She grimaced at the thought of shooting more people, especially more of her people, but she didn’t know what the next few days would bring. Despite being exhausted, she had lain awake for much of the night, dwelling on what she should do. Not only was this not her fight, but by siding with the Mangdorians and Turgonians, she was siding against her people. Whether she agreed with creating or taking advantage of a blight or not, who was she to decide to stop a Kendorian invasion? More than once, she had wondered if she should simply go home. Wherever that was. She couldn’t go back to the Turognian capital where a word from Shukura could even see her extradited back to Kendor. Further—she gritted her teeth—he had said that her children might not be safe if she failed him.
“I’m doing what?” Maldynado asked from his blanket.
“Pretending you’re good friends with the president and that you’re authorized to deliver important messages on his behalf,” Amaranthe said.
“How is that pretending? He’s living and working in a building named after me. We’re definitely good friends.”
“I see. And the part about delivering important messages?”
“I’ve been sent to the caterer on his behalf no less than three times. The last one was for that big shindig with all of the ministers. A lesser man wouldn’t have been trusted with delivering the dinner order.”
“We want to convince those Kendorians that Turgonia is bringing the military over to deal with them, because Turgonia has decided it wants Mangdoria’s ore for itself.”
“But that hasn’t happened, right?” Maldynado asked. “You didn’t brief us much when you showed up. You just accused me of crashing lorries.”
“No, it hasn’t happened,” Amaranthe said, ignoring the rest. “Basilard is hoping to use trickery to get those people out of his homeland until he can check with his chiefs and figure out what kind of long-term solution might be reached. Maybe the Mangdorians will want to try to make a deal with Turgonia.”
“Why not suggest that now?” Jomrik asked. He had stowed his blanket, cleaned his rifle, and appeared ready for the road. “That an alliance has been made and that we’re going to protect Mangdoria?”
“The empire has never been known for protecting its neighbors,” Amaranthe said. “Yes, Starcrest is different from the emperors of the past, but I doubt the Kendorians have seen any proof of that yet. It’s too early. They’re going to want to think the worst of Turgonia rather than the best. I think they’ll be more likely to believe that we’re after the ore here rather than that we care about the people.”
Basilard, who was sitting on a stump and listening to them talk, smiled ruefully and nodded.
“Am I going to get in trouble for pretending the president said something that he didn’t?” Maldynado pushed aside his blanket, tucked his shirt in, and grabbed his hat, a new one this morning. It was green with small faux antlers sticking up from the top.
“Thought you were good friends with him,” Jomrik said.
“That was before I started lying about him to an enemy nation.”
“Maybe Maldynado isn’t the best person for this,” Mahliki said.
“Are you volunteering?” Amaranthe asked.
“Well.” Mahliki frowned down at a notebook in her hands. She had woken early, lit a lantern, and been writing in it while she observed her glass dishes. “I don’t think Father would disown me for lying. There’s something in the parent handbook about that not being allowed.”
“Really?” Maldynado asked. “My old man must not have read that book. I didn’t even lie. He just disowned me for differences in opinions.”
“Will the Kendorians listen to a girl?” Jomrik asked. When Mahliki arched her eyebrows at him, he rushed to add, “Not that we don’t like girls back home. But has Turgonia ever sent a girl—a woman—to negotiate on its behalf?”
“Perhaps in matters related to money or trade,” Amaranthe said, then her expression grew wistful. “Books would know.”
“But women can join the military in Kendor, can’t they?” Mahliki looked toward Ashara. “And come into positions of political power? Haven’t there been a few female heads in their triumvirate?”
Ashara kept her focus on crafting her arrows. The others were far enough away from her that she didn’t feel compelled to join the conversation, and she didn’t know how she felt about the plan they had come up with. Bluffing hundreds of her people? It might be better than sending their assassin—Ashara hadn’t seen Sicarius yet this morning, but she sensed that he was around, keeping an eye on the perimeter—but would it work? Basilard might get himself killed. Tladik, or whoever was leading her people, clearly did not mind removing a few Mangdorians along their route.
“I believe that’s true,” Amaranthe said, “but Turgonia has always been male dominated, at least when it comes to war and politics. The Kendorians might find a female representative difficult to believe.”
Don’t you want to focus on the blight, Mahliki? Basilard pointed at her notebook.
“Very much so,” Mahliki said. “I just don’t want anyone getting in trouble. Even Maldynado. My father is a reasonable man, but he wouldn’t like someone making claims on his behalf.”
“If Maldynado’s willing, we’ll have to risk it.” Amaranthe smiled. “Maybe your father will never hear about it.”
“Amaranthe adheres to the do-something-reckless-first-and-then-ask-if-it-was-a-good-idea-later philosophy,” Maldynado said. “I hold her jacket while she does them. That’s usually how I end up getting blamed when things go wrong. Or crash. Apparently, I look shiftier than she does.”
Just like more of a troublemaker, Basilard signed.
“Might I point out that this is Basilard’s plan,” Amaranthe said. “Sicarius and I have only agreed to help. Actually, Sicarius hasn’t commented on it yet. I’ve agreed to help.”
“And you’ve agreed me to help?” Maldynado asked.
“You came to mind since you’re tall, strong, broad, and clearly Turgonian. You look like the epitome of the warrior-caste scion, exactly what the Kendorians should expect from a representative for the president.”
“Aren’t warrior-caste scions usually more serious?” Jomrik asked.
“I can be serious when necessary,” Maldynado said.
Jomrik eyed him—and his antlers—skeptically.
“You don’t by chance have a more serious hat along, do you?” Amaranthe nodded at his head.
“This is my serious hat. It’s designed to help me blend into the wilderness, something that might be important if we get attacked again.”
“Maybe you can go hatless. Display your flowing locks. If the Kendorians have a female leader, she might be impressed by a handsome man with lush curls.”
“Talk about my lushness like that, and I’ll tell Yara you’re trying to steal me away.”
Since the planning phase of the conversation seemed to be over, Ashara turned her back to the others again, so she could craft a few more arrows before they left. She did not know what role she would be expected to play in this bluffing game, but she did not look forward to being seen by her people. Perhaps she could remain in the distance as a scout. The far distance.
“Ashara?” a woman asked softly from behind her.
Expecting Mahliki to want to talk about solving the blight again, Ashara waved for the speaker to approach. Then she realized it was Amaranthe, not Mahliki, and that she was with Basilard.
For some reason, a twinge of nervousness afflicted her. She turned slowly to face them, though she continued to work on the arrow she was making. That would give her an excuse not to meet their eyes. She did not want them to sense the uncertainty bubbling inside of her and see it as deceit.
“Basilard would like to speak with you,” Amaranthe said, waving him forward. “He tells me that he has not been entirely pleased with Maldynado’s interpretations of his signs.”
Basilard’s wry smirk made Ashara relax, even if she wasn’t sure it should. His blue eyes were warm, no
t suspicious, and he nodded at her in a friendly way as he sat down in front of her. Amaranthe sat on a rock to the side, where she could see his hands but where she wouldn’t be in the way of the conversation.
Basilard made several sentences worth of signs before pausing and nodding for Amaranthe to translate. Between the brief lessons, her previous understanding of the hand code, and a lot of observation, Ashara could have gotten the gist of Basilard’s comments without a translator, but she didn’t say that. This gave her more time to think before responding, without her pauses seeming suspicious.
“He says, ‘Yesterday I found out where the Kendorians were going. Hundreds of them. They’re setting up mines in a canyon not far from here. They’ve had people there for a while. Those were the reinforcements we saw on the trail. I intend to talk with their leader and negotiate on my people’s behalf, see if I can find a way to convince them to leave without resorting to violence.’”
Ashara understood this from listening to their conversation, but she did not want to admit to eavesdropping. “Would your people resort to violence?” she asked. “I thought…” She shrugged. She shouldn’t assume.
“‘We cannot allow our homeland to be pillaged by foreigners,’” Amaranthe said firmly after Basilard signed the same thing. There had been a slight hesitation to his gestures, and his expression wasn’t quite so firm. “‘It would set a precedent from which we could never recover. In a generation or less, we might not have a homeland to call our own again. I intend to do something about that.’”
Ashara did not know what to say. She wanted to warn Basilard to be careful and to assume the Kendorians had come prepared to defend themselves. But would he find it odd if she offered that warning? They all knew she was a spy. Would they think she had some ulterior motive? That she was telling him not to go because she wanted her people to succeed and not have opposition?
In addition to not wanting to see Basilard hurt, she did not want to walk into the Kendorian camp herself. They might be even more likely to shoot her than they would be to shoot Basilard, especially if Tladik had shared who she was.
She stared down at her half-assembled arrow and rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t think I can go with you,” she said slowly, hating that it sounded cowardly. But as she had already been telling herself, this wasn’t her fight. To choose this battle was foolish, both for herself and for her children.
“Basilard agrees,” Amaranthe said, and Ashara realized she had missed his signs.
“What?”
“You were invited along to help research the blight.” Even though Amaranthe’s tone did not change, Basilard’s face had grown rather bland. Still, he did not sign anything accusatory as he continued. “He says, ‘It is not right to ask you to confront your own people.’”
Basilard’s expression changed, growing more troubled as he continued to sign.
“He says he regrets that you were in a position yesterday where you had to shoot Kendorians.”
“They were attacking me too,” Ashara said, her response almost a growl. If Tladik had explained who she was and that there might even be a reward for her death, then it didn’t surprise her. If he hadn’t, then it irked her that those people hadn’t hesitated to attack her. True, her pale hair did not automatically mean she was a Kendorian, and she had been traveling with Basilard’s party, but the utter lack of hesitation in that tomahawk man… It bothered her, knowing her people would kill their own kind for this mission.
“Nonetheless, you shouldn’t be put in a position where you might battle them. Not again, not if Basilard has any say in it.”
Basilard nodded firmly as Amaranthe gave the translation.
Even though Ashara did not know if she should believe everything he said—after all, he was a diplomat, and diplomats had their own agendas, the same as spies—she found that she wanted to do so. He seemed more honest than other political figures she had known.
“He is sending Mahliki on to the Mangdorian meeting place,” Amaranthe continued to translate. “And she needs someone to go with her who knows the woods and can find his people. They may not show themselves openly to strangers right now. Also, Mahliki has said that you may have some talent that could assist her in coming up with a cure for the blight.”
Mahliki had said that? Ashara struggled to keep a grimace off her face. She was certain she had denied having any abilities that would let her help. At least, she had been trying to deny it when the Kendorians had attacked.
“She may be overly optimistic about my abilities. I know about plants and trees, a little about their insides, but I doubt my understanding can be mixed with Turgonian science to create a solution. Usually, dealing with a blight means trying to contain it, at least where I’m from, or choosing to cultivate species that have resistance to it. That’s a long-term solution, not a short-term one, of course, since it takes years for fruit trees to start producing fruit, and decades for something like an oak to reach maturity.” Ashara shrugged, hoping they couldn’t tell that, even though she was telling the truth, she was underplaying her abilities. “But if you’re asking if I’ll go with Mahliki to help her find your people and get their input while you and your comrades go talk to my—to the Kendorians, then, yes. I can do that.”
Shukura wouldn’t like it, but he wasn’t here. Maybe he would never find out that Ashara had assisted with the blight instead of getting in the way. Or, if Mahliki couldn’t find a solution that didn’t require a practitioner’s help, then maybe Ashara would keep her mouth shut, say she lacked the ability to assist, and let her fail.
Ashara lifted her gaze to the leaves above Basilard’s head. Most were green and healthy, but she spotted an oak behind their camp with brown leaves. Wasn’t it a crime not to do something to help nature if she could do it? Her mother would have said so. What would her children say? Children she had only spoken to a couple of times in the last three years. What were they being told about their mother? That she was a criminal? A murderer? That she had poisoned their father? She closed her eyes. She just wanted to have them with her again, to ensure they grew up believing what she believed. To ensure they knew she wasn’t a horrible person.
She opened her eyes, eyes still turned toward those brown leaves. She wasn’t a horrible person, damn it.
“What did Shukura offer you?” Amaranthe asked.
Startled, Ashara turned toward her. Had Basilard signed that when Ashara wasn’t paying attention? Or was Amaranthe entering into the conversation with her own voice?
Basilard’s face was calm, his head tilted in inquiry. That didn’t answer Ashara’s question.
She looked at Amaranthe, expecting judgment or wariness. Was the question meant to suss out whether it was safe for them to send Mahliki with Ashara? Ashara wanted to resent the implication that it would be, but could she blame them all for wondering?
Amaranthe’s expression was no more judgmental than Basilard’s, and Ashara found herself wanting to tell them, wanting to confess everything. She wasn’t even sure why. Amaranthe was a stranger to her. And Basilard was… someone who had been a stranger a few days ago too. She didn’t know why his good opinion should matter. Because he had a child he couldn’t see, the same as she did?
“I only ask,” Amaranthe said, “because we may be able to offer an equal reward. Or equal assistance with your life or whatever it is that brought you to Turgonia, if that’s what he offered.”
“It’s less about what he offered, and more about what he threatened to take away.” Ashara wrapped her hand around her arrow shaft, clenching it tight.
Something to do with your children? Basilard signed.
Ashara flinched, then mentally kicked herself for doing so, knowing the gesture had given away far too much. “May I ask you something, Basilard?”
Basilard nodded solemnly.
“Are you allowed to see your daughter?”
He hesitated, then rocked his hand back and forth. With Amaranthe translating, he signed, It’s not forbid
den, but there must be supervision. This time, he looked away, his eyes pained as he gazed toward the lake behind Ashara. Because I have fought to stay alive—because I have killed in combat—some of my people believe I might be dangerous to my daughter. To children. To all of them, perhaps. As if I’m some crazed… He broke off, lowering his hands and shaking his head. It was made clear that my people would prefer if I not rejoin the community. The chief of my clan talked to other clan heads, and they decided being the Turgonian ambassador would be a good job for me. I could come visit, but then I would leave again, residing in Turgonia most of the time. My people wouldn’t need to worry about me being dangerous. Or, as is more likely the case, they wouldn’t have to deal with my presence making them uncomfortable.
Basilard took a deep breath and looked down at his scarred hands for a moment before continuing. I accepted, because I believe the alternative would have been them telling me to stay away forever. This way, I thought in time… In time, they would realize I was not a threat. And that I would prefer peaceful solutions to militant ones, whenever given the chance. If nothing else, as I get old and gray—he touched his shaven head and smiled quickly, though it seemed forced—they will surely cease to think of me as a threat. Old men are never threatening, after all. Perhaps, when my daughter is a woman, and has the freedom to make her own decisions, she will be interested in speaking with me, having a relationship with her old man. It is painful to me that I am not allowed to be a part of raising her, especially since my wife died years ago, in the same raid where I was captured. His expression turned bitter again. That must have been difficult, surviving when his wife had not.
Again, Ashara found herself empathizing. Wasn’t she alive today, when Elstark was dead? At least Basilard had not been accused of being his wife’s murderer.
It has crossed my mind, Basilard continued, to sneak into the village in the night and to steal her away. But I only recently had the freedom to leave Turgonia and think of that as an option. Perhaps, if I could have done so right away, in that first year or two, I might have, because it has always seemed cowardly of me to not try everything in my power to be a father to her. Even if I did not have a choice, I feel as if I abandoned her. He blinked his eyes a few times, pausing for Amaranthe to translate, or maybe just pausing because he needed time to recover.
Diplomats and Fugitives Page 19
