Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (20 page)

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?”

Even if Maldynado seemed content to be judged a fool, he did give her shrewd, speculative looks now and then, the sort that probably meant he was thinking about how untrustworthy she was. Ashara wondered if she should simply tell the group the truth. But then she remembered Tladik’s words, his threats, and worried she dared not do anything except work with him. Besides, would Maldynado and the others believe her if she
did
tell the truth?

“Ashara?” Mahliki walked over, carrying a stack of compact glass dishes with lids. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“If I’m a spy for Kendor?” Ashara asked, more bitterness seeping into her tone than she intended. She should not have spoken so bluntly, but she knew they were all thinking of it—and perhaps speaking of it in Basilard’s hand language when she wasn’t looking.

“I thought that was assumed,” Mahliki said without any of the same bitterness. Her face was calm, not even judgmental.

“You did?”

“The Kendorian ambassador sent you.” Mahliki spoke matter-of-factly, as if any other conclusion would have been asinine.

Ashara snorted. Maybe it would have been.

“However, from what Basilard said, it was suggested that you have some special knowledge of the forest, of specific plants. I thought you might have more than
mundane
knowledge.” Mahliki touched her temple.

“Is there a reason you ask?” Ashara considered the stack of dishes again.

“I’m contemplating solutions to what I’ve been thinking of as the
amiopoleaia
hardwood blight, because I believe that is the root fungus, though it’s been adapted by scientific or perhaps—” Mahliki wriggled her eyebrows, “—
scientific
means to spread easily and with greater virility than normal. There’s something else that’s off about the fungus too. I got a little light-headed when I was bent over my samples, breathing the air. I believe the spores may have a neurotoxic effect on humans. Insects don’t mind them, though. The spores are attracting numerous bees and hummingbirds and possibly other pollinators too. I’m fairly certain that isn’t a feature of the original. I could be positive if I had access to
The Complete Fungal Morphology and Anatomy Manual of Eukaryotes of the Palastak Continent
.
Native Trees of Northeast Turgonia
would also be useful. Unfortunately, both books have spikes sticking through them now.”

“Maybe your library can be retrieved later.” Ashara should have said something more useful, but she was stunned that Mahliki had already identified the cause of the blight—how had she known which fungal disease it had been based on? Especially if she didn’t have her books along to reference?

“Jomrik promised to do that for me personally, even if he has to steal a lorry from the army vehicle pool in order to get back up here. I wouldn’t allow him to get in trouble like that, but it was sweet of him to offer.”

“Yes…” Ashara leaned to the side and caught Jomrik gazing over at them—at Mahliki, specifically. “I imagine men are sweet to you quite often.”

Mahliki wriggled her fingers in acceptance of this—she didn’t seem to be the kind of girl to be oblivious to admirers—then handed Ashara the first glass dish, one full of fuzzy grayish-green blobs growing on a gelatin. “That’s the normal
amiopoleaia
fungus. This,” she said, handing over another dish, “is what’s growing on the trees around here. I can’t detect anything that would indicate a practitioner had placed spores on them, but as I said, I suspect any tinkering was done in a lab countless generations ago and that we’re looking at the end result, put out into nature to spread like a virus.”

“Generations ago? How quickly does the ami—that fungus procreate?”

“I can only estimate, given that my observations have been interrupted by predator attacks and falling trees, but it seems to double every two to three hours, given adequate nutrients. Its metabolism may increase substantially in a warmer environment, the way standard brewer’s yeast does, in which case, that might explain why it’s become so much more pronounced and prevalent this summer.”

“What is it you think I might be able to do to help?” Ashara said. “I’m afraid I don’t know who created it or how to combat it.”

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

Mahliki was certain Ashara was a spy but didn’t believe she had any knowledge of political happenings back home? That was depressingly accurate.

“But look at this one.” Mahliki handed her a third dish, this one with shavings of wood inside but without the fuzzy gray splotches. “Remember those early samples I took? Of healthy trees? I smeared them with my nutrient agar to encourage growth and inoculated the sample with spores.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly. If you look at the shavings under magnification, you’ll see that the spores did munch on my nutrient blend, but I didn’t have enough in there to fuel more than one generation of doubling. The wood itself was not an acceptable environment for the fungus to grow on. I’ll have to ask Basilard for the name of this particular species, and then we’ll look for more of them, to see if all of them are immune to this particular blight. If so, that may give us some clues in finding a means for defense. Right now, I’m making a few sprays and trying them on the fungi, but again, I’m limited in resources. No lab. Not even a microscope anymore. I wish my sister was here. She’s not an expert in the nature-related mental sciences, but she could probably make what I have in mind. She’s in Kyatt, so not exactly close. That’s what brings me to you.” Mahliki arched her brows. “What exactly do you do? I heard something about love and healing salves.”

Ashara had been preparing to answer the question, but the addition made her snort and almost choke.

Mahliki waited patiently, her brows still arched, while Ashara recovered. Apparently, nobody believed the love bit.

“I make potions, and I do sometimes alter herbs to have greater potency, especially in regard to enhancing properties that are desirable for humans. But I…” Ashara groped for a way to say that she shouldn’t help, not with a shaman out there who might very well kill her for assisting the Mangdorians. Still, she felt sick at the idea of letting this blight ravage the mountain forests without doing anything, when it was possible she
could
do something.

Ashara held up a hand, almost relieved when her senses warned her of something her ears had not yet detected. Not magic, not this time—her neck hairs hadn’t bristled with discomfort yet—but she sensed something more mundane. A soft grunt came from the distance, that of a human, not of an animal.

“Get the others,” she whispered. “Take care. We’re not alone out here.”

“Basilard?” Mahliki asked, but she was already taking back her dishes and turning toward the shady spot where they had left their packs.

“No,” Ashara said.

She waved for Mahliki to join the armed men and unslung her bow, then dropped down behind her boulder, the creek at her back. There were more rocks on the other side of the waterway that would provide decent cover for her. Someone would have to get close to easily target her, and she did not intend to let that happen.

“Is it the shaman?” Maldynado called softly, his voice just audible over the gurgling water.

Ashara waved a hand at him, wanting him to find cover rather than asking questions. But then she realized he had. Maldynado, Jomrik, and Mahliki were behind broad trunks, their rifles pointing in the direction Ashara was looking. The trees weren’t ideal protection, since someone might creep up behind them, but she would have to trust them to take care of themselves while she worried about her own survival.

Movement caught her eye. Someone darting from tree to tree in the distance. With one knee on the ground and the other foot planted, she leaned out slightly, making room to fire with her bow. She spotted someone else about twenty meters away from the first person. Unease crept into her stomach. Multiple enemies. And just because she hadn’t sensed anyone using the mental sciences yet did not mean Tladik was not among them. She glimpsed the fringes of a buckskin shirt. She hoped these might be Mangdorians who were simply approaching warily, since Ashara and the others were all outsiders, but she wouldn’t count on it, not when Tladik had been following them for two days.

A smudge of red warned her of an attack, and Ashara ducked behind the boulder a heartbeat before an arrow glanced off, its fletching an unfriendly crimson. Not a Mangdorian.