“That you may not know what the word fine means,” Mahliki said. “Understandable if Turgonian isn’t your first language. I also have trouble with some of the subtleties. Especially when discussing war, battle, violence, fighting, sparring, and various other terms related to combat. Did you know Turgonians have over a hundred words to describe the way a sword can be used to injure or kill someone?”
Ashara hissed in pain—or maybe exasperation at the conversation. She opened the door, slipped out again, and slammed it shut behind her. Basilard stood, his first-aid kit in hand, too late to put it to use.
“Did I say something wrong?” Mahliki asked. “I was trying to be friendly.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that with Kendorians,” Maldynado said. “I’ll chat with her later. Show her my charm. See if I can melt her frosty demeanor. I’m good at melting women.”
“Did you know you have snot melted all over your shirt?”
“Yes. That’s your fault, I believe. But my charisma is so great that I can still win our frosty new friend over to our side. You’ll see. Just look at Yara. She hated me when we first met. And now we’re inseparable.”
“You’re separated right now.”
“Well, yes, but that’s your father’s fault. Ah, what was my point?”
“I was wondering that myself.”
Basilard poked his head out the door in time to see Ashara clamber around the back corner of the vehicle and pull herself into the cargo bed. She wasn’t moving as lithely as she had been earlier. He thought of following her, offering to bandage her wounds, but he didn’t want to irritate her further or make assumptions. Maybe she had her own first-aid kit and did not need help. Or maybe she had a way of healing herself. He recalled his suspicion that she might have training in the mental sciences. It was rare to find someone skilled with magic as well as combat. The Nurians had their “warrior mages,” but few people had the aptitude or time and discipline to master it all. Basilard was starting to suspect that their Kendorian traveling companion was far more than some random colleague Shukura had found wandering the city.
Another clank and tink sounded, another part falling off. Jomrik sighed dramatically. Basilard wondered if the lorry would make it out of the predators’ range and how they would fight the next battle if it didn’t.
Chapter 5
“Hold that there. No, there,” came Jomrik’s voice, drifting out from underneath the lorry. He cursed a few times, growled in frustration, then cursed again. “Do you know anything about vehicles at all?”
“Not a thing,” Maldynado said. He, too, lay beneath the lorry in the fading daylight, his legs sticking out. “I just said I’d hold your tools if you needed me to. I thought I was being quite generous. You wouldn’t find many warrior-caste men willing to hold greasy, grimy things. We use these hands to wave condescendingly at peasants, you know.”
Jomrik growled again.
“I thought you were disowned, Maldynado,” Mahliki said from the spot she had chosen around the campfire, spreading her tools and vials around her. She flipped on a lantern to make up for the darkening sky.
“Yes, but by working for your father, I’ve regained some of my former stature.”
“Ah. What is it you do for him, again?”
“At the moment, I’m holding greasy tools.”
Ashara snorted. She stood to the side of the lorry and the fire, her back against a tree trunk as she watched both ends of the valley where they were camped. The highway ran west to east in this area, and a trail headed off to the north, cutting through the hills. Basilard had mentioned that it would eventually lead into his country, if they followed it. Ashara wished they were already twenty miles up it instead of still being so close to the highway. Before, the wide road had seemed safe. She now saw it as an easy route for predators as it cut through the thick vegetation hugging the ground to either side of it.
She believed they had driven about twenty miles before smoke had started rising from the lorry’s engine and the corporal had declared it in need of repairs before it could travel on, if it could travel on. But it was hard to judge mileage while riding in the strange conveyance. Back home, people rode in wagons pulled by giant lizards, but that was not quite the same.
A twinge of pain came from Ashara’s abdomen each time she inhaled deeply, and she had to keep reminding herself not to. With the shadows deepening, hiding her from the others, she risked closing her eyes and drawing energy from the tree at her back and the earth beneath her feet to help her body with healing. She did not take so much that the plants around her would be stunted, but a little bit from the tree, from that bush to her side, and from the moss carpeting the ground at her feet. She wasn’t a true healer and could not help others in this manner, but she could accelerate her own recovery. Right after the battle, she had applied her salve to the cuts around her waist. That had done more than her meager talents ever would.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the day had been inordinately taxing. She wondered if the Turgonians would make something more appealing than ration bars. A hearty meal sounded wonderful, even if it meant enduring questions from the others. A true spy would probably get close and try to glean information, but the idea made her stomach churn, especially after Basilard had helped her that day. She did not know if she could have escaped that grimbal on her own. He had risked his own life to pull her away. She couldn’t allow that to change anything, but she resolved to thank him whenever he showed up again.
After they had chosen this stopping point, which lay near another Mangdorian border yurt, this one also empty, Basilard had grabbed a rifle and jogged into the brush after signaling something to Maldynado. Since he had headed back in the direction they had come from, Ashara guessed he wanted to see if they were being followed. She wanted to know that too. The grimbals were troublesome enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was out here, someone even more dangerous.
Still connected to the tree and the forest around it, Ashara sensed someone approaching before she heard or saw anything. She stepped away from the trunk, nocking an arrowing and facing the brush behind her before she realized it was Basilard.
Three knocks came from the shadows. She lowered her bow. Even if she hadn’t sensed that it was Basilard, she would have assumed a grimbal would not warn her before approaching.
Basilard walked out of the gloom, his hands raised. Only when she nodded, signaling she saw him, did he lower them. It must be irritating to not be able to call out and warn a comrade of one’s approach.
Ashara noticed tufts of grass and leaves sticking out of his grip. In the darkness, she could not tell more than that. Curious, she followed him to the campfire where the crackling logs and Mahliki’s lamp provided more illumination. She was able to make out his hand signs, though it would take more time before she could understand them fully.
“What’s that?” Mahliki asked, pouring a couple of drops of a dark liquid into a vial. She must be making a few more alchemical concoctions for defense.
Once again, Ashara was tempted to ask her about her background. If she had access to the mental sciences, that might explain why she had been sent along, even though she was so young. Also, someone who made potions was naturally of interest to her.
Basilard laid a collection of what turned out to be leaves, herbs, and tubers on a flat rock. He picked up a heretofore-ignored skillet, set it in the coals, and pointed at what he had foraged.
“If that’s dinner, I hope it’s not all you’ve got,” Mahliki said. “I’ve seen Maldynado pick more food than that out of his teeth after a meal.”
“Herbs and spices,” Ashara said. “Thyme, delfenara, wild garlic, and white mountain potatoes, I believe.”
Basilard nodded to her, not noticeably surprised by her ability to identify the plants in the dim lighting. Ashara wondered what Shukura had told them about her. Surely not that she had been trained as a night stalker. Thanks to the connotations of assassin that it carried,
the term was enough to bring fear to the souls of her own people. She doubted the Turgonians would think more fondly of the occupation, nor could she imagine Basilard approving of an assassin in their midst.
“Potatoes?” Mahliki lowered her vial and peered at the small tubers on the rock.
“That’s just the name. They’re not meant to be substantial. They have the texture of potatoes, but they’re more flavorful. You can slice them up and put them in a soup.”
Basilard signed a few words. I make, was all Ashara understood.
“He’s going to make a sauce,” Mahliki said, playing translator.
Basilard nodded, smiling slightly, though his blue eyes were grave as he washed and cut his ingredients, and he glanced often toward their surroundings. Whatever he had expected on this trip, grimbals were not it.
When he walked to the lorry, from which bangs, growls, and grunts continued to sound, Ashara followed him. This was her chance to thank him. She waited until after he rummaged in the cargo bed and hopped out holding ingredient pouches and salted cuts of meat. He saw her and paused, tilting his head to the side.
“Basilard,” Ashara said, then stopped, not sure what else to say. She was not good at thanking people for their help. She didn’t know why, other than it seemed a vulnerability, admitting that help had been required. She preferred to handle everything herself and always felt resentful when she needed help. Better to struggle through and find a way on her own. But that hadn’t been a possibility this afternoon.
Basilard faced her, waiting. A couple of lanterns burned on the ground beside the lorry, the illumination for the men working underneath. They allowed her to see the contours of his face. As seemed usual for him, his expression was calm, patient. Maybe slightly curious. Ashara’s first impression of him had been one of fierceness, maybe even cruelty, because of all of the scars, including one that had likely almost taken his eye out as it slashed across his nose and along his cheek. But she had found the notion of a cruel Mangdorian so startling that she had looked closer, watching his eyes for clues and his mouth, as well, which tended to be expressive, even if he couldn’t use it for speech. Perhaps it was a diplomacy tactic, but he always seemed nonjudgmental and friendly.
“I appreciate your help today,” Ashara said, her voice gruffer than she intended. And less full of gratitude. She sighed at herself, wondering again why Shukura had thought she could do anything here. A real spy would be winning their trust, not regaling them with standoffishness.
Basilard inclined his head.
She thought about trying again, but was afraid further attempts to enunciate her thoughts would only come out as awkward. “You cook?” she said instead, pointing at the meat.
Another nod.
“He better cook,” Maldynado said from under the lorry. “His meals are the only reason I go camping with him.”
“Camping?” Jomrik grumbled—everything he said seemed to come out in a grumble, a growl, or a snarl. “It’s not camping if your vehicle gets mutilated by monsters.”
“No? What would you call it?”
“Torment,” Jomrik sighed. “I’m trying hard to get a promotion, but how is that going to happen if I come back with a mangled lorry? The first sergeant is going to chew my butt into a little wad and spit it into the lake.”
“An attractive image,” Maldynado said. “But don’t worry. Basilard’s meal will make you feel better. That’s why we keep him around. The president’s right nut knows he cheats horribly at Tiles, so I certainly don’t spend time with him because it’s healthy for my purse.”
“Nut?” Ashara mouthed, wondering if she was translating the expression correctly.
Basilard lifted his eyes heavenward, shook his head, and walked toward the fire. He glanced back, seemingly inviting her to come along, or at least to leave the men under the lorry.
Ashara hesitated, thinking she should return to standing watch from the tree. But shouldn’t she be spending more time talking to these people? Figuring out if Mahliki could indeed do anything against the blight? Ashara had to assume her own people might be behind it, or at least that they intended to take advantage of something natural that was happening. She didn’t know why, but it had never been her place to ask. Shukura would not have told her, regardless.
Mahliki rose from her spot by the campfire and jogged to the lorry, hopping in the cab. Thuds sounded, trunk lids being lifted and closed.
Ashara walked to the fire and crouched, watching Basilard slice the meat into slender fillets and rub them with the garlic and thyme. He dropped a ball of tallow or other grease into the pan to heat.
“I know most Mangdorians can forage and find food, but I haven’t heard of many that are accomplished chefs,” Ashara said.
His expression turned wry, and he flicked his fingers, the gesture probably meaning something akin to, You may want to try my meal before giving me that title.
“I’m a little surprised you’d bother to forage. With your scars and your competence with weapons, I took you for being fairly Turgonianized.” Ashara caught herself waving toward his scars and weapons before realizing her comment might be considered condescending. Maybe she would be better served by staying in the back of the lorry and not talking to anyone. She could sneak around and listen to other people’s conversations to gain the information Shukura wanted.
Basilard shook his head, his mouth flattening wryly. He laid the cuts of meat in the oil, which gurgled and spattered, the scent of browning pork filling the air. He gazed past the skillet and into the flames.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Ashara said, not that what she thought would matter to him. “Kendorians aren’t pacifists.” A statement of the obvious.
When Basilard didn’t respond, she knelt back, intending to leave him alone. She seemed to be making him uncomfortable.
But he lifted a hand, palm out. He pointed to her waist, then raised his eyebrows.
“You’re either inquiring after my injuries or you want me to take my shirt off,” Ashara said. It was an attempt at humor—and a misdirection, because she did not want to admit that she could draw power from the forest to heal herself. That was a night stalker trick.
He blinked and shook his head, apparently believing she had genuinely been confused as to his intentions. Before she could say it was all right, leaves crunched behind her. Maldynado was ambling over, his garish turkey-shaped hat hugging his head. Basilard signed something to him.
“You need translation services, do you?” Maldynado asked. He eyed Ashara, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “You were right. Basilard would like to see you naked.”
Basilard managed to look mortified at the same time as he glared at Maldynado and hurled a rock.
“Ouch, Bas,” Maldynado said, not turning quickly enough to avoid the projectile. The stone bounced off his hip. He rubbed it as he met Ashara’s eyes again. “Bas doesn’t like it when I add flair to my translations. He used to have a real translator, and I think he’s lamenting that he drove her off with an ill-timed marriage proposal.”
If possible, Basilard’s expression grew more mortified. Even in the poor light of the fire, the red flush to his cheeks was apparent.
Basilard signed to Maldynado, his gestures brusque. She got something about, You’re the one…
“I simply mentioned that summer weddings were lovely. I didn’t realize you hadn’t lip tussled with her yet. That’s how you first judge if a woman’s romantically interested in you, right, Ashara?”
“Lip tussling?” she asked, paying more attention to Basilard than Maldynado. Even if she did not know him well, she felt sympathetic to his mortification. She should have changed the topic, but found herself curious and wanted the whole story.
“That’s right. If she tussles back with you, she likes you, or she’s at least attracted to you. Liking and attraction aren’t really the same thing, but it’s a start. If she flings her arms around you and tries to launch her tongue down your throat, then that’s when you kno
w you’ve got a good thing.”
Basilard dropped his face into his hand.
“You’ve got a talent for words,” Ashara told Maldynado, even if she really shouldn’t be judging, given her own fumbling tongue. “Might try your hand at writing songs for the bards.”
“You think so?” Maldynado removed his hat, brushed dirt off some of the gleaming metal disks, and sat on a rock.
Ashara worried he was about to regale her with his experiences with bards and songs, but he glanced at Basilard and chose a more sober topic.
“He’s Turgonianized—and speaking of talents for words, I don’t think that is one—because some rich lout had him and a bunch of others enslaved and stolen from his homeland. This lout made the slaves fight for their lives in illegal pit fights. So they fought, or they were killed. Hard to be a pacifist in that situation. An alive pacifist. But his people didn’t see things from his point of view. Usually when we meet some of them, they like to tell Bas about how he’s going to Hell.”
His cheeks still red, Basilard turned the meat with a knife, then stood up. He signed a quick string of words, none of which Ashara caught, then strode into the darkness.
“Apparently, he didn’t ask me to translate for him so I could share his history. Or details of failed marriage proposals.”
“Imagine that,” Ashara murmured, watching Basilard’s back until it disappeared. He’d grabbed one of the rifles on the way, so he probably meant to check for trouble. Even though she suspected he didn’t want them to continue to discuss him while he was gone, the new revelations left her curious about something that didn’t make sense. “If his people have condemned him, why did they make him their diplomatic envoy?”
“Nobody else wanted to deal with us militant Turgonians.”
Ashara snorted and waited for the real reason. But Maldynado merely turned his palm up, spreading his hand.
“That’s the truth, or what he told me. And I believe him, except when we’re playing dice or Tiles. I don’t think he knew what else to do with himself after he’d seen to it that we Turgonians would make some laws to ensure slavery wasn’t condoned or overlooked any more. He has a daughter back in his country who he wants to see more of, but his kin don’t want him around. I think he figured the ambassador job might give him a reason to pass through his village now and then.”
Diplomats and Fugitives Page 9
