Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) by Lindsay Buroker Page A

wall of the cab. The steam vehicle was as stealthy as an army riding elephants through brush.
    “I also caught the smell of something big,” Ashara said. “Grimbals, I believe.”
    Mahliki, still sitting in front of her samples, lifted her head at this comment, her brow furrowed. “How would you smell that over the smoke from the stack?” She waved toward the ceiling.
    Even though they could not see the billowing black smoke from inside the cab, Basilard had no trouble picturing it. And he agreed with Mahliki: even a hound would have trouble picking up the scent of an animal with burning coal plaguing the air.
    “I have a keen nose,” Ashara said flatly.
    There aren’t any grimbals this far south , Basilard signed. They were too dangerous to allow near human villages, so, as with the makarovi, my people and the Turgonians drove them north generations ago. A feat that had not been easy, according to the legends. The northern predators were difficult to kill without giant weapons like cannons, and with their powerful limbs and claws, they could tear through an army. Basilard remembered his own encounter with makarovi the year before. That had been in these very mountains, and his team had almost lost Amaranthe during it. But those creatures had been coerced into coming this far south by a shaman. Neither makarovi nor grimbals should be anywhere within five hundred miles.
    “Well, they’re back. I know what I smelled.”
    Her certainty made Basilard uneasy. I’ll check , he signed and opened the door.
    “Maybe you should slow down, Corporal,” Maldynado said. “Since people are making a habit of strolling in and out of the lorry while it’s moving.”
    Outside, the wind clawed at Basilard, so he did not hear if the driver responded. The vehicle slowed down as he climbed atop the cab. Dark plumes streamed out of the stack, filling the valley behind them with smoke. The mountains towered on either side, their peaks blanketed with glaciers and snow, even in mid-summer. He sniffed, testing the air. Even upwind of the smokestack, he struggled to smell more than the scent of burning coal. He wondered again at Ashara’s supposedly keen olfactory senses. After spending most of the last five years in the city, he admitted that his own senses might not be as sharp any more, but he was skeptical of her claim.
    Still, he crouched there, watching, listening, and breathing in the mountain air. The area, a mix of new growth and stumps left by Turgonian loggers, did seem still. He glimpsed a lake through the trees, but did not see any fowl floating on the water. Ashara’s birds might have been startled into the air at the approach of the steam vehicle, a rare sight up here, not necessarily because of the approach of predators.
    The lorry rounded a bend, and the hide and wood yurt that served as Mangdoria’s closest border outpost came into view. Jomrik had slowed the vehicle, and they trundled toward it.
    Ashara’s head appeared. She considered Basilard, eyed their surroundings, then climbed up next to him, her sword clanking on the roof of the cab. It was still in its scabbard, but she had found her bow and wore a quiver bristling with arrows on her back. Neither weapon would do much damage if they encountered irate grimbals. They were distant cousins of bears, but larger and with thicker hides. In his youth, Basilard had hunted them with his clan on a trip to the northern fjords, and they had dug pit traps and used spear launchers to bring down the heavily furred and powerful creatures. Basilard’s daggers would only work if he could get in close—very close—and that was a dangerous place to be with a grimbal. He might have to borrow a Turgonian rifle.
    “Do you smell it?” Ashara asked. “The breeze was coming from up there when I caught the scent.” With her bow, she pointed toward the hills beyond the shack.
    Nobody had come out of the small building yet. When on foot, Basilard could walk through the door of the