Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) Page 10

  “Nobody else wanted to deal with us militant Turgonians.”

  Ashara snorted and waited for the real reason. But Maldynado merely turned his palm up, spreading his hand.

  “That’s the truth, or what he told me. And I believe him, except when we’re playing dice or Tiles. I don’t think he knew what else to do with himself after he’d seen to it that we Turgonians would make some laws to ensure slavery wasn’t condoned or overlooked any more. He has a daughter back in his country who he wants to see more of, but his kin don’t want him around. I think he figured the ambassador job might give him a reason to pass through his village now and then.”

  Ashara lifted her head, a jolt going through her at the mention of a child in someone else’s care, of a nation turned against him. She swallowed, the parallel making her uncomfortable.

  “Think he’s going to come back?” Maldynado prodded one of the steaks. “There was supposed to be a sauce, wasn’t there? That’ll teach me to offend him before supper’s made.”

  Ashara walked away, needing a few minutes alone. She found herself in a patch of bushes across the highway, picking gooseberries for a sauce. She wasn’t sure if it would go well with the pork Basilard had selected, but it gave her a way to help finish the meal. She felt that it was her fault that the preparations had been interrupted. Why had she come over and started asking questions in the first place? If anything, she should have been peppering Mahliki with questions, not Basilard. And with Mahliki, she wouldn’t have needed an obnoxious translator. Of course, Mahliki might get suspicious if Ashara, after ignoring her for two days, interrogated her on botany and magic. It might be better to make friends—or at least pretend to make friends—with Basilard and get the information from him. Though learning of these uncomfortable situations that they shared made her not want to use him, to chance hurting him.

  She reminded herself that she had her own children to worry about, not anybody else’s. If she could learn to understand his language, she could talk to him and find out more about Mahliki’s work through him and perhaps more information about the Mangdorian state in general, information she could feed to Shukura.

  When Ashara returned to the camp, Basilard was still gone. Mahliki and the grease-smeared driver were sitting around the fire with Maldynado, passing around a bag of nuts. The skillet had been removed from the heat, but nobody had presumed to disturb the meat. Ashara set the pork aside, grabbed the mountain potatoes and her berries, and made a sauce to go on the dish. She was aware of all three sets of eyes watching her—after her aloofness, the others had to be wondering what had prompted her to cook for them.

  “Maldynado,” she said casually as she worked, “will you teach me some of the ambassador’s hand signs? I didn’t get much of a chance to thank him for helping me today during the attack.” There, that sounded like a plausible reason for wanting to learn the language. Maybe.

  Maldynado scratched his jaw and gazed at her thoughtfully. Maybe he saw through her story. He seemed a dandy with his silly hat and bumbling manner, but he had been a capable fighter and marksman that afternoon. She ought to be careful not to assume he was dull.

  Finally, he shrugged and said, “Can do.”

  Good.

  • • • • •

  The lack of signs of his people disturbed Basilard.

  What he had told the others was true, that those yurts along the highway weren’t always manned, but there were patrollers that monitored the borders, and someone usually appeared within a few hours of Basilard entering the area. He might be the official ambassador to Turgonia, but he often found himself escorted in and out of his homeland when he came bearing messages. Usually, he resented the escort, knowing it meant he wasn’t entirely trusted, but now he worried the lack of it meant something was wrong in his homeland, something more than blighted trees. There was no way the patrollers should have missed the smoke and noise of the steam vehicle.

  Basilard glanced back toward the camp from his spot on a knoll overlooking the highway. The fire was still burning. Normally, he wouldn’t bother with anything except for a small cook fire, if that, since the summer evening made it unnecessary for warmth. But he had wanted to offer a blatant signal for any Mangdorians who might be watching the road. Still, none of his people had come. So long as the grimbals didn’t come, either.

  He looked back toward the highway, glad for the excuse to stand guard out there and stay out of camp. He didn’t know why Maldynado had started sharing all of that information about him, but the incident with Elwa was too fresh, too painful in his mind. He didn’t want anyone else to know of that humiliation. It was bad enough Maldynado knew.

  A breeze whispered through the canyon. Basilard had been enjoying the scent of the pork, thyme, and garlic, hoping the others would leave some for him, but this breeze blew that smell away from him—and another smell toward him.

  He sucked in an alarmed breath, sniffing the air like a hound, hoping he was wrong. The grimbals. He didn’t see them on the highway, but darkness limited his vision. The creatures might also be pushing through the undergrowth.

  Why? Why would they follow this far? No predator would chase prey this many miles, especially prey riding in a vehicle that should make the scents of those within impossible to track. True, the burning coal made a distinct odor, but he couldn’t believe an animal would link the two, coal with humans. And why were the grimbals so set on humans? This time of year, there was plenty for them to eat—plenty that was easier to catch than people. They shouldn’t be that desperate for food.

  Stop trying to ascribe logic to this, he told himself. There had to be a shaman out there somewhere. A shaman who either didn’t want anyone to survive a trek into Mangdoria—he thought of that dead man who had been caught on the road—or who didn’t want Basilard to return to his homeland. Could this be about his team specifically? Could they have been expected?

  Another breeze stirred the leaves on the trees, bringing the distinctive earthy scent of those creatures. They couldn’t be more than a mile away.

  Basilard ran down the knoll, charging for the camp. He did not bother with stealth, and the others looked up when he raced toward them. They had been in the middle of eating, but everyone grabbed their weapons and lurched to their feet.

  More grimbals, he signed. They’re coming. Is the lorry ready?

  “No,” Corporal Jomrik said before Maldynado finished translating, “but I stoked the fire in the furnace, anyway.” He ran toward the vehicle.

  Basilard hesitated. Does that mean we can ride farther in it, or not?

  If the answer was not, they would have to come up with a plan, a way to defeat multiple grimbals without steel walls to hide behind.

  “Maybe?” Maldynado said, but ran for the lorry, just as Mahliki and Ashara were doing. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the campfire as he went. “That’s your steak. Don’t leave it for the critters.”

  Critters. As if grimbals were so innocuous. How were they going to fight another group of them in the dark? And what if there were more that hadn’t shown themselves before?

  Maybe they could elude them somehow. There was a river about fifteen miles to the north, if they turned off the highway here and took this entrance into Mangdoria. Basilard recalled a rope bridge across that river, one that could be cut to keep animals from following. The problem, as he had noted earlier, was that the routes into his homeland were not designed to accommodate steam vehicles. He had not lied about the pit traps and mazes. Even without the threat of predators behind them, he was not sure if he could guide Jomrik through in the dark. He also was not sure the lorry would be able to travel quickly enough over the bumpy ground to stay ahead of the grimbals.

  The earthy scent of the predators reached his nose, this time without the help of a breeze. Basilard grabbed the skillet and ran to the cab to inform the others of his plan. He hoped it did not sound as suicidal to them as it did to him.

  Chapter 6

  Branches cracked
and grass flattened as the lorry bumped over the uneven terrain. It hit rocks and trampled over bushes, every big jolt threatening to throw some of Mahliki’s trunks out of the back. Basilard, his fist to his lips, watched the road ahead intently, lamenting that the cracks streaking across the windshield affected the view. The running lamps at the front of the vehicle provided some illumination, but he feared it would not be enough for him to see those traps before the lorry tumbled into them. The crash—and the sharpened stakes at the bottom—would end the vehicle’s life. Even by day, Basilard would have struggled to spot the traps. They weren’t designed to be spotted, not by those who didn’t know they were there. And he hadn’t traveled these paths—especially this one, which was farther east than the one he usually took—often in recent years.

  “We’re going to die,” Jomrik muttered.

  “Aren’t soldiers supposed to be more optimistic than that?” Maldynado asked.

  “Where’d you hear that? Soldiers are pragmatic. It’s not a career that inspires thoughts of longevity.”

  “Well, I’d consider it a favor if you’d think about your longevity tonight.”

  Another branch smacked the windshield. Small shards of glass clinked to the floor. Basilard shook his head. The view was too poor to rely on.

  I’m going to sit up there, Basilard signed after nudging Maldynado—his eyes were locked on the windshield too. Everyone’s were. Jomrik’s knuckles were white where he gripped the control levers. So I can better guide you.

  “Up there? Up where?” Maldynado looked up at the roof.

  You’ll see.

  The warped door creaked when he opened it—a piece of rope had to be untied before he could go out. Basilard pushed it back closed, though it did not shut all the way. He wouldn’t retie the rope, not when he might need to get inside again quickly. He was all too aware of the slowness of the lorry as it rumbled along the path, in part because of the terrain, and in part because of its damage. Despite the repairs the corporal had attempted, it clanked ominously with each rotation of its wheels.

  Basilard lay on his stomach on the hood, making sure he did not block Jomrik’s view. The corporal needed to see everything he could.

  From his belly, Basilard watched the terrain around the path as much as the rocks and dirt itself. He was hunting for boulder formations he recognized, ancient trees that marked routes. Already, their path had forked a couple of times. He felt confident that he had made the right choices in those instances; it was the traps he worried about. The—

  He jerked his head up, recognizing a formation that crept into view at the edge of the lights’ influence. He flung up a hand. The lorry halted so abruptly that he nearly tumbled off the hood.

  Basilard pointed to low brush to the left of the trail. He hated to direct the vehicle to destroy the foliage, but he remembered that double-hump-shaped rock formation. Even if he was wrong, it was better to be safe.

  “Jomrik says that’s not a road,” Maldynado called out the door.

  Basilard waved and pointed again. There weren’t any trees in the brush. If the vehicle could slam into a grimbal and survive, it ought to be able to crush some bushes.

  “He also says we’re going to die.”

  Basilard jumped from the hood, grabbed a heavy rock by the side of the road, and tossed it into the path. What had appeared to be a level patch of dirt fell away, a giant rectangular trapdoor dropping open. Blackness hid the spikes at the bottom from view, but Basilard knew they were down there. He also hoped the fact that the traps hadn’t been sprung already meant that his people hadn’t been gone from the area for long; the border patrollers would reset the traps whenever they came upon them in this state.

  As soon as the pit was revealed, the lorry crashed into the brush. Leaves flew into the air. So many branches snapped that Basilard was sure everyone in the mountains knew where his team was. Maybe dragging the vehicle up this far was a mistake. Maybe they should have gone on foot. It might be a shame to leave all of Mahliki’s equipment behind, but he didn’t think they were traveling any faster in the lorry than if the group had gone on foot. The only difference was that the sturdy metal walls of the military vehicle might provide them some protection from the grimbals. Aside from the cracked windows, the grimbals’ gouges had done little to seriously damage the sides. Of course, if that window shattered completely, a paw could reach in and grab someone.

  With these thoughts racing through his mind, Basilard skirted the pit on the opposite side from the vehicle, so he could meet it at the end. A rock shifted on the trail behind him. He glanced back and nearly slipped into the pit, alarm flooding his veins. One of the grimbals was less than a hundred meters back—and running. Even in the darkness, he could see its giant silhouette against the starry sky behind it. More creatures moved behind it.

  Go, he cried, even though nothing came out.

  He sprinted, met the lorry, and banged on the side for urgency, even as he ripped the door open and jumped in. He slipped on leaves that had found their way inside, littering the floor. He caught himself on Maldynado’s shoulder.

  Grimbals, Basilard signed, his hands probably jerking too quickly for anyone to follow the signs. Forcing himself to slow down he added, Right behind us. Go. Fast.

  “What about traps?” Jomrik asked before Maldynado had finished translating. His question didn’t keep him from pushing the acceleration lever forward. The vehicle surged down the trail. Thankfully, a flat downhill section lay ahead of them. Mahliki had put aside her loupe and vials for the coal shovel. The furnace door was open, flooding the cab with heat as she poured fuel onto the flames.

  It should be another mile to the next one, Basilard signed. I’ll go out on the hood in a moment to watch for it, but we’re going to need—

  The door on the driver’s side opened, and Ashara pulled herself out, heading for the roof again. This time, she took a rifle and a box of ammunition instead of her bow.

  Basilard decided that, even if she now knew far too much about his personal problems, he was starting to like the woman. His face grim, Maldynado grabbed his rifle and started after her.

  “We’ll shoot at them, try to keep them busy,” he said.

  “Don’t fall off,” Jomrik said. “We’re not coming back for you.”

  “I’m wounded, Jommy,” Maldynado said. “I thought our time under the lorry meant something to you.”

  “It meant never ask a warrior-caste fop to be an assistant.” The path narrowed, the rocks jolting the vehicle, and the corporal did not speak again.

  Before Maldynado could climb out, Mahliki blurted, “Wait,” and grabbed his arm. She dug out two of her vials. “Here. Throw these. Make sure the glass hits a rock or something hard so that it’ll break.”

  “Like a grimbal head?”

  “A particularly pointy one, perhaps.”

  The crack of a rifle came from above and behind—Ashara must have climbed from the roof to the top of the cargo bed frame. As branches continued to scrape at the sides, Basilard shook his head, afraid she and Maldynado could be knocked off, and he and Jomrik would never know it. He was tempted to go up there to help, even if he doubted the rifle bullets would strike vital targets in the dark. He hoped Mahliki’s smoking vials would slow down the grimbals.

  “That’s a mile,” Jomrik said, glancing in his direction.

  Next trap, right. Basilard climbed back out, only to take a branch in the face, pine needles stabbing his skin and nearly knocking him off the vehicle. With his heart trying to leap out of his throat, he plastered himself against the side of the lorry, sucking in his belly as more branches scraped past. Gunshots filled the air above him. Reminding himself that trees were the least of his concerns, he found a clearing between the grasping limbs and slithered around the frame and onto the hood again. Jomrik was plowing along the path at twelve or fifteen miles an hour now. Basilard had no idea if God paid attention to him anymore, but he prayed that, after following them all day, the grimbals were too worn o
ut to keep up.

  The path split into three at the edge of the lorry’s running lamps. Feeling confident about this if nothing else, Basilard pointed to the rightmost route. A meadow opened up ahead, and he directed Jomrik to roll through it instead of staying on the path. Basilard distinctly remembered two pit traps on the path in this area.

  The rifles ceased firing. He craned his head around, but he could not see to the top of the cargo bed from his position. He hoped the others were merely pausing to reload, not that anyone had fallen off. There weren’t any trees in the meadow, but the lorry pitched and lurched as it covered the rough terrain. Jomrik must have seen this as a spot to gain ground. He was driving faster now, almost too fast.

  Basilard gripped the cracks at the edge of the hood, wishing he had more to grab on to. His stomach bashed against the unyielding metal, as he was thrown about, nearly bucked off when they raced over a hump, and all four wheels left the ground.

  “We can slow down,” came Maldynado’s beleaguered call from the top of the cargo bed. “The grimbals are falling behind. Bas, tell him.”

  As if Basilard could tell Jomrik anything. It took several moments before he could manage to lift an arm without flying off. He pointed toward the path. They had passed those traps. They could return to the slightly smoother route.

  Jomrik veered in that direction, but he did not slow down. The meadow was sloping downward, a slope that would continue until they reached the river Basilard had been thinking of when he chose this route. He hadn’t been thinking of picking up speed the whole way. He glanced back, hoping his face would say what he couldn’t express with words. They needed to slow down. But Jomrik was too busy looking down and fighting with the controls to notice.

  A sick feeling spread through Basilard’s belly. Had the brake been damaged? Maybe they couldn’t slow down.

  By the time the vehicle reached the path, it was careening along so fast that wind battered Basilard’s face, making his eyes water and threatening to hurl him from the hood. There was at least one more pit trap, one right before the river, maybe two, but he couldn’t stay outside. At this speed, a simple bump might hurl him from the vehicle. And if it was flying down the path, out of control, the corporal wouldn’t be able to stop to wait for him to catch up. The grimbals might not be able to outrun a steam lorry, but they would have no trouble catching up to a human on foot.