Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (29 page)

They were prodding and directing her too. Ashara winced. Even if Mahliki didn’t act like some privileged member of the Turgonian aristocracy, Ashara doubted it was appropriate for the president’s daughter to be poked in the backside with a spear. But with the language problem, she didn’t see any way they could have their status raised from hated intruders to guests.

“I’m not sure Basilard thought this through all the way,” Ashara muttered, walking beside Mahliki as they picked their way through the underbrush. “Or maybe he assumed you speak his language. Because of the genius thing.”

“I’d feel smarter if you stopped calling me that. And actually, Basilard gave me a message to give to the chief. It explains who we are.”

“Oh.” Ashara was on the verge of asking if she should show it to these fellows, but Mahliki spoke again.

“He also said not many people read and write around here, which matches what I’ve read in the anthropology books. Their priests can usually read in a couple of languages, as can those groomed to be clan leaders, since it’s known that they’ll interact with outsiders, but otherwise, it’s an oral tradition. They reputedly have amazing memories.”

“This one has an amazing tendency to poke me in the butt with his spear,” Ashara grumbled, glaring back at the kid walking behind her. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

“It’s less damage than the grimbals wanted to do.”

“What’s your point?”

“That our day is looking up?” Mahliki suggested.

“Turgonians aren’t optimistic. You must have gotten that from your mother.”

“It could be. I can only confirm the eyes, the interest in learning, and an appreciation for creative men.”

“Creative men? Like, uh, your father?” Even if Ashara was only loosely aware of current President and former Fleet Admiral Starcrest’s reputation, she knew it wasn’t one for writing poetry and sculpting art.

“He’s invented a lot of things,” Mahliki said a touch defensively. “His first love is engineering.”

“Well then, as his daughter, and as your mother’s daughter, I hope you can find a creative way to talk these boys into not forcing us to walk off that ledge up there.” Ashara nodded to a clearing ahead. They had crested the hill they had been climbing, and the view opened up, showing more mountains on all sides of them, as well as a cliff overlooking a tree-filled valley far below. “Their religion might say it’s not allowed to take up arms against one’s fellow man, but I’m suspicious that our trail is heading right toward that drop off.”

Chapter 12

Basilard could not sense the shaman, not the way Sicarius had said he could, but he knew they were being watched long before a pair of men jogged out from behind a boulder jutting out of the side of the canyon wall. They wore buckskins instead of military uniforms, but everything from their tight braids of hair to their clean-shaven faces to the rigid way they carried themselves spoke of the Kendorian army. One carried a longbow, typical for the people, but the other had a Turgonian musket. It was an older model, but Turgonians were known for keeping their technology and their weapons inside of their country, so seeing it in the hands of a foreigner made Basilard uneasy. He doubted Starcrest was engaged in some secret Turgonian-Kendorian alliance, but there could be other factions supplying the Kendorians with aid. As if they needed it. They had far more than the Mangdorians did already.

Though the soldiers had their faces painted in camouflage colors and wore fierce expressions, Amaranthe lifted an arm, waved cheerfully, and smiled.

“Out of curiosity,” Maldynado said, keeping his hands away from his weapons as the soldiers ran up. “Did we think to bring anyone who speaks their language?”

“I know some of it,” Amaranthe said before Basilard could sign that he knew a few words.

“You do? Since when?”

“Since Sicarius and I have traveled through their land a couple of times,” Amaranthe murmured, the words barely audible. “He’s been teaching me.”

“And here I thought you two would spend all of your private time together… exercising.”

“Is that what you and Yara do?”

“Frequently. And sweatily.”

You two know you’re not talking about the same thing, right?
Basilard signed, more as a way to avoid feeling nervous than because he was engaged in the conversation. He was more engaged in watching the way the musket-wielding Kendorian was rubbing the trigger with his finger.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Maldynado said. He hadn’t lowered his voice, and he kept talking as the soldiers stopped a few paces away, as if the Kendorians’ approach was nothing to worry about. “She’s eating those nasty meat bars for fertility reasons, after all.”

A rare blush colored Amaranthe’s cheeks, but she turned her attention to the guards instead of responding. That was a good thing, because the one with the firearm spoke. Basilard caught the gist. The man was demanding that they turn around and go back the way they had come from. This route was closed.

“We’re here to speak with your leader,” Amaranthe said in Turgonian. “Actually, this man is.” She gripped Maldynado’s biceps briefly. “Maldynado Montichelu Marblecrest, President Starcrest’s representative in this matter.” Apparently, she wasn’t going to demonstrate the few Kendorian words she claimed to know. Perhaps so the soldiers would speak openly around them? Basilard resolved not to let on that he understood some of their language.

“Marblecrest?” the gunman said, then spoke rapidly to his comrade, asking if that was a warrior-caste name.

“Does anyone among your people speak Turgonian?” Amaranthe asked. She had been smiling easily during the conversation, and the Kendorians’ weapons had lowered enough to point at the ground instead of at the group.

As Basilard had observed numerous times in the past, Amaranthe had an utterly honest face with doe-like eyes that made it hard for a man to think of her as an enemy. Basilard himself had been talked over to her side on the first night they had met. Of course, Basilard had loathed his employer back then, a wizard who had kept him as a slave even after supposedly liberating him from the pits and promoting him to security chief.

“Take them to see Major Diratha,” the bowman said to his buddy.

“All of them? We don’t even know…”

Basilard didn’t understand the rest.

“What are three people going to do? Shaman Tladik is there.”

Amaranthe stood calmly during this discussion, her hands clasped behind her back. Basilard eyed the canyon walls and the ground on either side of the stream. In spots, scraggy green bushes grew out of cracks in the rock, tenaciously finding life. There were numerous places where a man or even a group of men might have hidden.

“Take their weapons,” the Kendorian conversation continued.

Maldynado shifted. He might not understand the words, but the man had pointed to his rifle. He could guess the intent. From the other Kendorian’s nod, he was about to agree.

Do we allow that?
Basilard signed subtly, catching Amaranthe’s eye.

She lifted her brows, giving him a pointed look. Oh, right.
He
was in charge.

He was certain they could overpower these two, but there might be other Kendorians watching from some of those bushes, including the shaman. If they wanted to talk to the leader, it would be better to go along with the soldiers’ demands, to walk in peacefully. And yet, would the Kendorian leader respect them if they came stripped of their power?

“Your weapons.” One man pointed at Amaranthe’s sword.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Amaranthe said. She pointed at Maldynado’s rifle. “This is a newer model, Starbird repeating rifle, made by a manufacturer in the capital. Powder and ball combined in one shell. Lever-action, capable of firing ten times in a minute, including time taken to reload. Turgonian firearms have made a huge advancement in the last few years. You wouldn’t want to come up against them in a fight, not with a bow or an old muzzle-loader.” Her gaze twitched toward the Kendorian’s musket. “That’s a certainty.”

“Uh,” the speaker said, glancing at his buddy.

Basilard doubted either man had understood a quarter of what she was saying, but they probably thought she had misunderstood
their
request.

“Just take them to see the major,” his comrade said. “Their weapons mean nothing against so many.”

The other Kendorian shrugged and waved for Amaranthe, Basilard, and Maldynado to follow before heading downriver.

Maybe you’re the one who should be the diplomat
, Basilard signed, making sure the soldier’s back was to them.

Is pretending obliviousness an important part of the job?
Amaranthe asked.

Knowing more than you appear to is often useful.

The Kendorian glanced back at them every few seconds, so Basilard lowered his hands. He shouldn’t assume that these people wouldn’t recognize the basics of his sign language.

As they walked, he observed their surroundings. When he had scouted the area the day before, he had only seen the river from above, so it was hard for him to judge if the water flow had lessened. Probably not yet. Sicarius and his assistant engineer couldn’t be far along with their dam improvements yet, especially if Sicarius was keeping an eye on Amaranthe from afar. Basilard imagined poor Jomrik left alone to push logs to the river by himself.

A branch stirred in a bush near the cliff on their side of the stream. Basilard thought he glimpsed peach coloring through the leaves. Someone’s skin?

Their Kendorian guide glanced toward the bush too. Maybe he had some ally there that he knew about, another guard stationed along the canyon. But he tensed, his hand tightening about his rifle.

He held up a hand, squinted suspiciously back at Basilard and the others, then frowned at the bush. There were several types of foliage in that area, as well as a thick log that must have been carried into the canyon during a flood.

More branches stirred, not in the bush they were all looking at, but in one farther downstream. An animal raced out from the leaves. A badger. Though not normally a creature dangerous to humans, this one raced straight at the party. Actually, it raced straight at the Kendorian.

He jumped to the side, bringing his firearm to bear, but the brown furry creature was faster than it looked. It veered away, and his shot bounced harmlessly off the rocks. The badger lunged in and bit his leg.

“Uhm,” Amaranthe said, as the man yelled and tried to smash his attacker with the butt of his musket. “Should we be helping?”

“The man?” Maldynado asked. “Or the badger?”

Suspicious, Basilard pulled out a knife and ran toward the bushes where he had seen the original movement. This animal was acting as strangely as the grimbals.

He reached the bush at the same time as someone stood up. Basilard lifted his blade. Then he recognized the short blond hair and green eyes of one of his own people. The young man wore beaded buckskins and a stone amulet on a woven grass cord, one that indicated he was studying to be a priest and was someone with mental powers. Three other men rose from cover to the sides of him. They carried bows and were even younger than the priest.

A thud came from behind Basilard. He turned in time to see the Kendorian topple to the ground as Maldynado lowered his firearm.

“Oops,” Maldynado said. “His skull fell against the butt of my rifle.”

“That was our guide,” Amaranthe said dryly, glancing back up the canyon. They were out of sight of the other guard, but Basilard worried the noise of the animal attack might have traveled to his ears. Probably not with the sound of the river rushing past.

“The badger didn’t like him. I was trying to help nature.”

The badger let go of the Kendorian’s leg and scurried back. It bared its bloody teeth and growled at Maldynado.

“Are these your friends, Leyelchek?” the priest asked.

Basilard did not recognize the man, but he was quick to nod and sign,
Yes
.

A couple of months earlier, he had been home for the Final Suffering religious ceremony where thousands of his people had gathered. He had received a lot of looks ranging from curious to hostile, and he was sure his scarred face had stuck in people’s memories.

The priest waved his hand, and the badger raced for the river. It disappeared into the undergrowth on the bank. Maldynado’s assistance must have been efficient, because the Kendorian wasn’t moving.

Who are you?
Basilard signed. He scrutinized the other faces and thought he recognized one young hunter from his own clan. The priest had a scraggily beard, but none of the others were old enough to have more than wisps of facial hair.
What are you doing here?

The priest sighed. “I’m Hykur. And we’re… debating.”

“Ah, Basilard?” Amaranthe asked. “Should we tie this fellow up, or… Hm, he may need some bandages.”

“The critter chewed through his trousers,” Maldynado said. “Bloodied him good.”

Basilard rubbed his face. While he was pleased to finally meet some Mangdorians, this wasn’t a good place to encounter them. What kind of official government emissaries left people mutilated and tied up on the way to a negotiation? Though perhaps that was fitting for a team of Turgonians.

Tie him, please
, Basilard signed, hoping this hadn’t ruined their chances of a peaceful meeting with the person in charge. Major Diratha, he reminded himself. Whoever that was.
Also, place him somewhere he won’t be stumbled across easily.

“Like at the bottom of the river?” Maldynado suggested.

Amaranthe swatted him. “We’re not here to kill people.”

“The badger was. I’m just going along with nature’s will.”

That wasn’t nature
, Basilard signed and faced Hykur again.
You controlled that badger?

Something tickled the edge of his mind. Hykur? Did he have telepathic abilities? Basilard tensed, not comfortable with someone touching his mind, even one of his own people. Especially a priest, a person who spoke with God’s will, the kind of person who always pointed out that he was condemned and going to Hell.

“I’m not condemning anyone,” Hykur said, grimacing. “I can’t understand you completely when you make up words, so I have to… I talk to animals. In their minds. I can understand people a little too. Yes, I was controlling the badger. I thought you were being taken prisoner. We—” he gestured to his comrades, “—were sent to try and turn back the predators that the Kendorians have driven into the lowlands, out to the highway and other areas that are populated. But their shaman is
much
more powerful than I am.” Hykur lowered his head, but not before Basilard saw the slump to his shoulders and the defeat in his eyes. “We’ve been useless here. And I should not have used the badger in such a manner. She could have been hurt. My father would not approve.”