Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (33 page)

A crate labeled in Turgonian caught his eye:
military-grade blasting sticks, 100 count.

He snorted inwardly. Those would make a good distraction, but they were at the bottom of the pile, and he wouldn’t be able to open the sealed lid without moving ten other crates—and applying a crowbar. There were a few kegs of black powder he could reach, but they all appeared sealed too. Since he was only a few feet from the guards, he couldn’t poke around without being seen, no matter how engrossing that dice game might be.

Instead, he backed down the tunnel. If active mining was going on, maybe he could find some opened crates of blasting sticks deeper inside of it. Of course, that would provide
more
than a distraction. He might bring the cave down around himself. Something subtler would be better, for now. He wanted to hear who Diratha was speaking with and what they were saying, not bury her in rubble.

Unfortunately, nothing more interesting than pebbles, a few strands of straw, and shards of wood lined the tunnel. The more steps he took in that direction, the more he worried he was missing his chance to spy. No matter how much Amaranthe charmed those guards, they were sure to notice that one of their charges had disappeared any second.

Basilard paused as he was about to pass the fifth or sixth lantern. They held candles rather than burning kerosene, like the ones back in Turgonia. Farther down the passage, the lanterns transitioned to crude torches fueled by wood and a slow-burning pitch. Inspired, he grabbed one of the candles, melted wax onto some of the slivers of wood and straw, and then scraped some of the pitch off an unlit torch. With his homemade fire starter in hand, he trotted back to the entrance to the tunnel.

Making sure not to show himself, he lofted the ball of fuel over the guards’ heads. It landed in the fire at the front of the cave and caught fire with an audible
fwoomp
.

“What was that?” one soldier asked, stepping in that direction.

In the seconds they were both facing that way, Basilard climbed over the head-high pile of supplies and landed lightly in the shadows on the far side. He ducked into the other tunnel.

“Just the fire,” the other said.

“It got noisy.”

“A log shifted. That’s all.”

Basilard was guessing at their conversation, since he didn’t understand all of the words, but from their tones, he thought he had the gist. They did not sound suspicious. That was all that mattered.

Diratha’s words drifted to him from up ahead, her tone clipped. She was speaking quickly, and he struggled to understand her. He forced himself to slow down, so he wouldn’t stumble into her sight. Chambers had been hollowed out to either side of the tunnel, with lighting coming from one on the left, along with her voice.

He stopped at the corner, listening and trying to determine if she was facing the tunnel. The dark chamber on the other side held more crates and barrels, along with sacks of salt, flour, and other foodstuffs. More chambers opened up farther down the tunnel. More storage rooms? Amaranthe was right. The Kendorians
had
brought a lot of supplies. Was this truly the start of an invasion? Not just a mining excursion?

“No,” came a male voice from within the room. Basilard’s breath caught. He had no trouble deciphering that word, and he also recognized the speaker. Shukura.

What was he doing
here?

When Diratha spoke again, Basilard could tell she was not facing the entrance, so he risked easing his head around the corner. A soft bluish white glow came from a crude split-log desk, and realization smacked Basilard in the face. The ambassador was not here; he was speaking to the major through a magical device, a communications orb. Shukura would have a matching one back in his office in the capital. Basilard would have clunked his head against the wall if it would not have made noise. The Kendorians had practitioners, so it would make sense that they had Makers, too, people who could craft magical devices. Even his own people could make a few simple items. He had been too long among the magic-loathing Turgonians, and he had forgotten that Made devices were far more common outside of the republic.

“They left last week,” Shukura was saying. “…Turgonian leader… don’t think so.”

Basilard wished he understood more of the language. He
thought
Shukura was saying he knew nothing about Turgonian plans to help the Mangdorians.

“You know of no treaty?” Diratha asked.

“No. The Turgonians… don’t see… Mangdorians… equals. Want ore, they would take it… no… treaty.”

“Then I’m going to kill these spies.”

Basilard grimaced and stepped back, intending to warn the others that they needed to get out of here.

“Wait,” Shukura said.

Basilard paused, torn. He needed to get away before Diratha ended the conversation and spotted him, but he wanted to hear whatever else Shukura would add.

“They sent Sicarius… party.”

“The assassin?”

“…works for Turgonian leader now.”

Diratha grunted. “And the Turgonians pretend… peace.”

“Be careful.”

A thump sounded—Diratha slamming a palm onto the table?

Afraid he would not have time to sneak past the guards again before she walked out, Basilard slipped into the chamber on the other side of the tunnel. It was so stuffed with crates and bags that he almost could not squeeze inside. The blue-white glow vanished as he sucked in his belly and wedged himself into a crevice between the wall and the crates.

Diratha strode out, heading for the cave exit. Basilard realized he should try to subdue her before she reached the guards. If she gave the order to shoot the others, there wouldn’t be time to act then.

He moved toward the doorway, intending to slip up behind her and attack, hoping he could surprise her and take her down without making noise. But a nail sticking out of a crate caught his shirt. Cursing inwardly, he extricated himself, but he lost precious seconds.

He raced down the tunnel on silent feet, but Diratha had already reached the mouth of the cave. He could not jump her without the two guards seeing him.

“Thanlic,” she ordered as she walked, “shoot those prisoners. They’re—”

An explosion came from right in front of the cave, burying her words with its roar. Light flashed, driving back the shadows inside briefly. It was not a huge blast that made the floor quake, but it was enough to cause Diratha and the two guards to sprint outside.

Basilard did not know what had happened, but he took advantage of his moment alone. He yanked out a sturdy dagger and drove it into the side of one of the crates of blasting sticks. Shouts came from outside, some confused and some angry. With that commotion, Basilard did not worry about making noise. He tore into the side of the crate, ripping off planks until he could grab some of the sticks.

His first thought was to light them and throw them down a tunnel for a diversion. But as he was running to the fire for flame, he glanced back at the huge cache of supplies. A slight smile curved his lips as he realized that he could derail the Kendorians without hurting anyone after all. He lit his fistful of blasting sticks, threw them onto the top of the pile, and ran for the cave mouth. He forced himself not to simply sprint out, since he could not see what was going on outside, but his back itched, knowing those fuses would not take long to burn down.

People were running around in the dark of the camp. Bows twanged, and someone yelled a, “Find them!” order that Basilard had no trouble deciphering. Not surprisingly, Maldynado and Amaranthe were not standing beside the cave entrance anymore.

He could not tell which direction they had run, but he headed upstream, following the canyon wall. He would hope to reunite with them—and hope they would realize he wasn’t still inside, needing to be rescued.

Before he had gone more than a dozen steps, the blasting sticks went off. Unlike the first explosion, this one boomed like the thunderous fury of God unleashed from the heavens.

A wall of air slammed into his back. It hurled him ten feet, his feet lifted from the ground. He landed in an ungainly roll, trying to keep from hurting himself, but the cacophony of rock crashing down filled him with fear. It sounded like it was coming from all around him, not just behind him. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting before he was fully upright. With the ground still shaking, threatening to hurl him down again, he caromed off the wall before finding his balance. He ran several hundred meters up the canyon before pausing to look back.

The sound of the explosion and falling rocks had died down, though angry shouts still punctuated the night. It was darker back there than it had been before, and he realized that the entire cave had collapsed. Piles of rubble lay where the entrance had been, and shards of rock were still tumbling from the canyon wall all around it. The Kendorians had backed far away from the rockfall and were standing by the river, waving and sometimes shooting into the night. At Maldynado and Amaranthe? Basilard hoped they had gotten away before he had created this chaos. He would have to head back to the dam and hope everyone would reunite there.

Moans of pain drifted to him once some of the shouts died down, and he frowned. So much for his hope of not hurting anyone.

Attempting to harden his heart, Basilard turned and resumed his run upriver. These people—these
soldiers
—had come prepared for battle. All he had given them was what they expected—and what they deserved for invading his homeland. Besides, Basilard’s soul had been condemned to Hell long ago. It wasn’t as if God could send him more than once.

• • • • •

Darkness came to the valley while Ashara sat against the boulder, listening to the sounds of the community. Nobody came out to check on her, but she did not mind. After traveling with people for several days, she found the solitude restful. She wouldn’t have minded moving farther away, so that nothing but the noises of the forest and the meadows would reach her ears, but figured she should stay close in case Mahliki needed her.

It was possible the Mangdorian “wise woman” had the skills she needed, but Ashara could not know for certain. If these people weren’t able to help with the blight, then this trip up here would have been a waste. Ashara already resented that one of them would have to tell Basilard he no longer had a job when they reunited with him. Would it be cowardly to ask Mahliki to do it? She had known him longer. Before, at least he’d had
some
access to his daughter. Now, he was in the equivalent of her position, an outcast forbidden from crossing the borders and visiting. She never would have wished that on anyone.

As the stars came out, she started to think of her children again, wondering, as she often did, what they were doing at that moment. Had they already been put to bed? Or were they being allowed to stay up late and play? Khanrin had always abhorred the notion of a bedtime and would prefer to charge around the house, leaping from furnishings and chasing the cat until he collapsed in the middle of the floor somewhere. Jiana had taken to reading at a young age and had already been doing it on her own when Ashara had left. She had never minded being sent to her bedroom, so long as a candle went with her.

“Ashara?” came a soft call from up the path at the same time as a lantern came into view. No, that was a torch. Basilard’s people truly were simple. Or just nomadic, she supposed, like the Kendorians on the eastern plains. One had to keep belongings to a minimum when one followed the herds. The Mangdorians didn’t even use lizards to help carry burdens.

“Over here.” Ashara rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t been crying, but they were a tad moist.

The flames of the torch highlighted Mahliki’s face. She was alone, but she was only carrying a few things, not her entire pack, so she must intend to return to the village. That was fine. Ashara did not want to try to find her way down off this mountain in the middle of the night, not with all those trails that ran so close to cliffs.

“Are you ready to play an exciting and pivotal role in protecting the forest from the blight?” Mahliki grinned and prodded at the rocks beside the boulder until she found a niche for the torch. She thrust the end into it. The smell of burning pitch wafted from the flames.

“I’m ready to do something,” Ashara said and found the words were true.

Why, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if the Mangdorians had endeared themselves to her. Maybe it was more that she wanted to help
Basilard
. She doubted his people would see him as a hero if he succeeded at driving away the Kendorians—from what she had heard, they might see him as even more of a villain if he was forced to employ violence—but perhaps it would be different if he healed the forest. Wouldn’t that be something that even the most jaded among the Mangdorians might admire?

“Good.” Mahliki sat cross-legged in front of her and laid two of her glass dishes on the ground. “Can you sense the attributes of this one?” She tapped the one on the left.

Ashara laid her hand on the dish, but hesitated to sink into her mind and draw upon her other senses. The concentration that required always made a practitioner vulnerable. Pelajen might have preached of peaceful solutions, but several of those hunters had been radiating hostility.

“I’ll watch your back,” Mahliki said.

Surprised, Ashara stared at her.

“I have a younger brother and a sister who are both practitioners,” Mahliki said. “I understand how it all works.”

“Do you watch their backs?”

“Nah, I usually drape washout paper around them when they’re concentrating. They’re completely insufferable, always playing tricks on me and talking telepathically about me. I take my revenge whenever I can.”

“I see. So I might come out of my trance wearing washout paper.”

“Around here, it would have to be leaves and moss.”

Ashara snorted, then dropped her chin and closed her eyes, concentrating on the growth in the dish under her hand. It would be better if she could touch it directly, but she didn’t know if that was safe. Who knew what Mahliki had been experimenting with? Hadn’t she said something about brain toxins earlier?