Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (12 page)

“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 know 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.”

Ashara lifted her head, a jolt going through her at the mention of a child in someone else’s care, of a nation turned against him. She swallowed, the parallel making her uncomfortable.

“Think he’s going to come back?” Maldynado prodded one of the steaks. “There was supposed to be a sauce, wasn’t there? That’ll teach me to offend him
before
supper’s made.”

Ashara walked away, needing a few minutes alone. She found herself in a patch of bushes across the highway, picking gooseberries for a sauce. She wasn’t sure if it would go well with the pork Basilard had selected, but it gave her a way to help finish the meal. She felt that it was her fault that the preparations had been interrupted. Why had she come over and started asking questions in the first place? If anything, she should have been peppering Mahliki with questions, not Basilard. And with Mahliki, she wouldn’t have needed an obnoxious translator. Of course, Mahliki might get suspicious if Ashara, after ignoring her for two days, interrogated her on botany and magic. It might be better to make friends—or at least pretend to make friends—with Basilard and get the information from him. Though learning of these uncomfortable situations that they shared made her not want to use him, to chance hurting him.

She reminded herself that she had her own children to worry about, not anybody else’s. If she could learn to understand his language, she could talk to him and find out more about Mahliki’s work through him and perhaps more information about the Mangdorian state in general, information she could feed to Shukura.

When Ashara returned to the camp, Basilard was still gone. Mahliki and the grease-smeared driver were sitting around the fire with Maldynado, passing around a bag of nuts. The skillet had been removed from the heat, but nobody had presumed to disturb the meat. Ashara set the pork aside, grabbed the mountain potatoes and her berries, and made a sauce to go on the dish. She was aware of all three sets of eyes watching her—after her aloofness, the others had to be wondering what had prompted her to cook for them.

“Maldynado,” she said casually as she worked, “will you teach me some of the ambassador’s hand signs? I didn’t get much of a chance to thank him for helping me today during the attack.” There, that sounded like a plausible reason for wanting to learn the language. Maybe.

Maldynado scratched his jaw and gazed at her thoughtfully. Maybe he saw through her story. He seemed a dandy with his silly hat and bumbling manner, but he had been a capable fighter and marksman that afternoon. She ought to be careful not to assume he was dull.

Finally, he shrugged and said, “Can do.”

Good.

• • • • •

The lack of signs of his people disturbed Basilard.

What he had told the others was true, that those yurts along the highway weren’t always manned, but there were patrollers that monitored the borders, and someone usually appeared within a few hours of Basilard entering the area. He might be the official ambassador to Turgonia, but he often found himself escorted in and out of his homeland when he came bearing messages. Usually, he resented the escort, knowing it meant he wasn’t entirely trusted, but now he worried the lack of it meant something was wrong in his homeland, something more than blighted trees. There was no way the patrollers should have missed the smoke and noise of the steam vehicle.

Basilard glanced back toward the camp from his spot on a knoll overlooking the highway. The fire was still burning. Normally, he wouldn’t bother with anything except for a small cook fire, if that, since the summer evening made it unnecessary for warmth. But he had wanted to offer a blatant signal for any Mangdorians who might be watching the road. Still, none of his people had come. So long as the grimbals didn’t come, either.

He looked back toward the highway, glad for the excuse to stand guard out there and stay out of camp. He didn’t know why Maldynado had started sharing all of that information about him, but the incident with Elwa was too fresh, too painful in his mind. He didn’t want anyone else to know of that humiliation. It was bad enough
Maldynado
knew.