Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Any idea where they would have gone?” Ashara asked. “Is there a meeting place where your people gather when in trouble?”

  Basilard hesitated, then made a single sign.

  Ashara decided that hand waver meant, Yes, but I’m not going to tell you about it. Had Shukura truly believed she would be able to get close enough to these people to do anything? He might have underestimated them. Or maybe she was an even poorer spy than the ambassador had guessed. She snorted, deeming that a certainty.

  “Got some insects to examine,” Mahliki said cheerfully, jogging into the camp with her net.

  “That girl has a singular focus,” Ashara said, before remembering that she was supposed to be sharing that focus.

  Expecting judgment, she glanced at Basilard.

  He shrugged and signed, Her father.

  They had gone over terms for kin, comrades, and food that afternoon.

  “He drives her to study assiduously?” Ashara guessed, though that didn’t seem right. Mahliki’s passion seemed genuine, something from within rather than something imposed from without.

  He… Basilard looked frustrated, like he did not think she would know the words he chose. He was probably right. It didn’t help that all of the translating and teaching had been in Turgonian, which wasn’t that natural of a language for her. He sighed and signed a string of terms, making them slowly.

  “His power makes others seem weaker?” she guessed, though it didn’t make sense.

  Basilard waved to Maldynado, who groaned from his spot reclining against a rucksack. “We didn’t get any sleep last night, Bas. Why don’t you bring your perky self over here if you want a translation? I’m tired.”

  Jomrik was cleaning his weapons, but he, too, looked like he might fall asleep on the dirt in the center of the old camp.

  Basilard walked to Maldynado and signed what must have been the equivalent of several sentences, but even Maldynado was squinting to decipher his signs in the waning daylight. Ashara would gather firewood once she had her explanation.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Maldynado said. “Can’t we just ask her? Mahliki?” he called to a portion of the stream where the young woman had paused to poke at some reeds. “What’s driving you to solve this mystery? Are you that passionate about fungi, or is it a father matter?”

  Basilard rolled his eyes at this bluntness. It was a foregone conclusion that nobody would ever nominate Maldynado to be a diplomat.

  “Father matter?” Mahliki joined them, kneeling to pull a lantern out of her pack.

  “Sure, like when you feel inadequate and unable to make a name for yourself because of the reputation of your famous father. Are you striving to establish yourself as an independent force? To gain recognition for the family name that has nothing to do with war and soldiering and leading a nation? Do you feel pressure to achieve, and do you fear failure? And are you maybe wondering if sometimes it might simply be easier to embrace the persona of a failure, so that you don’t need to worry about disappointing people?”

  When he stopped talking, nobody spoke right away. A few crickets chirped in the undergrowth of the trees ringing the camp.

  “Does Maldynado have a famous father?” Ashara murmured to Basilard.

  Basilard’s hand made a wavering motion. Sort of?

  “I’m not talking about me,” Maldynado said dryly—and not convincingly.

  “You know Father’s just considered an engineer in Kyatt, right?” Mahliki sounded bemused by Maldynado’s speech. “Mother’s the one with the prominent family name, and back before I was born, I understand she was the recipient of a lot of condescending concern over marrying an enemy admiral and bringing him home. My father isn’t really anyone important back home.”

  Over the course of this conversation, whose daughter Mahliki was gradually dawned on Ashara. Then she felt silly for not having guessed sooner. Or maybe it wasn’t silly. Why would the Turgonian president have sent his daughter along on a research trip to another country, especially with such a small guard? Was she truly the most qualified person around? At her age? That seemed unlikely. But she supposed he couldn’t have anticipated those grimbals, and with the Mangdorians being pacifists, he wouldn’t have expected any people along the way to trouble her. Still… Ashara’s gut twisted at the idea of something happening to Mahliki and of the revenge the president might seek on those deemed responsible. All she needed was to be blamed for someone else’s death. Then she could be wanted dead in two countries.

  “So…” Maldynado said slowly, “you’re not driven by a father matter?” The way he repeated the last two words made Ashara wonder if it was a familiar term in Turgonia. Something bandied about by dubious presses offering pamphlets on improving familial relationships, perhaps.

  “I try not to disappoint him,” Mahliki said, “but my passion for solving this mystery is… Well, you know I’m still a student, right? I’m taking all of the science courses at your University, but I’m also sending my coursework back home to a couple of professors at the Polytechnic. I’ve finished the core curriculum there, but I need to write a… what’s the Turgonian term? A thesis? No, it’s more than that. I need to do fieldwork, study something, do experiments, and then write up the results and have them assessed by my professors. This—” she waved to the trees, “—is perfect.”

  “You’re doing this for a grade?” Ashara asked. Great, she wasn’t only here to encourage the growth of the Mangdorian blight, but she got to sabotage the academic métier of the Turgonian president’s daughter. She might end up wanted dead in three countries.

  “It’s more like the culmination of years of coursework,” Mahliki said. “I could be one of the youngest people to become a botany professor in the history of the Polytechnic.” She lifted her chin. “If you knew how much home study I’ve had to do over the years, you might understand why I’m proud of my accomplishments and pleased that this project has come my way at an opportune time.” Mahliki shrugged and lit her lamp, her cheeks a little pink. Maybe she felt self-conscious about the attention. Ashara would. “Father matter,” Mahliki muttered. “Why are Turgonians so convinced that collective fulfillment relies on the existence of high-achieving males in your society? I don’t know how your women put up with you.”

  Basilard thumped Maldynado on the arm and nodded.

  “What did I do?” Maldynado asked.

  “Besides starting this conversation?” Ashara murmured and walked off to gather firewood. She did not know whether to feel more or less daunted that her nemesis here, at least insofar as Shukura and his request were concerned, was a student working on a thesis paper. A scientist who had been talked into this mission and had nothing to prove might have been easier to dissuade.

  Ashara sighed and looked up at the mountain slopes ringing the area, wondering if she needed to do anything tonight. Should she try and sabotage Mahliki’s samples? Or wait and hear what the verdict was? Or maybe she should do some research herself, examine the trees more closely with her mental skills. But to what end? She couldn’t help if she figured out the problem. That wasn’t why she was here. Even if she was starting to wish it was.

  By the time she returned to camp with an armload of wood, someone had already started a fire. Jomrik and Maldynado were both snoring, and Mahliki had taken her lantern to a flat spot near the water, where she had assembled a microscope. Upstream from her, Basilard knelt by the shallows, his shirt off as he washed himself with a cloth.

  No, he wasn’t bathing; he was attending a wound. After the chaos of the day and the night before, there hadn’t been time for relaxing. They had walked all day without resting, even taking their meals on the road. Ashara hadn’t realized anyone else had been injured, but after those harrowing experiences, she should have assumed they all had been. The healing salve that she had applied to her own wounds had helped her injuries scab over and start to mend. A Turgonian might make a superstitious hex sign at such a thing, but would a Mangdorian object to magical aid? Maybe she coul
d prove herself a non-enemy if she helped. At the least, maybe helping would make the others less predisposed toward shooting her when they figured out the truth.

  She sighed, hating Shukura for putting her in this position.

  Ashara dug in her pack, retrieved the clay jar, lit a lantern, and walked to the stream. “Do you want some help?”

  She waved to Basilard’s shoulder. The light revealed claw marks in his flesh, the red scrapes raw and moist.

  Basilard lifted a hand and shook his head. The wounds were on the front of his shoulder, so he could probably reach them without assistance. She found herself eyeing all of the other scars on his chest and arms. Old knife gashes, she supposed, remembering Maldynado’s explanation. Basilard certainly looked the part of a fighter, with a powerful build and musculature that made him seem taller than he was. With his shirt off, he wasn’t at all what Ashara would have expected from a diplomat, someone who presumably sat at a desk for most of the day or perhaps strolled around in different nations’ embassies, enjoying alcoholic ciders and pastries.

  Realizing she had been staring at his chest, she blurted, “I have some salve,” and jerked up the jar. “It will help the wounds to heal faster, reduce the likelihood of infection, and dull your pain receptors so they don’t bother you as much.” By the gods, she was starting to sound like a Turgonian pitchman. Or maybe pitchwoman was the term, since women handled most of the business in the nation. “You fight with your right arm, don’t you?”

  Both. Basilard shrugged and peered at the homemade label. What’s in it?

  She had no trouble translating the obvious signs. “Arnica, milshiar, Kendorian bladderpod, dagger dew, and, uh, love.”

  Basilard arched his eyebrows. Love?

  “Yes, see? It’s on the ingredient list.” She leaned close and showed it to him. It had been a marketing gimmick, of course, but one that seemed more acceptable to Turgonians than the suggestion that the ingredients had been altered with mental powers.

  The shrewd way Basilard’s eyes narrowed made her think he knew the truth, but he shrugged again and held out his hand.

  She was reluctant to give him the whole jar since it was all she had brought along—nothing about Shukura’s briefing had implied she would be battling monsters at every turn—but she would feel forward asking if she could apply it for him. Besides, she had never been that comfortable being touched or touching others outside of intimate relationships. Even then, it usually took her a while to make assumptions about what the other person would or would not like. Since she preferred doing things herself without extraneous help or physical contact, she tended to assume others might feel the same way.

  Basilard’s hands moved, his eyebrows raised in another question. He had expressive eyes. Perhaps he had to, in order to ensure he was understood.

  “Uhm, you want to know how much to use?” Ashara guessed. “Not much.” She pantomimed taking a daub. “You do need to rub it into the wounds. It doesn’t feel like salt, but it’s not that pleasant of an experience. I can do it for you, if you want.”

  His expression grew wry, giving her hints to decipher his next comment. Because you think pain would be better coming from you?

  “No, but people treat themselves gingerly. I’m, ah, efficient.” She flushed, aware of the warmth in her cheeks, though she had no idea why the conversation should have her feeling awkward. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t applied salve to people before.

  Basilard pointed to his scrapes, then shifted his shoulder toward her. She knelt beside him, taking the damp cloth he had been using to clean the wounds. She dabbed them first, to ensure he had completed the task. Then she massaged the salve into the cuts. While she did so, she noticed he had fewer scars on his back. He must not be a man to flee from his enemies. She spotted a second fresh gash across his collarbone and washed it.

  “Make sure to flex your muscles, Bas,” came Maldynado’s voice from the campfire. “That always impresses the ladies.” Apparently, he wasn’t as torpid as he had appeared.

  Basilard glared over his shoulder at his comrade, but soon dropped his head. He did not flex. He had to be embarrassed.

  Ashara searched for something to say that might alleviate that. She wasn’t going to admit that she had been noticing Basilard’s muscles and that they were nice, scars and all. It had been three years since her husband’s death, and she hadn’t sought out many companions since then. It had doubtlessly been too long since she had rubbed anyone’s shoulders—or applied salve, as the case might be. But Basilard, even if he had shown an interest, would not be a suitable choice for a romantic tryst. Even if they didn’t have opposing goals here, she couldn’t imagine a peace-loving Mangdorian, even one with some scars, approving of an assassin, or someone who had once been one.

  “He doesn’t consider the ramifications of anything before it comes out of his mouth, does he?” Ashara asked.

  Basilard shook his head.

  “Why are you friends with him?” From their earlier exchanges, she had the sense of a friendship and a past that went beyond this mission.

  Basilard waved his fingers in the air.

  “He understands your language?”

  He nodded.

  Ashara snorted. “Is that as small of a pool of people to draw friends from as it sounds?”

  Another nod—and a sigh.

  She bit her lip, feeling sorry for him. He probably wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, but she couldn’t help it. She felt even more sorry that she had been sent to make life more difficult for him.

  “Basilard?” she said quietly. Before she could think wiser of it, she said, “I have children too.”

  He lifted his head and twisted to look at her.

  She finished dabbing salve on his wounds as an excuse to avoid his eyes. “A son and a daughter. They’re seven and five now. But I haven’t seen them for a while.” Eleven months, to be exact. “They’re back in Kendor. I have a few… problems with my people too. I’m not welcome back there. My children are staying with my mother-in-law for now. Temporarily. Until I find a way to get them.” Until she had established a home somewhere and believed she could give them the life they deserved.

  Aware of him watching her face, she knelt back. She didn’t know why she had shared that. She didn’t share her problems with anyone. He had just seemed like he might be bolstered by knowing someone else had similar problems. That someone else might understand.

  “I’m done here,” Ashara said. “Do you have bandages?”

  Basilard did not respond, not even a nod. He was still looking at her. Had she further messed up the situation by sharing? Was he wondering if she was lying? Trying to gain something by pretending sympathy for him?

  “I—”

  A warning twang plucked at the back of her mind, and she spun around, suddenly certain they were not alone. The shaman was back.

  Jomrik and Maldynado were lounging by the campfire, while Mahliki continued to study insects by the water. Even as Ashara opened her mouth, wondering if she should blurt a warning, Mahliki leaped to her feet. She scooted back from her microscope as a booming crack filled the air.

  One of the massive trees around the campsite tottered, then fell. A thousand more cracks rang out as its branches struck the branches of other trees on its way down. When it landed, the ground shook, dirt and leaves and pine needles flying into the air. Maldynado and Jomrik sprang to their feet, rifles in hand, their eyes huge and bewildered as they spun in all directions, searching for an enemy.

  Ashara hadn’t been near the path of the falling tree, but it was a long moment before she could do more than gape. In addition to damaging several other trees, the giant pine had fallen across the clearing, landing precisely on the spot where Mahliki had been sitting. The rock where she’d set up her microscope had disappeared beneath the trunk and boughs. Ashara doubted the small piece of equipment had survived.

  She looked at Mahliki, expecting her to be biting her fist or preparing to shriek. Instead, her
eyes were closed to slits as she glared up at the hillside behind the camp.

  Had she seen someone? The shaman? Ashara had no doubt that a person had created that “accident,” but she couldn’t sense where the attack had originated.

  She strode across the camp, jumped over the new log, and grabbed her bow. Maybe it was time to find out.

  Chapter 8

  Ashara did not mind the darkness. It wasn’t her first time hunting at night. To some extent, the campfire burning below guided her—the others had built it up after she left—but she also relied upon her senses. Hearing, smell, touch, and… that sixth sense that had warned her of the attack a few seconds early. She hadn’t missed that Mahliki seemed to have received a similar warning. Just when she had decided their aspiring professor was entirely mundane, this happened to make Ashara doubt that assumption. Not that it mattered now. Finding out who was attacking them did.

  She laid her palm against the rough bark of an ancient pine, hoping the forest could tell her where the shaman was. She let her senses run out along its roots, to the roots of adjacent trees and beyond, seeing the world from the earth for a mile in each direction. Someone would have needed to be close to drop a tree in their camp. She brushed against another presence, a human presence, someone looking down at the camp—and at her—from a couple hundred meters up the slope. There was something familiar about the person. At first, she thought it was simply because she had sensed the same person at other points along the journey, but it seemed to be more than that. It seemed to be—

  Ashara Longbow, a voice spoke into her mind.

  She jumped, her hand falling from the bark and her concentration snapping. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, hard and fast. Who are you? she responded in her mind, though she suspected she should know. The telepath obviously knew her. And the voice did seem familiar, as the aura had. Someone from her past. Someone—