using lord or lady when addressing someone in the Turgonian warrior-caste was not supposed to be required anymore, but Starcrest’s military record had made him an imperial hero decades before the republic had been formed. Everyone else put the lord in there, so Basilard did the same.

  “You seem distracted,” Starcrest said. “Trouble back at home?”

  Back at home and here in the manor, but Basilard would not mention to the president how he had alienated his translator. Yes, my lord. Are you available to briefly discuss a request that my people have made? And a request he was about to make. Basilard took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

  “Go ahead.”

  The desert man walked away, leaving the Kendorian ambassador standing on the opposite side of the ring, looking curiously toward Basilard. Shukura smiled easily and nodded when Basilard met his eyes. In previous meetings, the Kendorian had never given him a cross look or come across as scheming, but Basilard hoped Starcrest would speak softly enough that he would not be overhead. Kendor was Mangdoria’s neighbor to the south, and even if Basilard didn’t think that nation wished his people ill, he doubted his chiefs wanted the Kendorians to know they were in trouble. Kendor wasn’t the economic powerhouse Turgonia was, and they might stand to gain more from trouble in his homeland.

  You may already be aware of the message I received last night, Basilard signed, keeping his face neutral. He would let Starcrest know he knew about the mail-reading intelligence office, but he would not imply that it perturbed him. My people believe this may be a difficult winter for them and are interested in trading for food.

  “Yes, I understand there’s a blight among the oaks and filberts,” Starcrest said. “I’ve
sent a team into the mountains along our border to see if our own nut trees are affected. Since we rely on agriculture rather than foraging, those wild trees aren’t a staple for us, but I understand such diseases can spread rapidly and affect domestic production, as well.”

  Yes. Ah, is your daughter on that team by chance?

  If she was gone, Basilard obviously could not ask for her to come to Mangdoria, but if she was studying the problem over here already, maybe he did not need to. Maybe he could simply ask to be sent the results of her research.

  “Mahliki?” Starcrest shifted his hips, so that his back was to Shukura. He never spoke of his children at these meetings, and their names rarely came up in the city’s newspapers, so Basilard assumed he tried to keep them out of the public eye. Mahliki was the only one even in the republic; after Starcrest had taken office, his other two children had returned to live with their grandmother and finish school on the Kyatt Islands.

  Basilard wondered if Starcrest would resent having Mahliki’s name brought up. Maybe, but Basilard needed to ask for his people’s sake—for his daughter’s sake. Her adoptive family treated her well, but if famine came to the mountains, everyone would be at risk.

  Yes, Basilard signed. Since she is a scientist and has experience with plants, I thought she might be an asset on such an investigation. Actually, Maldynado had thought that, but he didn’t think mentioning Maldynado would make the president more endeared to the idea.

  “It’s possible,” Starcrest said neutrally, his eyes penetrating. He had probably already guessed what Basilard was thinking. “She’s still a student and is busy completing coursework and sending it to her professors back home.”

  Hm, that wasn’t an outright dismissal of the idea of her researching the blight, but Starcrest did seem to be leaning in that direction. Perhaps it would be better to bring up the trade situation first.

  Because of the blight, my people worry that they won’t have adequate food stores for the winter, Basilard signed. One of our chiefs proposes trade with Turgonia.