Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

  “I’m not sure if that negates the need to arm wrestle or not,” Maldynado said.

  Nor am I.

  • • • • •

  The Mangdorians were talking a lot and rapidly. Arguing.

  Wind scoured the top of the mountains, tugging at Ashara’s hair, and she was very aware of the cliff dropping away to her right. She stayed toward the left side of the trail, walking around boulders and loose rock with Mahliki picking a similarly careful route behind her. Two Mangdorians walked ahead of them, glancing over the edge often. The rest of the group was responsible for most of the arguing.

  “I understand a little of what they’re saying,” Ashara said over her shoulder, raising her voice to be heard above the wind. “More than I thought I would. More words are similar than I thought.”

  “I don’t suppose they’re talking about how nice it will be to lead us to their chiefs for a chat?” Mahliki said.

  “They don’t want us to see their sacred meeting place. I’m not even sure we’re going the right way. They’re hoping we trip and fall. One of them is saying that they could help make that happen. You might want to show them that note.”

  “Hm.” Mahliki stopped, resting her pack against a boulder. She lifted her hands and said, “Wait,” when one of the men moved forward, his spear ready to prod her again. “Let me tell you who sent us.” She signed in the hand code at the same time as she spoke. “Do you know Basilard? Your ambassador to Turgonia? Oh, what’s his real name?” she asked in a mutter. “Lalchek? Leyelchek?” She looked at the Mangdorians, her eyebrows rising in hope.

  They frowned at her.

  “Look, I’ll show you what we’re doing. We’re here to help.” She kept signing, but it did not seem to mean anything to the men.

  “Try using terms that are related to hunting,” Ashara suggested. “They would more likely be original signs for them, ones they would all know.”

  “It’s hard to talk about ambassadors and politics in hunting terms.” Mahliki slung her pack off her shoulders and untied the flap slowly, keeping an eye on the spear tips.

  Ashara thought she would pull out the note. Instead, she withdrew some of her samples, the dishes full of fuzzy gray growth. Ashara groaned, doubting that would mean anything to the men. But Mahliki laid them out on the rocky trail, the wind gusting and whipping her braid around. Then she launched into an explanation about the trees, the blight, and that the Turgonians had sent them to help. She signed at the same time as she spoke, but the men did not appear enlightened.

  Until one man’s eyes widened. He gripped his comrade’s arm, pointed at her, and spoke rapidly.

  For a moment, Ashara allowed herself to hope that he had gotten the gist and that there would be no more talk of helping women over cliffs, but the knot of men grew more agitated. They were almost yelling as they pointed at her with their spears and then pointed over the edge.

  “Uh,” Ashara said, “I think they believe you might be the source of the blight.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would I be telling them all about it, if I was?”

  “I’m not sure we were rescued by the brightest flowers on the elderberry bush. The sourest berries, maybe.” Ashara rubbed her fingers together, tempted to grab an arrow, but that would be the final snowflake that broke the branch. Remembering the two men who had been leading, she looked at them, wondering if either might be more reasonable.

  “Either of you know Basilard?” she asked. “Leyelchek?”

  One of the men met her gaze. The other was watching Mahliki, his gray eyes narrowed. In speculation? Anger? Concentration? It was hard to tell. Angered locusts, maybe he thought she was pretty.

  “She’s not married,” Ashara said, more out of desperation than anything else. “Maybe I can get her to come to dinner at your yurt.”

  Gray Eyes snorted and looked at her.

  With a start, Ashara realized he had understood. She had been speaking in Kendorian, less out of any thought that they might understand it and more because it was natural for her to default to that. Should she have tried that from the start?

  “What are you doing here?” the man asked, speaking in her tongue. His words were heavily accented, but she understood them, and that was all that mattered.

  “We’re working with the Mangdorian ambassador to Turgonia. Do you know him?”

  “Mayarjek was killed almost two years ago,” Gray Eyes said coolly. “By the Turgonian army commander, Hollowcrest. Apparently, he dared suggest the Turgonians should offer fewer trade taxes, since our people patrol the highway that they use and keep it free of predators.” Some of his coolness faded, changing to a grimace as he added, “Usually.” He looked Ashara up and down. “I understand the Kendorian ambassador stood nearby and watched as Mayarjek was stabbed in the chest with a knife.”

  Ashara swallowed. She had no knowledge of any of this and was surprised some random hunter would know the story. “That was a while ago. There’s a new ambassador now. And a new ruler over there. A new government. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Mayarjek was my father.”

  Oh. No wonder this man knew the history. “Does that preclude you knowing what’s going on over there now?” This probably wasn’t the time for sarcasm, but she wanted to get off this windy cliff and ensure Mahliki reached Basilard’s people unharmed. She’d said she would do that, and she would, but she was tired of dealing with obstacles. This wasn’t even her quest. “Basilard is the ambassador, and the new president sent us to help.”

  “Basilard—Leyelchek—is not welcome here.”

  Any triumph Ashara might have experienced at having his name recognized was squashed by the man’s words. Even though she had not known Basilard long, she felt stung on his behalf. “What do you mean? An ambassador is supposed to communicate with the nation he’s representing.”

  The man’s jaw was set, his eyes hard.

  “Someone made him ambassador,” Ashara said. Even if this particular Mangdorian did not like Basilard, that did not mean that nobody else would welcome him.

  “No one who lives.” He stared at her.

  Ashara didn’t know what to say. Had something changed, causing Basilard to lose his job without knowing it?

  “Pelajen,” the man said.

  What? She hadn’t asked anything.

  “Is that your name?” she guessed.

  “Yes.”

  Maybe he wanted her name, to know if she was someone who wouldn’t be welcome here, either. Of course, her nationality alone should have implied that. All she said was, “Well, Pelajen, if you could take my friend here to see your people, you might get something out of it. Like some nice acorn flour to eat this winter. She’s a scientist and knows about tree blights.”

  “We do not need Turgonian help.” Pelajen spat, the wad landing not far from Ashara’s foot. Clearly, nothing about pacifism meant manners were a requirement.

  “She grew up in the Kyatt Islands,” Ashara said, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “She’s not very Turgonian.”

  He stared at her for a long time, his cool gaze making her uncomfortable. She made herself stare back. She almost wished someone would come at her with one of those spears. She would rather fight than bicker or have to defend herself with words. That had never been her strength.

  His stare shifted to Mahliki. She must have realized that her samples weren’t helping, because she had returned them to her pack. The Mangdorians were still arguing behind her, still gesticulating with their spears. Pelajen said two terse words that Ashara did not understand, and they stopped.

  “Come,” Pelajen said, jerking his head back toward the trail.

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to do,” Ashara said.

  He didn’t look back.

  “What were you two talking about?” Mahliki asked when they were moving again.

  “Mangdorian-Turgonian history.”

  “You found something in that topic to convince them not to push us off the cliff?”
/>
  “I don’t know. I don’t think we’re saved yet. These people seem bitter.”

  “About their trees?”

  “About everything.”

  Even though they were speaking in Turgonian now, Pelajen gave them a long look back over his shoulder. Ashara wondered if he might understand some of that language too. Perhaps if his father had been an ambassador, he had taught his children some other languages.

  Miles and hours later, the Mangdorians led them through a maze of rocky hills and into a glacial valley carved into the southern side of a mountaintop. The hills sheltered it from the wind, but it wasn’t warm, even if it was the height of summer. Ashara wondered how high above the Kendorian plains they were.

  When the first yurts came into view, it took her by surprise. With gray and brown hides for walls, they blended into the earth well, and she hadn’t detected the telltale scent of campfires as they had approached. Maybe the Mangdorians were worried about being found. That could explain why these hunters had not wanted to bring Ashara and Mahliki here. She wished she knew what had changed.

  As they drew closer to the end of the valley, more yurts came into view, most of them freshly set up, with the paths between them still more grass than dirt. But that didn’t mean the area didn’t have a sense of history about it; on a rocky granite cliff rising at the back of the valley, giant pictographs had been carved, some so large and deep that she could make out the details from hundreds of meters away. They seemed to illustrate stories, religious tales perhaps, though she did not know much about the Mangdorian religion and could not have guessed what the stories signified.

  The laughter of children reached her ears, and a moment later, a pack of girls and boys ran out to greet the hunters. They looked at Ashara and Mahliki curiously, but were not daunted by their presence. They ran to greet their parents or perhaps older brothers. A few older women watched from stools in front of huts where they were stretching hides, carving wooden utensils, and working on pottery. Three girls ranging in age from about eight to twelve surrounded Pelajen and hugged him.

  “Apparently, they don’t know he’s an ass when he’s away from the yurt,” Ashara muttered.

  Her words were for Mahliki—the hunters had drifted away from them, more interested in their homecoming than in their guests, or prisoners, as Ashara felt might be the more applicable word.

  Mahliki didn’t answer. She was watching the girls. “That one has Basilard’s eyes, don’t you think?” she asked, pointing to the oldest of the ones greeting Pelajen. “I suppose lots of the people here have those sky blue eyes, though. Probably common.”

  Pelajen gave them another one of his long looks before ushering the girls into the village. All of the hunters headed toward the sprawling collection of hundreds of yurts, leaving Ashara and Mahliki standing by themselves.

  Mahliki scratched her cheek. “Are we supposed to wait?”

  “I have no idea. Ever feel like you’re not wanted?”

  “Not… usually.” Mahliki dug into her pocket and pulled out the folded note.

  “Must be nice.”

  “Maybe we can wander until we find someone who can read this. Or until someone concerned about our presence runs out with spears.” Mahliki rubbed her backside. Those hunters hadn’t been too gentle in guiding them along the trail.

  “Here comes someone.” Ashara folded her arms across her chest as two white-haired men approached. This situation had her feeling defensive, but she kept her chin up and ensured she did not appear scared or weak. Animals could sense that, and Mangdorians probably could too.

  “Leyelchek sent you?” the first man asked brusquely in rough Turgonian. With a bulbous nose, large lips, and deep creases around his eyes, he looked like someone more accustomed to smiling than scowling, but he was doing the latter now.

  “Yes.” Mahliki held up the paper. “We brought a note.”

  “I’m Chief Kralek, and this is our clan priest, Tey. Leyelchek is not welcome here. Nor are his foreign friends. I don’t know why Pelajen brought you here.”

  “How is Bas—Leyelchek not welcome?” Mahliki asked. “He’s the ambassador to Turgonia.” She looked at Ashara in confusion.

  Ashara could only shrug back. Her first thought was that Basilard might have been lying all along and that for some reason he was pretending his people had appointed him to the job, but why would he have then sent Ashara and Mahliki to this place? And why the charade with the note?

  “Not anymore. Chief Halemek appointed him. He was one of the first casualties to that Kendorian shaman and his pet grimbals.” Kralek had been talking to Mahliki, but he now shifted his glower to Ashara.

  “I’m just the guide,” she said, feeling cranky. She hadn’t expected warmth from the Mangdorians, but the hostility was irritating, given that she and Mahliki were here to help them.

  “Sir,” Mahliki said, “my father sent me to help with your blight. I’ve been studying the trees on the way here, and I have some ideas. If you have a practitioner who could help me, I believe I might be able to create a… compound.” She grimaced, as if that wasn’t the word she wanted; maybe the Turgonians didn’t have a suitable word. “Something to help your trees resist the blight, which is manmade. Did you know that already?”

  She had Kralek’s attention now. He was listening intently. “The Kendorians?”

  “I can’t prove that,” Mahliki said. “I just know that it’s not a natural blight.”

  “No,” Kralek murmured. “We suspected not. Who did you say sent you? You don’t look old enough to be trained as a syraku.”

  “My father. The president.”

  “The president of what?”

  “Uh, Turgonia. You know it’s not an empire anymore, right?”

  Kralek stared at her, then conversed rapidly with the man at his side. Ashara wondered what kind of mental skills the priest possessed. If he was a telepath, he could see for himself that Mahliki spoke the truth, assuming that she did not object to such an intrusion or have defenses to keep telepaths out. Ashara still had not figured out if Mahliki had skills beyond the mundane or not. She had certainly moved out of the way before that tree had fallen.

  “Your father is Starcrest?” Kralek finally asked.

  “Yes, but I grew up on the Kyatt Islands,” Mahliki said. “I’ve been studying botany and biology since I was old enough to catch my first firefly.”

  “Come. You will speak with one of our wise women.”

  Ashara kept herself from voicing her opinion about the lack of wisdom these people had shown thus far. It looked like Mahliki was finally getting the invitation she had wanted.

  The chief and his priest walked away without another word for Ashara. She did not know whether to follow after them or stay where she was. Since nobody else was likely to look favorably upon a Kendorian wandering around, she sighed and dropped her pack by a boulder beside the trail. It wouldn’t be the first time she had waited for someone.

  Before she settled in, Pelajen returned.

  “You didn’t mention who she was,” he said, having apparently been eavesdropping from nearby. He spoke in Kendorian again.

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “She would have been invited up.”

  “Glad to know the president’s daughter is on your list of preferred guests.”

  “If the Turgonians wanted us dead, we would have been dead long ago. With your people, it’s more questionable.”

  “Those all your daughters?” Ashara asked, more to turn his attention in another direction than because she doubted that they were. Still, Mahliki’s comment flashed through her mind, and she wondered.

  His eyes narrowed. “One was adopted a few years ago.”

  Ashara remembered Basilard’s story of being captured and enslaved, of his wife dying. “Leyelchek’s?” she asked.

  “It’s better for her that he stay away. He would be an inappropriate influence.”

  Surprised the guess was accurate, she stared at him. Maybe Mahliki
did have some practitioner talents.

  “My uncle agrees,” Pelajen added.

  “Who’s your uncle?” Ashara asked, though she had a hunch before he looked in the direction the chief had gone. He, the priest, and Mahliki had disappeared into one of the bigger yurts. “Kralek?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think she has a right to know her real father?”

  “I’m her father now,” Pelajen said. “I have been for five years, while he was out committing acts of violence, killing other people, like a rabid animal, not a human being.”

  “You don’t know what he went through,” Ashara said hotly, more upset on Basilard’s behalf than made sense. When had he started mattering to her? “You don’t know what the Turgonians did to him, whether or not he had a choice.”

  “There is always a choice.”

  “What? To die?”

  “Better to accept death than to take the lives of others,” Pelajen said, bowing his head as if he was reciting some religious tenet. Maybe he was.

  “Spoken like someone who’s never had to face death,” Ashara said, “or to see your family threatened, those you care about attacked by people who don’t follow your religion.” She didn’t know if what she was saying was coming out coherently, but his condescension irritated her. It wasn’t just about Basilard. Now he was condemning her, as well, because she had fought and killed, to defend herself and to defend others who could not protect themselves.

  “The world is never made a better place through violence. A better man would have avoided being captured, would have tricked the Turgonians, would have escaped to follow his beliefs without doing violence.” Pelajen turned away, walking toward the village.

  “It must make you feel good to be such a better man,” Ashara called after him, then added, “Sanctimonious prick,” not caring if he heard or not. He did not look back.

  She eyed the backrest she had made with her pack, but she had no interest in sitting and relaxing now. She paced, wanting to unleash her frustration somehow. Perhaps with violence. Pelajen would love that. She snorted and kicked a rock.

  “Basilard, why are you even trying to defend these people?”