Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

  He slithered around the corner of the frame, reaching for the door handle. Maldynado, barely discernible through the cracked windshield, had reentered the cab, and he opened the door. A bump nearly threw Basilard into the air, but he managed to keep a hold of the jamb. With strength he wouldn’t have guessed he had, he yanked himself inside with so much force that he almost landed in Jomrik’s lap.

  “…trying to put it out,” Mahliki was saying, “but it’s gravity propelling us forward, not the engine.”

  “Just do something,” Maldynado demanded. He was clenching his rifle, his legs spread wide for balance, looking like he might shoot the control panel.

  “I can’t,” Mahliki said, a rare note of panic in her voice. “You should have brought my brother. He’s the engineer.”

  Her words vibrated as she spoke. They weren’t the only thing. Basilard’s teeth rattled in his skull. Jomrik still clenched the controls, steering as much as he could, but from the whites visible around his eyes and the tense set of his jaw—of his whole body—he wasn’t going to be able to keep them from crashing. By now, the vehicle must be approaching the speed it had used on the well-maintained, flat highway. This rock-filled path was anything but maintained and flat.

  Ashara came in the other door, the last person to join them in the cab. From the look on her face, coming back inside hadn’t been an obvious choice. Maybe they would all be better off taking their chances and flinging themselves out before the vehicle crashed. But at this pace, they might break their necks if they jumped free.

  Basilard hit Maldynado’s arm to draw his eye. We’re almost to the river. The good news is that the drive into the water might slow us without killing us. He hoped that was the case. He had jumped from cliffs, striking water at great speeds, and knew that it could hurt almost as much as cement.

  Maldynado relayed the message. “What’s the bad news, Bas?”

  There are two pit traps before we get to the river.

  The meadow had long since disappeared, replaced by trees on either side of the path. As Maldynado translated, Basilard tried to guess just how close they were—and how the lorry might drive to the side to avoid them.

  “At our speed, we might fly right over the pits,” Mahliki said.

  Jomrik glanced back. “Really?”

  “If I had our velocity and the distance across the pits, I could do the math for you.”

  “Bas, you’ve got that information, right?” Maldynado asked.

  Before Basilard could manage a bleak shrug, the vehicle clipped a boulder, tilting precariously. Jomrik wrestled them back onto the path, but not before they smashed against a stump. A massive crack battered their eardrums, and they tilted, everyone tumbling to one side. A bang came from outside.

  “What happened?” Maldynado blurted.

  “We lost a wheel,” Jomrik said. “The whole axle is going to fall off if we don’t—”

  “Look, there’s the river.” Ashara thrust an arm past Basilard’s nose.

  All Basilard could think was that whatever their velocity had been—and whatever their odds of flying over those pits had been—it was significantly less now. Though he had a poor understanding of how to steer the contraption, he grabbed Jomrik’s hand, trying to push them to the left. He pointed ahead, hoping the corporal would understand. If they could see the river, that next pit was coming up.

  Jomrik may have understood, but it didn’t matter. The vehicle didn’t respond. It had slowed down, but not enough. They plowed inexorably toward the water.

  “Jump out,” Ashara said, reaching for the door. “We don’t want to be stuck in here if it goes under. We—”

  The ground fell out from beneath them.

  They almost had the momentum to make it across—Basilard was staring out the cracked windshield and saw the hood reach the far side, felt the remaining front wheel land on the lip of the pit. But then he tumbled backward as the cargo bed plummeted behind them. Outside, the running lamps tilted upward, showing dirt, then tree trunks, then branches, and finally the sky as they were all pitched back against the furnace. Someone landed on top of Basilard, smothering his view.

  Then they hit the ground, his back thumping painfully against unyielding metal. An elbow jabbed him in the gut like a battering ram. The lights went out, and darkness descended upon them. Basilard had a vague sense of being on his back and staring up at someone’s shoulder, but he didn’t know much more than that.

  “Bas?” Maldynado asked weakly. “If I ever told you being an ambassador sounded boring, I’d like to retract that statement now.”

  • • • • •

  As dawn crept over the mountains, Ashara paced along the bank of the river, her bow in one hand and one of the Turgonian rifles strapped to her back along with her quiver. On the other side of the waterway, two giant, shaggy grimbals matched her pacing. She and the others had escaped the crashed lorry before they had caught up the night before, but the animals were not giving up. Now and then, they padded into the water, walking up to their bellies before pausing, the fast current swishing past. They hissed and growled at the water like cats caught in a rainstorm. At its narrowest, the river had to be thirty meters across and too deep for them to ford.

  Rotting posts on either side of the river marked the remains of the bridge—it hadn’t taken more than a couple of swift cuts from a knife to send the rope and planks downstream. After what Ashara had endured with the group, she supposed it was uncharitable to be glad that the trunks and most of Mahliki’s gear had been left at the bottom of that pit, since there hadn’t been time to lever it out of the smashed cargo bed. Ashara wouldn’t wish any of these people to be injured, but if fate itself kept Mahliki from having the tools to accomplish her mission, then Shukura would get his wish without Ashara having to do anything duplicitous.

  Corporal Jomrik also stood on the bank, facing the creatures, his face somber as he stared across the river with his rifle in hand. He wasn’t looking at the grimbals but at the pit—smoke from his destroyed lorry still wafted from the stack.

  “Found some,” Mahliki called from within a copse of oak trees lining the bank. She waved toward Basilard, who had been walking in the woods with her, gazing upward toward the branches.

  Remembering her mission, Ashara strode toward them. If Mahliki had found some of the blighted trees, Ashara wanted to take a look.

  “I’m just not sure how fully we can trust your assessments,” Maldynado was saying when Ashara walked up. He was trailing Mahliki, holding a backpack for her while the young woman clambered about, twenty feet off the ground in an oak. Even though plentiful water flowed by within the reach of the tree’s roots, one third of the leaves had turned brown. “You said you were doing the math and that math said we’d make it over the pit.”

  “I said we might make it over the pit and that I could do the equation if I knew the variables. Nobody gave me the variables. And then the wheel fell off, which couldn’t have been anticipated and factored in.”

  Now that Ashara was looking for brown leaves, she could see them throughout the copse, but only on the oak trees. Elms, aspens, and a handful of evergreens appeared unaffected. A few smaller filbert bushes farther up the river showed indications of disease.

  “I bet your da would have factored all of that in and warned us in advance if we were falling into the pit or going over it,” Maldynado said.

  Mahliki glared down at him from the branch she had crawled out on. Ashara hadn’t seen her irritated before, but dealing with Maldynado could bring that out in anyone.

  “Maybe I just thought you’d prefer a surprise.” Mahliki turned her focus back to the branch and sliced a sample off the bark.

  “Such as the surprise I got when you landed on top of me, and your elbow smashed my most treasured gems?”

  “I’m not sure that should have been a surprise,” Mahliki muttered.

  Ashara walked up to the trunk of one of the affected oaks and touched a hand to it. Here and there, clumps of black
bumps marred the grayish-brown bark. She could feel that the tree was distressed, but she did not have the sense of anything magical about it or the bumps themselves, no hint that the blight had been artificially created by a shaman. But if the tree had been inoculated in the spring, or even the year before, and the disease had been progressing for months, the traces might have faded away.

  Basilard joined them, with Jomrik remaining by the river. The gear that they had been able to carry away and could conceivably tote on a trek through the mountains was stacked behind him.

  Basilard signed something, with Ashara catching a few of the words.

  “It’s a something-something kind of oak,” Maldynado translated, earning a narrowing of the eyes at the loose interpretation. “The acorns are favorites for Mangdorians. Because they can’t grow wheat or rice up here in the mountains, acorn flour is a staple. Lots of forest critters live on the acorns, too, so he’s worried that the entire ecological balance of the area could be affected in a bad way.” Maldynado propped a hand on his hip. “There, I translated you verbatim, except for that species thing I didn’t know. Am I doing better?”

  Basilard seemed focused on the black bumps, but he did respond with a quick sign.

  “All right, all right. Basilard said animals, not critters,” Maldynado said.

  “See the black stroma with the sunken cankers?” Mahliki asked. “My first guess is that this is a fungal infection, but I’ll look later under my microscope. It’s certainly pernicious for something natural. The cankers are all over the branches up here, girdling some of them completely. Not surprisingly, all of the leaves beyond those spots are brown. I don’t see any acorns in development on this tree at all.” Mahliki twisted on her perch, peering upward. “Basilard, we’re not too early, are we? Since I grew up in the tropics, I’m not an oak expert, but it seems like some should be starting to come out, especially given that the summer season must be short at this elevation.”

  “There should be some,” Maldynado said, watching Basilard’s fingers.

  Ashara walked toward another oak, looking up to see if she could spot any incipient acorns. She didn’t. Even if she had no reason to love Mangdorians, she didn’t have a reason to wish them ill, either. And the idea of all of the forest animals—critters—being affected made her uncomfortable. What if her people were responsible for this, and it wasn’t simply an act of nature? If, for whatever reason, Kendor wanted to harm the Mangdorians, how could it be justified when it could harm the entire forest?

  “A single mature oak can drop ten thousand acorns in a good year,” Ashara murmured, the piece of trivia jumping into her head as something her father had once shared. He had also been a woodsman, a job that had resulted in his death when Ashara had been a teenager. But he had died a hero, helping put out a wildfire before it descended upon a village where it would have killed hundreds. She’d once had aspirations of being a hero too. “A long time ago,” she whispered to herself.

  “Basilard wants to know your opinion on the blight, Mahliki,” Maldynado called up. “Whether this could be natural or whether it’s about as typical as grimbals ambushing innocent travelers on the main highway through the mountains. Also something about blights affecting multiple species being unusual. I’m not sure if he’s telling me that or asking.”

  Ashara headed toward the group again. She needed to hear Mahliki’s opinion, but as she walked, an unpleasant sensation came over her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. It was the same sensation she had felt the first time the lorry had stopped for Mahliki to take samples. Someone was watching them, perhaps using the mental sciences nearby.

  Mahliki had not yet answered Maldynado. She dropped to the ground, frowning into the woods. Did she sense something too? Ashara was still trying to figure out if she had an aptitude for the mental sciences.

  Ashara spun a slow circle, trying to spot their spy. Usually, for her to sense a practitioner, he or she would have to be nearby. Within a couple hundred meters and actively doing something. She rested a hand on a trunk, thinking to draw upon the awareness of the forest, but she worried some attack might be imminent and was reluctant to distract herself. Also, she did not want the others to realize she had anything beyond mundane skills. Still, she had her senses stretched outward just enough to be alerted when a nearby squirrel scrambled away, fear in its mind.

  She jerked around, facing the river. “The grimbals.”

  One was still pacing on the opposite bank, its movements agitated, but the other was pushing deeper into the water than either of them had before.

  “Someone’s trying to coerce them to cross,” Mahliki said, shoving the samples she had taken into her vest pockets. “Basilard, how about you take us to your village, and then we’ll look at more trees around there?”

  Basilard was already running for the packs, waving for the others to follow. Corporal Jomrik fired two shots at the grimbal attempting to cross the river. One of Mahliki’s vials might be more useful, but there wouldn’t be a way to break it on the water. Ashara raced after the others, grabbing her gear and donning it. She had a vague plan to climb a tree if that grimbal made it across, but as powerful as those creatures were, they might be able to shake her out of even a mature oak.

  If one of her people was out here, she did not appreciate that his manipulations were putting her in danger along with Basilard and the Turgonians.

  Start walking, Basilard signed—she had no trouble interpreting his abrupt gesture toward the path. The way he grabbed a rifle, stood beside Jomrik, and faced the river wasn’t hard to interpret, either.

  “Bas…” Maldynado said, frowning.

  Basilard waved for them to go.

  “Who’s going to lead us to your people if you get yourself eaten?” Maldynado asked.

  The grimbal in the water had walked out up to its chest. It paused, its feet still on the bottom of the river, the current pushing at it.

  I will catch up, Basilard signed. No pits for several miles.

  Neither Mahliki nor Maldynado appeared happy about continuing up the trail without him, but they started walking. Ashara picked up the rifle she had added to her arsenal in the steam lorry. Basilard and Jomrik glanced at her, but neither attempted to shoo her away. She hoped she had proven herself useful on the wild rides of the day before, even if her arrows had done little to harm those predators.

  The grimbal pushed deeper until only its shaggy head was above water. Its eyes were round with alarm or outright fear, but it continued on. Again, Ashara had that sense of the mental sciences being used, the unearthly tingle plucking at her nerves. She couldn’t see anyone, but she was tempted to run through the copse in search of the interloper. But if he or she was on the far side of the river, what could she do? Even if the practitioner was behind the nearest tree, a shaman might overpower her before she could reach him. In this situation, she doubted she would catch him by surprise.

  Jomrik, Ashara, and Basilard fired at the grimbal, aiming for those fear-filled eyes, hoping a vulnerability might be found. Some of the bullets sank in instead of bouncing off the thick skull, but it wasn’t enough to stop the grimbal. It stepped farther into the river, until finally its feet left the bottom. Its forelegs came up, massive paws attempting to paddle, to propel itself forward. Frenzied splashes flew up, the water churning all about it. It wasn’t until the head disappeared under the surface that Ashara realized it was flailing ineffectively rather than swimming. Splashes continued, but when next the head appeared, it had been swept several meters downstream. It hadn’t made any progress toward their bank.

  Ashara lowered her rifle. The wet, white-furred head appeared a few more times before going around a bend, but it was out of range by then.

  Basilard signed something about grimbals being bad swimmers. Ashara resolved to get those language lessons from Maldynado.

  “Hope it doesn’t come out on our side.” Jomrik batted at something dangling from the end of his rifle before slinging it over his shoulder. A
h, the duck feet. He must have deemed them a worthy enough prize to remove them from the cab before abandoning the lorry. “Hope that other one doesn’t find a way over, either.” Jomrik jerked his chin at the opposite shore.

  That grimbal hadn’t decided to swim—or hadn’t been coerced into swimming against its better judgment. But it hadn’t given up the battle. After a long glare at them, it took off, running upriver.

  “Is there another way across?” Ashara asked.

  Basilard nodded. Eventually.

  “Basilard,” Ashara said slowly as they hefted their gear and turned to follow the others. This seemed like an opportunity to follow Shukura’s orders while keeping in line with common sense. “I was sent along to help figure out the blight—” something she hadn’t done yet, she realized, and vowed to make sure to appear helpful later, “—but I think it would be wiser to find your village and your people first. To leave these big predators far behind so they can’t continue to track us. And I’m sure your people can help when we get there, since they’re renowned for being great hunters.” Sure, throw in a little flattery. That wouldn’t make him suspicious, not at all. “Also, they may have more information on the blight that we could use as a starting point.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Jomrik said.

  Basilard nodded, but he also gave Ashara a sidelong appraising look that made her wonder if he saw through her attempt at manipulation. Yes, she would need to do more to prove she was helpful. She hadn’t been sent along to shoot at things.

  Basilard lifted his hands, as if he might sign something else, but he glanced at Jomrik and Ashara, and shook his head. Probably realizing neither of them could translate. Perhaps that was a good thing. Ashara wasn’t ready for an interrogation. She hoped he would forget about whatever questions he had by the time they caught up with the others.

  Chapter 7

  The chirping birds and the buzz of insects allowed some of the tension to ebb from Basilard’s body. The activity should mean that nothing dangerous lurked nearby. Still, he couldn’t help but glance back often as his group hiked across the mountainside. Even though he knew he needed to stay alert, to be aware of further threats that might await ahead of them—or that might race up from behind them—he couldn’t keep his mind from whirring, thoughts spinning through his head like the flywheel on a steam engine.