Does Sespian not gaze adoringly at you while you babble about fungi?
“Nobody gazes adoringly during fungus discussions. I try not to bore him with them. When we’re together at his place or mine, we usually sit quietly, him drawing and me reading. We do other things, too, of course. But we’re just comfortable in silence. Is that weird?” Her nose wrinkled up, and she glanced up the mountainside again, probably wondering if this was the time for this discussion. Basilard had been watching the slope. The shaman—or whoever had been making Mahliki’s senses jangle—had not reappeared.
No. It’s mature.
This time, her lips twisted downward. “I think that might be worse than being weird.”
You’ll grow out of that notion.
“Bas? Mahliki? You alive back there?” Maldynado called from the path.
“Yes.” Mahliki peered at the slope one more time, then headed back.
Basilard put aside his thoughts of tracking shamans, at least for the moment. Perhaps an opportunity might arise later to trap their spy. He knew of a few places where more than spike-filled pits had been left to thwart invaders.
Someone is watching us, Basilard signed to Maldynado when he rejoined the others.
“Can you see the utter shock on my face?” Maldynado waved to his features.
“Not me,” Mahliki said. “I’m distracted by the fox tail on that hat. It’s so bright and fluffy. It would make a good target for archers and shamans. Maybe you should lead the way.”
“I don’t think it’s your prerogative as the president’s daughter to insult my wardrobe.”
“No? That’s disappointing.”
Ashara, standing ahead of the group, waited in silence. Basilard nodded for her to lead the way and started walking, with the rest of the group staying close to him. He would warn her when they approached another trap. Even though he wasn’t sure how far he could trust her, he found himself wanting to make sure no harm came to her. And he also found himself wanting her to be on their side. He didn’t want to be betrayed by her. He wasn’t sure why it mattered. Perhaps because she had shared that information about her own children. And because her touch had made goosebumps arise across his whole body when she had been tending his wounds.
He scowled at himself. That was hardly a worthwhile reason to trust someone.
“I think she likes you,” Maldynado said.
What? Basilard frowned at him, not positive who he was talking about. He supposed it wouldn’t make sense for him to mean Mahliki.
“She’s grumpy and gruff, but she was lingering quite a bit yesterday, touching your back.”
Reflexively, Basilard lifted a hand to his shoulder. Whatever the secret ingredient had been in Ashara’s healing salve, his wounds did feel much better today. Love, indeed.
She was providing medical care, nothing more. And she’s not gruff. When she takes the time to come over and talk to you, she talks. Normally. She just keeps to herself most of the time.
And why were they discussing this? They had a shaman to worry about and people to find. Basilard increased his pace, hoping to discourage a continuation of the conversation.
Mahliki spotted a shaman, he added when he saw Maldynado opening his mouth again. We should be careful.
“Shaman?” Maldynado asked.
Jomrik’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced toward the rocky hills on either side of the path as they walked. “I wondered about shamans last night, when that tree fell.”
“You must not have wondered very hard,” Maldynado said. “You were snoring again three minutes after it happened.”
“I was tired. Been a harrowing journey. All I was expecting was to drop the ambassador off up here.” Jomrik nodded toward Basilard. “My first sergeant said, take him and his team up there, stick around in case they need their supplies, then bring them back. Figured if I did a good job and the ambassador put in a good word for me, I might get that promotion I’ve been hoping for. Now, I’ll be lucky if… I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Jomrik hadn’t been cheerful, even when his lorry had been fully operational, but he was glummer than ever now. Having never asked for a soldier, Basilard was not sure what he should be doing with one. Were there some special duties he should be assigning the man?
“Shooting at shamans is a good hobby for you to take up,” Maldynado said.
“Can you do that? I thought they could wave their hands and make bullets bounce off.” Jomrik grimaced.
“Depends if you catch them off guard or not. You stumble across one with his drawers down in the forest, you might want to take advantage of that. They’re just humans when they’re not using their powers.”
“Why would one have his drawers down?”
“Same reason as anyone else,” Maldynado said. “Rabbits, bears, shamans, everybody drops cannonballs now and then.”
Mahliki was staying within earshot now—something Basilard was glad for—and she glanced at the men, her brows raised. Jomrik cleared his throat, his cheeks turning red. Basilard wouldn’t have guessed that a conversation about defecation would have embarrassed a soldier, so he assumed it had more to do with Mahliki’s presence. He had further evidence to support his hypothesis when Mahliki jogged ahead to catch up with Ashara, then veered off to a cherry tree to take a sample. Jomrik watched her, a wistful expression on his face.
“Is she, uh—” Jomrik lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you know if she’s taken? Back home, I mean. In the capital.”
“Taken where?” Maldynado smiled, deliberately misinterpreting the question.
“Does she have a… male friend, I mean?”
“Many male friends. She’s quite popular.”
Jomrik scowled at Maldynado. “You know what I’m asking.”
She’s been spending time with Sespian for the last few months, Basilard signed. Ashara paused up ahead, kneeling to look at tracks where another trail joined theirs.
Maldynado translated.
“Sespian?” Jomrik asked, as if the name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Yes, the former emperor,” Maldynado said dryly.
“Oh. But he’s not anybody super powerful and important now, right? Didn’t he become an artist?” Jomrik’s nose wrinkled. “That’s womanish.”
Basilard snorted. Turgonian men seemed to consider anything that didn’t involve fighting as womanish.
“Actually he’s an architect,” Maldynado said. “His drawings get turned into big buildings. He designed the presidential manor.”
Jomrik scratched his jaw, perhaps trying to decide if an end result of “big buildings” caused art to be less womanish. “Aw, s’pose it doesn’t matter. I’m just a corporal. And I’m most likely to be knocked down to private when I get back, on account of returning without my lorry.” His shoulders slumped, the glumness wrapped around him deepening.
Having no advice to offer him on the topic of women—or lorries—Basilard trotted ahead to see what Ashara had found. Before he came within five meters, he spotted the deep wheel marks gouging the dried mud. A few wagons had been traveling on their path, as evinced by the triggered pit trap, but nothing like this. These wheel marks—all of them fresh—indicated at least twenty wagons. Basilard picked out the clawed, five-toed prints of giant lizards, their tails forming a line in the dirt, thicker than that from the wagon wheels.
We don’t have lizards up here, Basilard signed.
“Kendorians,” Ashara said, apparently guessing what his signs had meant.
Yes, a lot of them. It was time to do some investigating.
Keep going that way, Basilard signed when Maldynado and the others caught up. There’s a stream up ahead that empties out of a lake up there. He waved to indicate the hills at the end of their valley. Several paths come together. One leads to my village. If his village was still there. Another leads to a meeting place where my people might have gone. I’ll rejoin you at that confluence of trails by the stream before nightfall.
Be careful. Watch Mahliki.
Mahliki arched an eyebrow. Yes, she could probably watch herself adequately, but the shaman—or shamans—seemed to be targeting her specifically.
“Where are you off to?” Maldynado asked.
To find out where they’re going. Basilard pointed to the tracks. He hated the idea of leaving Mahliki and going ahead to scout, but he was tired of walking in the group, being spied upon by others, and waiting for things to happen. That was not his way. Alone, he could disappear into the woods, climb to a high point, and see into the distance without being seen himself.
“What if they’re going to the same meeting place as your people?” Maldynado called after him—Basilard was already jogging away from the group.
He turned to respond. Whatever the Kendorians are here for, I sincerely doubt it’s to visit a Mangdorian religious site.
He looked to Ashara, wondering if she knew what her people were doing here and if she would tell him. She gazed toward the hills and did not comment. Basilard turned and continued trotting into the woods. He would find out for himself.
Chapter 9
Basilard felt vulnerable on the rocky mountainside, knowing anyone walking along below or looking across from the other peaks could spot him easily. Up here, above the tree line, nothing except boulders offered cover. Here and there, mountain goats that hadn’t heard his approach leaped away, sending pebbles skittering below. Fortunately, there weren’t any trails nearby, not manmade trails, anyway, so he did not anticipate encountering anyone else climbing around up here. Another quarter mile, and he would reach a ridge from where one could see the trails the group was traveling on for ten miles in either direction. He would also be able to see across the Blood Rocks, a land of pillars, arches, and canyons that stretched for more than a hundred miles in every direction.
Though he did not know much about mining and prospecting, he’d heard Turgonians talk about red stone meaning iron-rich earth, and he knew iron was used in many of the alloys in the republic. The Kendorians might be more interested in gold or silver, but Basilard knew less about how to find those ores. When he had first realized people might be invading in order to mine, he had thought of the canyons.
A falcon screeched overhead. Normally, Basilard would not think much of the birds, aside from taking occasional cues from them, but after the strange behavior of the predators along the highway, he paused to look up. He did not want to be gouged in the back of the neck by a beak or talons while he was climbing.
The bird circled once, then swooped over the ridge, disappearing from sight. No trouble, after all. But while Basilard was looking upward, he spotted several crows circling in the air up ahead. He continued in that direction—there were few routes among the rocks—and mentally braced himself to come across some recent kill.
He was not wrong to do so. He hadn’t expected the kill to be human, and his stomach sank when he spotted torn clothing and the raw flesh of a half-eaten body.
Though he did not want to look closer, he had to know who had died up here, and he needed to know what had killed the person. Were there more grimbals roaming on this side of the river? He had a hard time imagining the giant creatures roaming on the loose scree of the boulder-filled slope, but other more agile predators might be about. Wolves, cougars, and lynxes were all common in this area.
The crows scattered at Basilard’s approach, cawing at him with irritation for interrupting their meal. Not much remained of the skin, but a few clumps of pale brown hair were visible. He hoped one of the invading Kendorians had been caught by hungry predators. Unfortunately, he spotted a beaded thong that had fallen from the person’s grip, a bloodstained wooden carving at the end of it. He recognized the religious talisman without getting close enough to see the subject matter of the carving. He didn’t need to. It was Mangdorian.
What were you doing up here, friend? he wondered, then let his gaze rise to the top of the ridge. Maybe this man, too, had come up here to observe his surroundings.
Hoping that he would not meet a similar fate, Basilard continued to the rocky ridge. As he crested it, the red canyon lands stretched out ahead of and far below him. Massive cracks in the earth, the canyons stretched for miles, some a few hundred feet deep and others a few thousand feet deep. The faintest of sounds drifted to his ears. A banging, like a smith working on an anvil. Or a miner cutting into a lucrative vein?
Basilard crouched in the shadow of a boulder, wanting the rock as protection for his back in case a shaman was out there ordering animals to attack his people. He withdrew a collapsible spyglass, but even before he opened it, he spotted what he had been looking for. It wasn’t what he had wanted to see, but it was definitely what he had been looking for.
Sighing, Basilard gazed down at the train of lizards, wagons, and humans snaking into view, walking out through a pass in the ridge about three miles to the north of him. They were heading across the flat red earth toward the closest canyon. Basilard had been out here in his youth and knew there were a few trails that jutted from the steep walls, allowing one to descend to the bottom. From the depths of that canyon, several wisps of smoke rose up. Campfires, or something larger. The hammering noises seemed to be coming from that direction too. If his memory served, a river traveled through the canyon. It would afford the invaders a pleasant campsite with all of the water and fish they needed for their stay. His mouth twisted bitterly. The last thing he wanted was for his land to be hospitable to intruders.
Basilard opened the spyglass and tried to estimate how many people were in that long wagon train, but he stopped when his count reached over a hundred. A hundred people who were on the way to meet however many more had already started working in that canyon. He didn’t like that those wagons held more than bags of flour. Some carried freshly cut wood, bags of nails, and boxes of tools. Were the Kendorians planning to build houses? Or perhaps a fort so they could defend their claims while they worked them? As if they would need to defend themselves against Mangdorians. Basilard’s people would not raise weapons, not even to drive intruders out of their homeland.
He gritted his teeth. He shouldn’t raise a weapon, either, especially not when he was now an official representative of his people, but the idea of letting these invaders pillage his land and take what they wanted… It grated at him. Even worse, because they had wanted to keep their operation secret, or so Basilard assumed, they had killed people on their way here. Or they had convinced animals to kill people. The end result was the same. And the blight? Was it their doing? Something to distract or weaken the Mangdorians while the Kendorians planned this invasion? Or maybe they had thought that the Mangdorians would be forced to trade access to their ore deposits in exchange for food.
Whatever the original intent, Basilard couldn’t let this continue. He had to do something.
But he had no idea what.
Even if he could find his people, he doubted they would help him. That left him with Maldynado, a grumpy soldier who seemed lost without his lorry, and the president’s daughter, someone he most definitely should not put into a combat situation. He would have liked to count Ashara as an asset—she had certainly been a valuable ally in fighting the grimbals—but he doubted he could, not if it came to a fight with her own people. She might even now be back with his party, sabotaging Mahliki’s work or communicating with that shaman and letting him know where they were heading.
Basilard drummed his fingers on his thigh, wondering if he should head back immediately or get closer, so that he could assess the forces already in the canyon. It would be a long hike down the mountain and out to an overlook, but he would have better intel to bring back to…
Who, Basilard? Who are you going to report to? he asked himself. He was in charge, especially if he couldn’t locate his people. And even if he did locate them, he already knew what their plan would be. Avoid confrontation. Do nothing.
Hoping he would not regret leaving his comrades for long, Basilard picked a path over the ridge and headed
for the canyon lands below. He needed to come up with a plan. Maybe during the long hike, inspiration would visit him. As long as he didn’t get caught by some animal spy along the way. He looked over his shoulder, remembering the fallen Mangdorian, and hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
• • • • •
“This looks like the stream,” Maldynado said, plopping down his pack. “At least it’s a stream. Does anyone else feel lost after winding around through these mountains and going up and down all of these crazy trails that run every which way?”
Ashara stood on a boulder, having arrived ahead of the group. She had already climbed a tree and spotted the lake Basilard had described. She knew she could find her way back to the highway, using the sun and the mountain peaks themselves for guidance if she had to, but they had taken a meandering route to this spot.
“I’m not sure I could find my way back,” Mahliki admitted while rooting in her pack. “Not without falling into a pit.”
Corporal Jomrik grumbled something Ashara could not hear.
Maldynado rested the butt of his rifle on the ground, scratched his armpit, and gazed around at the wilderness. “I’m not sure how to relax out here with so few gaming halls, so few wrestling matches to watch, and so few dining establishments. Where’s a man supposed to go to dice and drink?” He peered down one of the trails. “I wouldn’t mind shooting something.”
“I saw a pair of squirrels cavorting in a tree a ways back,” Jomrik said.
“That wasn’t cavorting. That was foreplay. It’s unkind to shoot a critter’s lover at such a time. I was thinking more that I wouldn’t mind targeting an enemy shaman who likes to drop trees on young ladies.”
“What if he’s cavorting with another shaman at the time?”
“In that unlikely instance, I might make an exception to my rule about shooting lovers.” Maldynado looked toward Ashara, even though she hadn’t shown any interest in participating in the conversation. “Do Kendorian shamans cavort, Ash?”
Diplomats and Fugitives Page 15