Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (3 page)

Yes
. Basilard did not want to talk about languages or signs, not then.
Elwa? Have you ever thought of… Could you see yourself as…
He took a deep breath.
Elwa, will you marry me?

Her eyes grew round with surprise. So much for his hypothesis that she might be anticipating his question. Basilard dug into his pocket, noticing how sweaty his hand was as he wrapped his fingers around the necklace. He tried to wipe his palm on his trousers at the same time as he withdrew it. He held it out toward her, the braided grass strands dangling from his fingers. For some reason, his eyes focused on the necklace instead of looking up at her face, to see if her surprise had turned into delight or at least interested consideration.

“I—Leyelchek,” she said, her voice difficult to read. It didn’t sound delighted.

Hesitantly, Basilard lifted his gaze. He hoped that wasn’t a wince tightening her eyes.

“I didn’t expect—” This time,
she
looked down, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

Basilard willed himself not to panic, not yet. She hadn’t said no. She was just surprised. He had been too subtle. Yes, he had invited her to numerous after-hours dances and dinners at the presidential manor, but she must have always assumed he had brought her for work reasons. Even though he had kissed her goodnight more than once, those kisses had all been on the cheek. After so much rejection in his life, especially in these last few years, he had been afraid to presume, afraid she would realize he longed for more than chaste kisses and that she would be… horrified. It had seemed nobler to make his intentions clear first. As he was doing now.

He swallowed, the necklace bumping awkwardly as he signed with it dangling from one hand:
Is it something you would consider? I have come to value you a great deal. You are one of the few people who understands me and the only one of our people who doesn’t condemn me for what I’ve had to do to survive
.
He grimaced, wishing he were explaining himself better. He didn’t want her to think that the
only
reason he cared for her was because she didn’t scowl at him and promise he was going to Hell because he had chosen violence over death.

“Leyelchek,” Elwa said slowly. “You’re kind and loyal, and have many other wonderful qualities. Now that you’re working on behalf of our people, I’m sure more of them will be able to look past your scars and see that. You’re a good man, and maybe you’ll even be a
great
man someday, but I’m not… attracted to you in that way.”

Basilard’s hands drooped, the wooden disk bumping against his thigh. Even if he’d still had access to his voice, he couldn’t have spoken then, not with his throat constricting and disappointment pricking at his eyes.

Elwa shifted her weight, wrapping one hand in the fabric of her dress, her face twisting with discomfort. “I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise. I didn’t mean…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. Amid his own disappointment, Basilard also felt miserable for having made her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, then strode away.

Her sleeve brushed some of the thorns on the rosebushes, and she pulled it away hastily, the fabric ripping. She kept walking, her pace almost a run as she fled the garden.

For a long moment, Basilard stood there, his chin drooped to his chest. He did not know where to go. Back to his room? A room next door to Elwa’s? Would it make her more uncomfortable to know he was so close? Would knowing she was only a wall away and would always be at least a wall away make him miserable?
More
miserable?

He stuffed the woven necklace into his pocket. He almost dropped it into the pot instead, since it wasn’t as if he would need it again, but he didn’t want to explain himself if some gardener found it, recognized it as a Mangdorian item, and brought it to his door.

With slow shambling steps, Basilard headed for the gate. Full darkness had fallen, and he had no idea where he would go. Perhaps he would wander the streets of the capital, a city so populous and so different from his mountain homeland that he sometimes felt the press of all the people choking him, making him long for the sparsely populated forests that no longer wanted him.

“Psst,” came a male voice from the shadows outside of the garden gate.

It was an indication of Basilard’s distraction that he hadn’t noticed Maldynado lurking nearby. Once, he had been a great hunter with keenly honed senses, and he had survived countless life-or-death fights here in Turgonia. Maybe his months of sitting at tables and talking to the Turgonian president and other diplomats had dulled his skills.

“How did it go?” Maldynado asked, ambling out of the shadows, a broad-brimmed hat masking his features. Not that Basilard wouldn’t have recognized his voice from miles away. “Or should I not ask? Usually, it’s not a good sign when the woman flees. I’ve heard. Marriage proposals aren’t something I’ve tried often. Why marry a woman when you can simply charm her into your bedroom, eh?”

Basilard sighed and stopped walking, though a part of him was tempted to continue past, ignoring Maldynado. But when Maldynado leaned against the wrought-iron frame of the gate, folding his arms over his chest, his expression held more sympathy and concern than the flippant words would have implied. He tilted back the brim of his hat, the excessive width appropriate for keeping him dry in a storm and perhaps gathering a few gallons of rainwater for later, as well, then smiled down and thumped Basilard on the shoulder.

Like most Turgonians, even the women, Maldynado was taller than Basilard, standing nearly six and a half feet, and he was proportionately broad of shoulder and chest. Basilard always felt too short for his stocky build, and Elwa’s words stood out in his mind:
not attracted to you.
Where Maldynado had flawless bronze skin, high cheekbones, and wavy brown hair that women liked to run their hands through, Basilard kept his head shaven. He felt he had to, thanks to all of the scars that he had acquired on his scalp when he had been forced to fight in pits on a nightly basis. His hair grew in patchy, making him look like a mangy dog, and the less said about that premature bald spot on the top, the better. The rest of his face served him well enough—he had been told by his first wife that he was handsome in his youth—but he always feared the scars it now held made him look like some villain masterminding a plot against the government. Maybe he should have sent Maldynado in to propose for him.

Charming women is not my specialty
, Basilard signed. He gazed down the path toward the wide driveway that led in one direction toward the vehicle house and the multi-story presidential manor, and in the other toward the gate in the wall that surrounded the compound. He didn’t know which route he wanted to take, but he decided he wanted to be alone.

“That’s because you don’t take my advice,” Maldynado said. “You’ve been treating that woman like a colleague, not like the love of your life. Did you ever kiss her? I know I’ve tried to thrust you two together a few times, but if you don’t do some lip pressing with a girl, how’s she supposed to know how you feel?”

Basilard did not care much for Maldynado’s relationship advice under the best of circumstances, and he certainly was not in the mood for it now.
Goodnight, Maldynado,
he signed.
I’m going to take a walk
.

“Alone?” Maldynado followed Basilard as he headed for the front gate. “We should go get some apple brandy together. If you wander off alone now, you might fall into a canal. And you might not care if you get out.”

Basilard increased his pace, waving Maldynado away. He had almost reached the gate when a call from the entrance to the manor stopped him.

“Mister Basilard?” A private in the black uniform of the Turgonian army jogged down the steps, waving for him to stop. He was one of the youngest soldiers that Basilard had seen around the manor—being chosen to work here was a high honor usually reserved for older, distinguished men. Then he spotted the insignia on the private’s collar and realized he worked for the intelligence division, the headquarters of which were on the grounds. Odd, what did the intel people want with him?

“Mister,” Maldynado said with a snicker as he strolled up. Apparently, he wasn’t inclined to let Basilard flee into the city on his own.

Ignoring him, Basilard raised his brows as the young soldier approached.

“I was looking for you, sir. A courier from your country came in this afternoon and delivered this.” The private handed Basilard an envelope that had been sliced open. The contents remained inside, but appeared to have been taken out, read, and then inserted again.

Did it come like this?
Basilard signed.

The soldier tilted his head.

Without Elwa at his side, Basilard was forced to look to Maldynado to translate.

Maldynado pointed at the letter. “
Mister
Basilard wants to know who read his mail, and if there was anything juicy in it.”

Basilard elbowed his comrade, but Maldynado only smiled, not correcting his “translation.”

“It went through the intelligence office,” the private said.

Why?
Basilard asked.

“I think that’s standard protocol around here,” Maldynado said. “If you don’t want your mail read, you should have it sent to a secret flat in the city. Or you could send it to my place. I doubt Yara would read it. She prefers those Lady Dourcrest novels. Ah, but don’t tell anyone I said that. She wouldn’t want people knowing that her tough enforcer heart likes sappy romance stories. I certainly don’t mind. They give her the most fascinating ideas.”

For more reasons than one, Basilard wished he hadn’t driven off his usual translator.

My missives from Mangdoria don’t usually arrive in this state
, he signed.

“Sure they do. You fellows always rifle through the mail, don’t you, Private?” Maldynado asked.

“Ah, that’s standard operating procedure for messages sent to the presidential manor—”

“The Montichelu Manor,” Maldynado corrected.

“Sir?” the private asked.

“That’s the name on the plaque on the wall. I know on account of that being my middle name and on account of the building being named after me, due to my heroic efforts in saving it while it was still in the construction phase.” Maldynado removed his hat and smoothed the felt on the broad brim.

The private looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. Basilard didn’t blame him, but he did want to know if all of his mail from Mangdoria was indeed being read by intelligence soldiers. He had nothing to hide, but he would be certain to let the chiefs back home know, if it was the case. They might want to take more care or develop a code. Not that the Turgonians couldn’t break codes. If Basilard recalled correctly, one of the reasons President Starcrest’s wife had been chosen to run the intelligence office was specifically because she
had
such experience.

“All messages that come into the presidential—uhm, here,” the private said, “are previewed, yes. For security purposes. In the past, Intelligence was less blatant about it.”

“Tikaya making changes, eh?” Maldynado asked.

“Lady Starcrest,” the private said stiffly.

“Uh huh. You delivered your pawed-over note. Run along.”

The private looked to Basilard, as if wondering what role Maldynado had and whether he had to obey. Since he was a touch perturbed about the mail, Basilard did not respond, even if, as far as he knew, Maldynado didn’t have any official duties in the manor. Now and then, the president sent him on some errand or another, but Basilard doubted Starcrest would miss him if he disappeared.

Basilard opened the message and moved to a gas lamp along the driveway to read it.

Leyelchek ~

The blight I mentioned this spring has progressed at an alarming rate, affecting multiple species in the forest, including many of the nut trees we rely upon for flour and winter stores. The small animals depend upon them, too, and we fear there will be less game for us to hunt this autumn. As you know, it is not our way to ask for help from outsiders, and we would especially be loath to deal with the Turgonians, but you do have stronger contacts and relationships with their government than our ambassadors to Kendor and the desert city-states have with those nations. Will you make inquiries and see if President Starcrest would be open to trading us food—particularly their rices, beans, and other staples that can be stored for the winter? I know we have little that they value, but we can offer furs, bone carvings, beadwork, and priestly totems. Please respond as swiftly as possible. We must come up with a plan before winter approaches.

~ Chief Halemek

Basilard read the note for a second time, an uneasy feeling burrowing into the pit of his stomach. Halemek was one to understate troubles rather than exaggerate them, and he would
never
ask the Turgonians for a favor. Who would? Even if Halemek was offering trade, not requesting charity, he must know the Turgonians would not be impressed by furs or beadwork, not when they could make anything they wished in their enormous factories. And priestly totems? The Turgonians abhorred magic. Even if Starcrest had changed policies and it was no longer forbidden in the republic, it was still feared and mistrusted by the majority of the people. The chief must be even more concerned than the message suggested, and that concerned Basilard. Anything that affected his people would affect his daughter. Even if he was no longer allowed to be a part of her life, that did not mean he did not care for her and worry about her. Further, the idea of some blight ravaging the forests of his homeland, where he had hunted and foraged in his youth, upset him.

“You look worried,” Maldynado said. “Something challenging?”

After a moment of consideration, Basilard translated the letter for him. Even if Maldynado was a pest, he was one of Basilard’s oldest friends here, and he didn’t care a whit about politics, so he wouldn’t be thinking of ways to take advantage of the situation.

“Uh,” Maldynado said when he finished. “Furs and totems? I can’t see Starcrest being excited at the idea of a warehouse full of those. What’s he going to do? Sell them in the Quaint and Quirky aisle at the farmers’ market when he’s not busy presidenting?”