Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) Page 17

  “All right, put me down, you oversized hat rack,” the woman said with a laugh. “You know Sicarius gets jealous when I let other men fondle me.”

  Sicarius?

  Ashara might not have recognized the face, but she recognized the name. He had been—or maybe he still was—an assassin, one who had plied his trade in Kendor, among other places, in past decades. Her people believed he had worked for the old Turgonian emperor, killing key personnel to keep the empire’s enemies squabbling internally instead of combining forces and attacking Turgonia. He was one of the reasons the night stalkers had been created fifteen years earlier. The government had wanted a force that could deal with highly trained assassins.

  If this was the same Sicarius, he was younger than she would have guessed, based on how long the name had been whispered in her country. He appeared to be around thirty-five or forty.

  “Now, Amaranthe,” Maldynado said, setting her down and stepping back, “you know I don’t fondle other women any more, on account of my steadfast and unwavering loyalty to Yara.”

  “And because you’re more afraid of her than of Sicarius?”

  “That too. Just before I left, we chanced across an instructor of hers from her early days in the Enforcer Academy, one who had been overly familiar with the female recruits. She seemed to have left an impression on him. And some marks. I didn’t get the entire story, because he was so quick to hustle away from Yara with his hands covering his crotch.”

  “I’ll bet.” Amaranthe glanced curiously at Ashara, then lifted a hand toward the rest of the group. “How are you doing, Mahliki? And Corporal Jomrik, isn’t it? Tikaya gave us a quick briefing before sending us after you. Without giving us time to bathe, eat, or sleep in a bed.”

  “We had sufficient rations,” the man in black said.

  Sicarius, Ashara reminded herself. He had finished searching the tomahawk-throwing Kendorian, removing a folded piece of paper and a spyglass, and he walked toward the group. Ashara shifted out of his way, so he would not pass close by.

  “Yes…” Amaranthe crinkled her nose. “Sicarius made a fresh batch of his dried meat-and-organ bars before we left on our last assignment. Oddly, there were still some left.” She smiled at him as he drew closer.

  Sicarius did not respond to the comment or the smile, other than to eye her briefly on his way past. He handed her the folded paper, then strode toward the shaman’s body.

  “You’re right,” Maldynado said. “His disposition is still the same.”

  A startled squawk flew out of Mahliki’s mouth. She ran to the stack of gear that she, Maldynado, and Jomrik had dropped off when the group reached the creek. One of the packs was smoldering. Mahliki’s? She tore into it, cursing as something hot burned her fingers, and flung her tools, vials, glass dishes, and notebooks onto the moss. One of notebooks was responsible for the smoke, which wafted from its charred edges. She alternated blowing on it and waving it vigorously. Her efforts only fanned new flames to life. With another agitated squawk, she lunged for the stream and thrust the notebook into it. The water put the fire out, but Ashara did not know how legible the ink inside would be once it dried.

  Mahliki lifted her dripping notebook, looking at it with a forlorn sigh. “Basilard’s country is not being kind to me.”

  “Did the shaman do that before he died?” Jomrik stepped up beside her, frowning over at the body, and then down at the book. “Or is someone else out there with magic?” His mouth twisted into the sneer at the last word. Unlike Maldynado, he had never set his rifle aside, and he looked like he wouldn’t mind shooting someone.

  “I hope not,” Mahliki said. “My equipment hasn’t fared well with even one shaman around.” She lowered the book and patted her chest, which was oddly bulky and lumpy at the moment. Glass clinked.

  Several sets of eyes turned toward Ashara. Was she assumed to be the expert on the number of Kendorian shamans about? Basilard must have told them about spotting her with Tladik. She debated whether she could get into trouble—more trouble—for giving them information. Also, should she be worried about getting into “trouble” with the Turgonians too? She didn’t think Basilard would raise a hand against her, even if he did know she was a spy, but she knew nothing about this Sicarius, except that he probably wasn’t the kind of person to be intimidated by Shukura. Maybe he wouldn’t even be intimidated by Tladik.

  In the end, it was the fact that the Kendorians had been shooting at her, not just at Basilard’s party, that made her decide against keeping their secrets. “That’s not the shaman who commanded the grimbals to attack us,” she said.

  “There’s more than one shaman here to harass us?” Maldynado asked.

  “This mission isn’t getting any better as it goes on,” Jomrik grumbled.

  Maldynado slapped him in the chest. “You’re a soldier. You’re supposed to like a challenge.”

  “Not when that challenge destroys the vehicle I am—was—responsible for.”

  “Don’t you ever want a promotion? People don’t get promoted for just doing their duty and keeping their steam lorry clean. They get promoted for being heroic in battle, for standing out, making a difference to the mission. You should be happy for a chance to do those things.”

  Jomrik glowered and said, “Nobody in my chain of command is here to see me being heroic.”

  “I’m sure Basilard could say something to your first sergeant,” Amaranthe said. “The word of an ambassador would mean something.”

  Jomrik rubbed the stubble on his jaw thoughtfully. “Huh.”

  “How come he looks convinced when you say it and not when I do?” Maldynado whispered to Amaranthe.

  She shrugged and smiled.

  “Are you here to assist our Mangdorian ambassador with his quest?” Maldynado asked her. “Because it’s turned more interesting than you might have expected. Our briefing certainly didn’t mention shamans, invaders, or grimbals—did you run into those?”

  “No, but we saw their tracks. And our briefing did mention Kendorians having been spotted in these mountains.” Amaranthe opened the note Sicarius had handed her, but the way she frowned at it didn’t imply that it held anything enlightening. “Where is Basilard?”

  Ashara took a few steps closer, curious as to the contents, but she paused. She didn’t know this new woman. Amaranthe might think it odd if a Kendorian stranger peered over her shoulder.

  “Scouting,” Maldynado said.

  “Does anyone read Kendorian?” Amaranthe waved the note in the air. Instead of looking toward Ashara, she skimmed the forest. Searching for Sicarius? He had checked the shaman, then disappeared into the thick copse where Ashara had shot one of the archers.

  “I do,” Mahliki said. “But not that well. I’m sure Ashara is the more logical person to ask.” She smiled at Ashara, no hint of suspicion in her gaze. She would trust her to share the information? Even though she had openly said that they all knew Ashara was a spy?

  Ashara shrugged and stepped forward, holding out her hand.

  “I’m Amaranthe, by the way.” Amaranthe handed her the note and smiled. Her face was lively and warm, though Ashara couldn’t imagine why. Like Mahliki, she didn’t show any suspicion.

  “That’s Ashara,” Maldynado said. “We don’t know her whole name. She’s our Kendorian spy.”

  Amaranthe’s eyebrows rose. Ashara blushed and kept her head down, focusing on the note.

  “She’s spying on the Kendorians for us?” Amaranthe asked. “Or the other way around?”

  “The other way around. She works for Ambassador Shukura. But we’re hoping we can turn her to our side by employing charm, entertaining conversation, and sexy men to woo her.”

  “Sexy men?” Amaranthe pointed to Maldynado, shook her head slightly, then pointed to Jomrik, her eyebrows climbing even higher.

  Jomrik looked confused, but he did lift his chin and straighten his spine, apparently willing to consider himself a sexy man if it helped the team.

  “Actuall
y, Basilard’s the one she likes to touch,” Maldynado said.

  Flushing deeper, Ashara dropped her chin lower, staring hard at the messy penmanship taking up half of the page. But for some reason, she was having a hard time focusing on the words. So far, all she had noted was that they were written on Kendorian vellum rather than Turgonian wood-pulp paper. She wondered what this Amaranthe thought of Maldynado’s insinuations. Ashara had no idea what her relationship with the president or the Turgonian intelligence office was. Courier? Secret agent? If she traveled with Sicarius, maybe she was another assassin.

  “Oh, good,” Amaranthe said. “Basilard needs some touching.”

  “You won’t hear me argue against that,” Maldynado said. “I told him he should wander around with his shirt off more. Even though he’s a glorified messenger boy now, he still has some nice muscles. I think Starcrest makes his ambassadors fling sandbags around and wrestle with him while he’s receiving their reports. Keeps him young and spry. The ambassadors too. And we all know that women like muscles, right, Ashara?”

  “It’s a letter,” Ashara blurted, desperate to change the topic.

  “Not sure your plan to charm her with entertaining conversation is working,” Amaranthe whispered to Maldynado.

  “It’s probably not the vital intelligence you were hoping for. He was writing to his mother.” Ashara grimaced as she deciphered the poor handwriting. The dead man, through his words, became a real person for her, and she couldn’t help but feel like a murderer. She reminded herself that he had chosen to attack her, that he would have killed her with that tomahawk if she had not defended herself.

  Yes, but hadn’t she been helping the enemy? He must have thought her a traitor. Every Kendorian who saw her with these Mangdorians and Turgonians must think that.

  “He starts off telling her he’ll be home in a couple of months if all goes well. Then… We’ve crossed the border into Mangdoria,” Ashara read slowly, translating the words into Turgonian as she went. “Even though the locals are pacifists, I can’t help but be nervous. We’re being so brazen about walking into their mountains. We’d be sneakier if we were encroaching on Turgonian land. I hope there aren’t consequences for our actions. The major says not to worry. The Mangdorians have other problems to keep them occupied. Then she tells me to shut up and stop asking questions.” Ashara lowered the page. “It stops there. He didn’t get a chance to finish.”

  “An accurate translation,” a cool voice said from behind her.

  Ashara kept from flinching again, but barely. She was usually aware of people walking up behind her, but Sicarius had come to stand behind her without her noticing. She blamed it on the concentration the translation had required, as well as the others’ dialogue, which would have flustered and distracted anyone.

  “Other problems?” Amaranthe asked. “The blight?”

  Mahliki, who was spreading out the damp pages of her notebook, said, “The Kendorians do seem determined to keep the Mangdorians—or anyone else—from solving that problem.”

  “So why are the Kendorians encroaching to start with?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Something to do with trading for—or stealing—the ore in their mountains, Basilard thought,” Maldynado said. “He went to check on a wagon train that passed through.”

  Amaranthe looked toward the trees, then toward the sky visible through the branches. It had darkened since the skirmish began, the promise of twilight in the air.

  “How long was Basilard supposed to be gone scouting?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Until…” Maldynado followed her gaze toward the sky. “Now. He thought he’d be back by nightfall.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t make it back?” Jomrik asked. “Do we go blow up a few Kendorians? I salvaged some blasting sticks from the wreck.” He smiled at Amaranthe.

  Maldynado rolled his eyes. “One sentence. She utters one sentence, and the man is ready to go from grumpy to heroic for her.”

  “Not for me,” Amaranthe said. “For his promotion. Right, Corporal?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll see if Basilard is back by morning,” Amaranthe said. “Otherwise Maldynado might yet get a chance to blow something up.”

  Ashara found that notion somewhat alarming.

  Chapter 10

  As he approached the meeting area, the smell of burning wood made Basilard’s gut tighten with worry. When he had been descending from the mountains, he hadn’t seen any plumes of smoke rising above the forest canopy, but the scent hung thickly along the creek.

  Before he came to the trail his comrades should have been camped near, he spotted the remains of a huge fire, the ground charred for several feet in each direction. Embers still glowed orange as wood smoldered. Maldynado and the others wouldn’t have built such a blatant campfire, not with so many enemies nearby. He grimaced, thinking of just how many enemies there were within ten miles. He had crept to the edge of that canyon, peering down upon a huge encampment along a river, with men and women laying rails into several freshly dug caves. Some of those wagons had veered toward the top of the canyon, too, and started unloading timber. For an outpost? Or watchtower?

  Since guards had been roaming the land above the canyon as well as down inside of it, Basilard had not risked staying long, but it had been long enough to verify they were facing a sizable army, one it would have taken a battalion of Turgonians to combat, if not more. Who knew how many practitioners might have come along on the invasion mission? And what did Basilard have? A nation of pacifists. Maybe not even that. Aside from the dead scouts, he had yet to see any of his own people.

  Though he was not sure it was wise, he approached the remains of the fire, in the hope of finding clues. He did not see any sign of the others, and it would be difficult to follow tracks in the dark. What if Ashara had built the fire as a signal? A way to call out to the other Kendorians and say that Basilard’s party had gone this way? He did not want to think she would do that, but he couldn’t let himself forget that Shukura had placed her in his party.

  Nothing had been left beside the fire, but he spotted the charred remains of bones among the ashes. With a start, he realized what he was looking at: a Turgonian funeral pyre.

  Basilard stared at the ashes, afraid this meant one or more of his comrades had died. He peered into the dark forest, but it was too dark to tell if there had been a battle.

  Eventually, he stepped away from the fire and headed upstream. Even if someone had died, someone else had remained behind to build the pyre. That person might have continued along the path, but he or she shouldn’t have gone too far, knowing Basilard would return. Of course, he had promised to return hours ago—now, it neared midnight. Maybe the rest of his party had given up on him.

  He followed the creek, picking his way over moss-slick rocks on his way to the lake. Since he had mentioned the place to his comrades, they might have chosen to wait for him there.

  When he reached the lake, he did not see a camp anywhere along the banks. The smoke from the funeral pyre still tainted the air, so he couldn’t tell if anyone else had burned a smaller fire nearby. Dark clouds had come in, blotting out the moon and stars, and keeping the smoke from dissipating. The air was muggy with the promise of rain. Would the others have sought some shelter?

  He was about to turn and follow the bank when he had the sense that he was not alone. A dagger found its way into his hand, and he crouched in the deep shadows of two trees, using their trunks to protect his back. An owl hooted on the other side of the lake. A small animal scuttled through the undergrowth. He did not hear the footsteps of anything—anyone—larger, but he was certain he was being watched.

  “You’re late,” a flat voice said from the impenetrable shadows of the forest on the other side of the creek.

  The voice was familiar but unexpected, and it took Basilard a moment to realize who had spoken.

  Sicarius? he signed, even though the keenest-eyed nighthawk would have had trouble seeing his gestures in
the gloom.

  “This way,” Sicarius said, closer this time. He had crossed the creek without making a sound.

  Basilard stepped away from the tree, finally picking out his old comrade, his dark silhouette visible against the outline of the lake and the sky. Only because he wished it, Basilard knew.

  Sicarius walked past Basilard and headed along the bank, pausing once to make sure he was being followed, then pressing on without looking back. Like old times.

  Now Basilard remembered that the president had spoken of sending Amaranthe and Sicarius along when they returned from whatever mission they had been on. Though he still was not sure about the significance of that funeral pyre—and the never-chatty Sicarius would not be the one to inform him—his heart lightened. He had been thinking of ways that he might rid his nation of the invaders on his way back, but every idea that had floated through his mind had seemed crazy and implausible. Something that could never work. Amaranthe was known—almost infamously so—for her crazy ideas, and for finding a way to make them turn out. If she had come, Basilard could run his ideas past her. Maybe something would be worth pursuing. And Sicarius was a powerful ally for other reasons. He might not claim the title of assassin anymore, but that didn’t mean he did not retain the skills—and the ability to carry them out without hesitating or questioning the morality of a situation, as Basilard would.