Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (31 page)

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?”

Nobody was around to answer.

Chapter 13

Basilard clasped his hands behind his back and gazed around at the controlled chaos of the Kendorian encampment. Four soldiers surrounded him, Amaranthe, and Maldynado, men who had spotted them before they reached the first of the tunnels dug into the canyon walls. Now they stood guard while some messenger hunted for the major or one of the other higher-ranking officers. The men had taken the team’s weapons, despite Amaranthe’s attempt to misunderstand their intent and highlight the features of new Turgonian firearms. She didn’t look concerned. Basilard tried not to look concerned, either, but inside he was seething. Less at the purloined weapons and more at what was happening all around him, at the damage that had been done to the cliffs.

It wasn’t just the caves; the Kendorians seemed to be quarrying rock, as well. Huge piles of rubble rose in spots around the canyon floor. Did they plan to build a whole city here? All of the timber and brush had been cleared, leaving the red dirt and rock scarred and bare, with only a few stumps poking up here and there. Fires burned at intervals, the haze hanging like a cloud over the canyon, the heavy scent of smoke obliterating lesser smells. From his spot near the river, he could see a timber wall being erected high overhead, on the lip of one of the cliffs. That hadn’t been there the day before, but he remembered all of those wagons transporting logs and tools out of the mountains.

“Looks like they’re making a fort up there, eh?” Maldynado said. He kept his voice low, but he need not have worried about being overheard. Even though the day had grown late, a constant banging came from mineshafts dug into the cliffs on both sides of the waterway.

Someplace for the miners to run for protection if an attack comes,
Basilard signed.

“Long run up to the top though.”

There is a trail about a mile that way.
Basilard pointed downstream, but he kept glaring up at the construction project. He wished it was being erected in the canyon, where the flood might tear it down, if Sicarius did, indeed, succeed in damming up the river and unleashing the water all at once. At first, Basilard had thought that measure extreme, but now that he saw all that the Kendorians were presuming to do in his people’s land, he would welcome a wall of water roaring down from upriver.