Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Interesting,” Mahliki said.

  Perhaps he intends to signal my people from mountaintops, Basilard signed. They had worked together often enough that she could understand his hand language.

  Maybe because Maldynado was drawing close enough to hear, Mahliki responded in kind. If nothing else, any highway bandits we encounter should shoot at him instead of us.

  “Now that’s a fungus,” one of the soldiers whispered, pointing to Maldynado’s hat.

  “Some kind of abnormal growth, anyway.”

  “The hat or his head?”

  “Can I say both?”

  “I would.”

  Basilard wasn’t sure if Maldynado heard the commentary as he strolled up, a rifle and a rucksack slung across his back, but he thumped Basilard on the shoulder amiably.

  “Morning, Bas. Lady Mahliki.” He removed his hat and bowed to her. The metallic disks jangled like wind chimes.

  Basilard made a note not to do any sneaking through the forest with Maldynado along.

  “Just Mahliki, please. Father says the warrior-caste titles are anachronisms now, and I would have a hard time thinking of myself as a lady, even if they weren’t.” Her nose wrinkled. “Ladies are old.”

  She hopped into the cargo bed, inspecting the placement of her trunks and pushing a few things around, even though the soldier up there offered to do anything she needed done.

  “She’s just going to have to get used to that,” Maldynado said, adjusting his hat so that it tilted to one side.

  Having a title? Basilard signed.

  “Yup. Doesn’t matter what her father says. Nobody is going to dare call one of Starcrest’s daughters anything except a lady.” Maldynado shrugged. “Nothing wrong with being a lord or a lady. I must say I miss it.”

  Basilard knew Maldynado had been disowned by his warrior-caste parents, but he chose to misinterpret the words.

  Being a lady?

  “A lord.” Maldynado squinted at him.

  You’re sure? I saw you carrying your purse around the other day.

  “I’ve told you, Bas. That’s a man bag. It’s for storing manly things.”

  Like a change of hats?

  “A change of manly hats, yes.” Maldynado strolled toward the cab. “How’s that furnace looking, fellows? We have enough fuel? I saw the load in the back, and I’d hate to have to push this lorry up the highway into the mountains.”

  A gruff-sounding soldier told him to get in and shut up. Basilard could see why Maldynado missed being a lord.

  “Here’s your crate from the kitchen, Mister Basilard,” one of two soldiers walking up with it said. Basilard watched with some bemusement as they loaded the bulky crate. They could snare small game and forage along the way if necessary. He wasn’t sure why they needed so much.

  Thank you, he signed after they had found a place for the supplies. Perhaps someone had included rice flour and spices. He did enjoy cooking and might make a few meals along the way, especially if they caught up with Elwa and convinced her to join them. Because the presidential manor had a staff of chefs and meals were always on hand, he’d never had a chance to cook for her.

  “You’re ready to go, sir,” the last soldier said, hopping out after Mahliki. He secured the flap at the back of the bed. “Your driver, Corporal Jomrik, is already in the cab, threatening to toss Maldynado into the furnace.”

  I like him already, Basilard signed.

  Alas, the soldier could not understand him and merely waved a farewell.

  “Don’t we need to wait for someone else?” Mahliki asked. “I heard someone mention a Kendorian.”

  I’m in a hurry, Basilard signed, turning toward the cab. If she’s not here, we’ll have to leave without her.

  “I’m here,” an accented voice spoke from the wall of the vehicle house.

  Basilard picked her out of the shadows immediately, but he frowned inwardly, annoyed that he hadn’t heard or otherwise sensed her approach. True, he had been speaking with the others, and the noise from the lorry being loaded would have drowned out lesser sounds, but he should have noticed her, nonetheless. He looked forward to returning to the wilderness, where he would be in his natural environment.

  “Hello,” Mahliki said, raising her right palm in a Kendorian greeting gesture. “I’m Mahliki.”

  The traditional return gesture was for the other person to touch the raised palm with her own, so both people could see and feel that the other wasn’t holding a weapon. The woman wore a quiver and had an unstrung bow tied to her back, along with a short sword in a scabbard at her belt, but her hands were empty.

  “Ashara,” she said, not stepping forward or lifting her arm.

  Mahliki lowered her hand, as she said, “Welcome,” without giving any indication that the standoffishness bothered her.

  “I’m ready to go,” the woman—Ashara—said.

  As she strode out of the shadows, the running lamp of the lorry cast light on frizzy red-blonde hair pulled back in a tail and a lean build. She was one of the only people around who was shorter than Basilard. Her pack appeared heavy, but she made the three-foot jump into the cab easily, without using her hands. A couple of fir needles stuck out of her hair in the back, and Basilard wondered if she had come from outside of the city somewhere.

  An, “Oof,” followed by the tinkle of metallic disks came from inside the cab.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Ashara asked.

  “Handsome, charming, and roguishly appealing?” Maldynado suggested.

  “No, that’s not it.”

  Mahliki snorted. “This is going to be an interesting trip.”

  Basilard imagined his expression was on the bleak side as he watched her climb into the cab. He didn’t want interesting. He wanted uneventful.

  Chapter 4

  Ashara did not know what to make of the Turgonian scientist. She hardly looked old enough to be enrolled as a university student, so Ashara could not imagine she had much expertise in any field. She had introduced herself as Mahliki, a name that did not sound even vaguely Turgonian, but the men all called her “my lady,” implying she came from a warrior-caste family. Ashara hoped that meant the girl did not have any experience with the mental sciences. It would be much easier to fiddle with the results of her experiments if that were the case.

  Perhaps Ashara could have asked for more personal information, but then she might have been expected to share some in exchange. She had no desire to do that. Shukura might believe her previous profession would be useful in this, but the night stalkers weren’t spies; they were trackers and fighters, assassins when necessary. She knew how to use the wilderness to find people and then kill them if they were a threat to Kendor. She didn’t know how to make people trust her—or how to keep them from figuring out what she was. All she could hope was that none of these people were that percipient.

  In addition to Mahliki, her other traveling companions were named Maldynado, Corporal Jomrik, and Basilard, the latter being every bit as odd and unlikely as the scientist. He appeared old enough for the position of ambassador, somewhere in his mid-thirties, but he had battle scars all over his face, shaven head, and hands. Considering Mangdorians were pacifists, that in itself was perplexing. He also could not speak and had devised some kind of gesture-based language to communicate with the others. After catching a few exchanges, Ashara recognized some of the signs as belonging to the Mangdorian hunting code, but it had evolved far beyond those origins, and she could only understand part of what he said. Not that she was trying hard to learn.

  Currently, Ashara sat wedged between two crates in the back of the lorry, doing her best to avoid her traveling mates. She had no wish to get attached to them. This mission would be hard enough without feelings of camaraderie confusing her duty further. The one named Maldynado was hard to avoid as every time they stopped, he ambled over wearing his ridiculous hat and tried to engage her in conversation. She shouldn’t have spoken to them on the morning of their departure; perhaps
she could have pretended she didn’t speak the language. In retrospect, that would have been a wonderful way to play the role of spy. Alas, it hadn’t occurred to her until they were underway.

  Midway through the second day, the lorry halted, and Ashara lifted the flap in the bed to peek out. Mahliki hopped out of the cab with a huge satchel clanking against her hip. After a brief disappearance behind some bushes, she strode toward a stand of oaks. The trees looked to be no more than twenty years old, new growth interspersed with decomposing stumps. From the lorry, Ashara did not see any sign of tree disease, but she climbed out, knowing she needed to keep an eye on the young scientist—or whatever she was.

  Unfortunately, the men climbed out of the cab too. They stayed nearby, walking around and talking. Ashara tried to follow Mahliki without being noticed, but it was hard to stealthily cross a highway with the afternoon sun stealing all of the shadows.

  “Hello, Ashara,” Maldynado called after her.

  She ignored him. She caught up with Mahliki at the base of one of the oaks. She had dropped her pack and was eyeing the bark with a small knife in hand.

  Ashara stopped several paces back, hoping not to attract attention. That was probably a vain hope after Maldynado’s loud greeting, but Mahliki did seem to be absorbed with what she was doing. Ashara rested her palm on a nearby oak, a casual enough gesture that anyone observing her should not think anything of it. She let her eyelids droop and reached out with her senses, using skills her mother had taught her as a girl and that had been further enhanced during her training as a tracker. She wanted to ensure that what she saw with her eyes matched what was truly going on in the young forest. She examined the oak beneath her fingers, then stretched her senses outward, through the roots and into the surrounding trees. Here and there, a few traces of fungal growths afflicted some of the oaks, but it was nothing uniform that could be called a blight, nor was it anything outside of the norm. The tree Mahliki was examining was perfectly healthy. With some puzzlement, Ashara watched her shave off a couple of bark samples and use a coring device to extract a sliver of wood from the trunk.

  Ashara dropped her hand, letting her connection with the woods fade. She immediately grew aware of another presence and turned to face Basilard. It disturbed her that he had approached without her hearing him, even if practicing the mental sciences required concentration and it was understandable if one’s attention was less reliable than usual.

  He gazed curiously at her with sky-blue eyes. He was a Mangdorian, she reminded herself, the battle scars notwithstanding. He would have learned to move silently through the forest as a youth, since all of the men in the culture were taught to hunt.

  Basilard lifted his hands, as if he wanted to ask her something, but his lips twisted and he waved to catch Mahliki’s attention instead. When he signed a few words to her, Ashara watched. It wouldn’t hurt to learn to understand him, if only so she might gain some intelligence later on, when he signed to his comrades without realizing she knew his code.

  “No, not long,” Mahliki said. “I know we’re not in Mangdoria yet. Just wanted to pick up a couple of samples on the way. And to use the sylvan lavatory. As much as I’m impressed by the way you men can water the bushes out the door while we’re in motion, I’m not that talented.”

  Basilard glanced at Ashara, a hint of pink flushing his cheeks. He quickly signed something else.

  “Basilard says, ‘Thank you for coming along, Ashara. Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?’ He also asks that I not mention the peripatetic peeing to my father, especially the part where Maldynado and Jomrik don’t always remember to tell me to turn my back. Though maybe that message was for me and not for you. I’m not a practiced translator.”

  Basilard dropped his face into his hand.

  Ashara told herself to ignore the conversation—she didn’t want to be drawn into casually chatting with these people—but her humor was piqued and she couldn’t resist asking, “You have a sign for peripatetic?” Ashara had come across the word in a textbook talking about traveling business owners, or she wouldn’t have known it at all. She wasn’t quite sure about using it in relation to urination, but what did she know? Maybe it was part of a Turgonian saying.

  Basilard shook his head and signed something else.

  “He’s lost his original translator,” Mahliki explained, “and laments that Maldynado and I like to augment his words.” She winked and took a core sample from another tree.

  Ashara caught herself tempted to ask what had happened to the translator and scowled at herself. She was not going to learn about these people’s personal lives. Not trusting herself, she walked away. She caught a faintly wounded expression on Basilard’s face and a twinge of guilt prodded her. She had ignored his question. She pushed the feeling aside. She wasn’t out here to make friends.

  She spotted a milshiar plant carpeting the base of a boulder and took the opportunity to slice off a few leaves. If she crushed the dried leaves using her mortar and pestle, they could be a useful component in her healing salves. She had brought a jar of salve with her, along with some of her potions, but if these people figured out she was here to spy, she might need more than she had.

  Near the milshiar, she spotted a salmonberry bush and plucked a few berries. Might as well gather food and herbs while she waited. She kept her eyes open and glanced back a few times to make sure Mahliki was still working. More than once, she caught Basilard gazing in her direction. Despite the scars, he had a pleasant face and didn’t seem the judgmental sort, but she wasn’t sure she wanted him paying that much attention to her. Those who talked little tended to observe much. She didn’t want to be observed.

  “Ready,” Mahliki called.

  Ashara took her gathered leaves and berries and headed back to the highway. Before she reached it, an uneasy feeling came over her, one of being watched. This time, it wasn’t Basilard. He, Mahliki, and the others were all ahead of her. The feeling of someone watching came from behind. She gazed back into the trees, searching for movement or something out of the ordinary, but did not see anything. She almost reached out to touch a tree again, wanting to use the eyes of the forest instead of relying on her own, but the group was waiting on her. Basilard and Maldynado were both looking in her direction. She doubted the Turgonians would recognize magic, as they would call it, being used, but she couldn’t make assumptions about Basilard. Mangdorians had priests and shamans, not unlike the Kendorians had.

  “Not enough leaves in your hair?” Maldynado asked.

  “What?” Ashara started to lift a hand to her head, but she was using both of them to cup her berries and herbs—that would teach her to leave the lorry without her gathering pouch. Besides, she didn’t care about her hair. It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress these men with her looks.

  “There are only two twigs sticking out of it,” Maldynado said. “I thought you might be thinking of going back for more.” He nodded toward the forest in the direction she had been looking.

  Basilard elbowed him, then gestured to Ashara. She had no idea what he said. Ignore him, she hoped.

  “What am I doing out here?” she muttered to herself in Kendorian.

  Careful not to mash her berries, she climbed back into the bed, finding her spot where none of them could see her. The lorry soon rolled into motion again, the steam engine chugging as it powered the vehicle up a slope. After Ashara put away her gathered goods, she pulled a leather thong out from under her shirt. A silver locket hung from the end, and she opened it to admire the tiny portrait of her children. This was what she was doing out here. She couldn’t forget it.

  • • • • •

  At the end of two days, Basilard knew far more than he had ever wanted to know about the infamous macadamia blight of the Kyattese Islands. But he knew nothing about their Kendorian comrade, or why Maldynado was still wearing the turkey hat. He clunked his head on the roof of the cab every other time he stood up, causing the small brim to push down to the
bottoms of his ears. Each time it happened, their driver, Corporal Jomrik, who had informed them he was personally responsible for the army lorry, glowered back at Maldynado, as if his hard head might be damaging the vehicle. Maldynado ignored him. The driver muttered to himself and occasionally reached up to bump his knuckles against a pair of dried duck feet dangling above his seat. Basilard could only assume it was some Turgonian superstition he hadn’t heard of before.

  Someone must have told Jomrik that the mission would not be without peril, for he kept his rifle balanced across his lap as he drove. It hadn’t been out of his reach for eating, sleeping, or peeing, even though, since leaving the lowlands, they hadn’t seen many others on the highway. Now and then, lorries laden with logs had trundled past, heading toward the city, and they had crossed a Kendorian trader sitting on a wagon pulled by two stocky lizards. Basilard had been watching the road every moment of the trip, hoping to spot Elwa. He feared she and the courier must have chosen the back trails instead of traveling along the highway. During the summer, the snow pack was high enough that sticking to the pass wasn’t as imperative.

  “Your people have a border post up here somewhere, don’t they, Ambassador?” Corporal Jomrik asked in a thick drawl that marked him as from a rural part of the republic. “I haven’t been over the pass before. Not much out this way, I’ve heard.”

  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.