Treskan plainly struggled for a moment then said, “Eyes of Matheri, in Woodbec.”
Balif assumed an opaque expression. “I do not know that one.”
In spite of their unfriendly reception at Free Winds, Balif was in good spirits. All morning he bought maps from local traders and quizzed them about likely locations to build new settlements. To an elf the traders thought Balif was mad. One memorably claimed that building towns or starting farms in the area was like trying to plow the sea. The land was too wild to settle. In another hundred years, perhaps, the blades of the Speaker’s warriors would tame the land. But not in the foreseeable future.
By midday Balif was done pretending to be a surveyor. He dismissed the traders, giving them liberal amounts of gold for their trouble, and dispatched Lofotan and the cook on special missions of their own. Lofotan was to talk to any soldiers he could find off duty and get a military view of the local situation. Artyrith was to restock their provisions for the next leg of their journey.
“What will you do, my lord?” Lofotan asked. They were alone in their room in the fortress, so the honorific was safe to say.
“I have tasks of my own.” Mathi was surprised Lofotan did not press him on the matter. When the general didn’t want to be questioned, no one questioned him.
Mathi was to stay behind and clean the party’s kit. Basically that meant laundering clothes and mending whatever tears and splits they had acquired since leaving Silvanost. She did not object to the menial work. It was part of her role as the surveyor’s daughter. As for Treskan, Balif instructed him to find the fortress’s archives and compare what was written there to what Dolanath told them about the invasion of the little folk.
Waiting a good long time after the others left, Mathi got up quietly and went to the room’s sole door. The corridor was empty. She was about to steal out and follow Balif when she felt a tug on the hem of her gown—the back hem. Quick as a cat, Mathi leaped away from the strange touch.
Rufe was standing there, munching on a rather dirty carrot.
“Nervous neighbor, aren’t you?” said the little man, chomping. “Good reflexes, though.” Every so often he spit drops of mud on the floor.
“Who wouldn’t be nervous with people sneaking up behind them?” Mathi snatched the carrot from Rufe’s hand and poured fresh water over it, washing away the dirt. She held it out to the little man, who was no longer interested in it.
“Everybody gone?” he said, sauntering around the beds and piles of baggage.
“All but me.”
Rufe drew a finger across Treskan’s writing board. “You a scribe?”
She was about to snap, “Don’t touch that!” but decided the expression was wasted on the little man. She picked up the instrument and tucked it into Treskan’s bag.
“I’m not the scribe. His name is Treskan,” she said.
“He’s not a pointy-ear either. What a funny company you have! No one is what they seem.”
“What do you mean? What is Treskan, if not an elf?” Mathi said.
Rufe grinned. “A human in disguise.”
Mathi quickly shut the door. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Human? Treskan?”
“No doubt about it.” Rufe tapped the side of his plow-shaped nose. “This beak never lies.”
To no one in particular, Mathi said, “By E’li, what does that mean? A human masquerading as the general’s scribe?”
“General, eh? That’s interesting.”
The two words Mathi never wanted to hear from Rufe were that’s interesting. Only trouble would follow, she knew intuitively—catastrophe, cataclysm, the end of the civilization were not far off when a character such as Rufe gets interested in something.
“You must keep all this a secret between us,” she said.
He stuck out his tongue. It was a startlingly dark hue, almost purple.
“More secrets, bah. Why should I keep ’em?”
Not having any leverage with the little man, Mathi had a sanity-saving notion. “Are you good at following people?” she asked. “I mean, without them knowing it?”
Rufe grinned. “I could trail the gods into the Land of Eternal Light and never be seen or sniffed!”
“Could you follow someone for me? I’ll pay you gold.”
The little man ran his small fingers around the rim of one of the elves’ panniers. Though tied shut with willow withes, the lid popped open.
“What good is gold? You can’t eat it, and it isn’t as interesting as a lodestone—”
“All right. What do you want?”
“Hmm. Can you get the scribe to write about me in his book?”
Eyes widening, Mathi said, “Certainly.”
“I always wanted to see my name in writing,” Rufe said. “Have him write my name down, and I’ll follow whoever you want.”
It sounded too easy, but Mathi agreed. When she told Rufe she wanted Balif trailed around Free Winds to see what he did and who he spoke to, the little man knitted his dark eyebrows and frowned.
“You want me to follow your boss? Why don’t you ask him where he’s been yourself?”
“I have good reasons not too. Will you do it?”
Rufe nodded his head four times. Mathi took out Treskan’s stylus and dipped it in a vial of iron gall ink she found in the scribe’s belongings. She found a scrap of foolscap.
“What is your full name?”
The little man took a breath. “Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap.”
Mathi bit her lip to keep from laughing. She wrote the outlandish name in blockish letters, the only writing she could do, then said, “What does ‘reindeer’ mean?”
“It’s a kind of large deer, found in icy climes,” he said. “Sometimes they fly.”
Flying deer? Mathi did not try to hide her smile. What could one expect from a little man but a little man tale?
Rufe took the scrap of parchment with his name on it and gazed at it with delight. Holding it like a sacred relic, he vowed to send it to his mother, to show her what his name looked like in real letters.
Mathi was about to ask about the little man’s mother when Rufe abruptly balled the slip of foolscap in one small fist and shoved it inside his baggy shirt.
“What’s your boss’s name?”
“Camaxilas.”
A twinkle came to the little man’s eye. “Gonna use what I tell you to get something out of him?”
“Not at all! I fear something is wrong with him. He’s too proud to tell me if he has any problems, but I want to know so I can help him if need be.”
“Uh-huh.” Rufe pulled on a pair of fingerless felt gloves, tightened the laces that held his trews close around his ankles, and pulled a faded brown cloth hood up over his head.
“See ya. I’ll come back tonight when the pointy-ears are sleeping.”
“Wait—don’t you want to know where to find him?”
“Don’t worry. If he’s in Free Winds, I’ll find him.”
He didn’t do his perplexing door-pushing trick. Rufe opened the door normally and went right down the passage. A moment later, his distinctly diminutive hand appeared on the left side of the doorframe, nudging the panel closed. Mathi had been looking at the door the whole time. She couldn’t imagine how the little man got on the other side of an open door without being seen, but he did.
Artyrith returned first, sneering eloquently at the quality of victuals available in Free Winds. Fear of theft and non-elf marauders had tightened the food supply to the point where the plainest fruits and vegetables commanded unseemly prices. Meat—mostly game collected from the plains outside the fort—was even more dear. The only plentiful thing was nectar. The cellars of Free Winds were brimming with casks, kegs, and amphorae. The hills southwest of Free Winds were dotted with vineyards, and the good weather had produced an abundance of grapes. Normally the nectar of Free Winds would be on its way west to Silvanost, but traders were keeping close to the fortress until an adequate number of soldiers wa
s available to escort the caravans. Artyrith was able to secure a bountiful supply of nectar at a very cheap price.
Lofotan came back, looking grim and puzzled. He wouldn’t discuss what he had learned with a scribe and a cook, holding to his orders to report on the military situation to Balif first. But Balif was not there. Evening came then twilight, and the general did not return. Treskan came back from the fort’s archives, and there was still no sign of Balif. Tension grew. Artyrith wanted to turn Free Winds upside down and find Balif, but Lofotan held his companion back.
“You’re taking this well,” the cook said, noting Mathi’s composure.
“I trust our lord,” she replied. “He will return.”
Shown up by a mere girl, Artyrith said no more about it. Night fell. Governor Dolanath’s servants brought dinner for his guests. Noting Balif’s absence, he asked where Camaxilas was. He was in town on his own business was all Lofotan would say.
Dolanath said knowingly, “Free Winds has many soothsayers and dowsers. No doubt he is closeted with one of them, trying to find water or gold deposits along your route.”
No one in Balif’s party disagreed. It was easier to allow Dolanath to believe their lord was as shallow and greedy as he was. Expressing his good wishes, the governor withdrew.
Lofotan and Artyrith halfheartedly played at a game of Hounds and Foxes, but the cook was too good for the old soldier and won four games in a row. Treskan wrote and wrote on his journey chronicle until his eyes pained him, and he quit to sleep. Mathi watched him closely when his back was turned. Was the scribe really human? That would explain his clumsiness compared to true elves, but his makeup or magic spell was outwardly flawless. What was his game?
Peeved by his ill luck, Lofotan went to bed. Mathi begged off playing, so Artyrith retired too. Eventually there was nothing to do but turn in. Mathi took one of the lamps to her small room and lay down to sleep. Some time later she felt something warm and lingering on her face. Her ear itched intolerably. Grunting, she put a hand to scratch her ear and found a face there, a face not her own.
Bolting upright, heart racing, she was about to shout for help when she realized who it must be. “Rufe! Rufe?”
“Here, boss.”
She loosed a pithy curse, one she had learned from listening to Artyrith. “What are you playing at? Can’t you knock on a door like a civilized person?”
“Didn’t think you wanted me showing myself off in front of the elfies.”
True enough. “Where have you been all day?”
“Keeping an eye on your mighty boss.” It turned out Balif had gone to two places, according to Rufe. The second stop lasted all day and into the evening.
“Where did he go?”
“To a healer. White-headed elf named Urolus, Doctor of Physic.”
What? There was something wrong with Balif’s health? Mathi got up in total darkness and groped for a splint to light the lamp. Rufe’s small hand snatched the splints away.
“Some things are better said in the dark,” he said ominously.
Mathi sat down on the bed. “Tell me everything.”
“I picked up your friend at the Gables.” Those were houses and storefronts on the north side of the settlement. “He was hunting for a sawbones from the start. He went inside the Gables and spoke to one, but he must not have liked what he heard ’cause he came back out again and went on. I followed him good. But when he got to Urolus’s, he stayed and stayed. Took a long time, kind of boring.”
Urolus was a Silvanesti physician who had come to practice in the provinces. He was widely reputed to be the eldest elf in Free Winds, a position that gave him a certain status in the community.
“I don’t suppose you know what they talked about?”
“’Course I do. I was on the job, wasn’t I? I remember it all.” The little man, hidden in the dark, lapsed into a perfect imitation of Balif’s voice: “‘I am here to consult you on a personal matter, learned friend.’”
His mimicry was remarkably good. At Mathi’s request, Rufe repeated a large portion of the conversation between Urolus and Balif. Apparently the little man spent his time literally eavesdropping; he clung to the roof edge of the doctor’s second-floor consulting room, listening through a closed shutter.
Balif had a strange complaint. He had a single symptom that he couldn’t explain, nothing else, but it was such an odd symptom, he didn’t know what to do about it. When Urolus pressed him to be specific, the general finally removed his cloak and traveler’s robe. The doctor examined him, exclaiming upon the strange nature of Balif’s malady.
“Well, what was it?”
“They didn’t say, exactly,” the little man replied. “And I had to squirm around to see. There was some kind of problem on your boss’s back. The old sawbones saw it too and said, yep, it’s really there.”
“What did you see?” Mathi pressed.
“I want a horse.” The change of subject was so abrupt, Mathi was thrown off balance. “I want a horse,” Rufe repeated. “A black horse.”
Blinking in the darkness, Mathi promised to get the little man the biggest, blackest horse she could find.
“And a saddle with silver tacks all over it.”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’ll call the horse Nui, after the dark moon—”
Mathi wanted to throttle him. Raising her voice too much, she demanded that Rufe reveal what he’d found out.
“He’s got hair on his back.”
It didn’t sound like much, but to a wellborn elf of Balif’s stature with body hair was strange and a definite stigma. Elves usually didn’t have any, not beyond what grew on their heads. Mathi remembered the Speaker’s sister, Amaranthe, had noticed something was amiss with her lover back in Silvanost. Apparently the problem had grown worse, driving Balif to seek medical advice.
“Is that all?” asked Mathi.
“Yep. They went on and on about it, like it was a case of boils or worse. The pill-roller wanted to know if there was any human blood in your boss’s background. He was polite about it, but he as much as said your boss must have a hairy human among his ancestors. Your leader denied it up and down. ‘Then you are afflicted,’ quoth the doc.”
“Afflicted? Did he use that exact word?” Rufe avowed he did. Mathi pondered that. Did the healer mean Balif was afflicted with disease, or did he mean the general was afflicted by some malign power?
“What did the doctor do for him?”
“Put stinky stuff on his back to make the hair fall out.”
What indignity. Mathi almost felt sorry for the noble elf. She asked where Camaxilas was at that moment.
“In bed, I guess. When do I get my horse?”
Mathi juggled several different lines of thought at once. She meant to stay close to Balif. What began as a simple task to keep track of the famous general had become a greater mystery. Was there more to it than simply growing body hair? Embarrassing as that might be to a pure-blooded Silvanesti, it hardly spelled the great general’s doom from her point of view.
“My horse?” insisted Rufe.
“You’ll get your horse.” Mathi held out her hand, forgetting in her reverie that she was sitting in total darkness. Nonetheless, the little man’s small hand found hers and pumped it vigorously.
Rufe broke his grip. Mathi had the impression the little man was leaving. She called out in a loud whisper, “Wait! How would you like to do more work for me?”
“What kind of work?”
“Watching, listening, like what you did tonight.”
She could almost see the little fellow shrug. “Whatever you say, boss.” Then he was gone.
Mathi lit her lamp. She tried to sort out everything Rufe had found out and what it meant for her. The word afflicted intrigued her. She was sure her comrades had no inkling of Balif’s trouble. She had no way of communicating with those she left behind except by leaving certain signs on the trail. Perhaps if she stole a bit of Treskan’s parchment and ink, she could write a b
rief note; her friends were not great readers, but there were those among them who would understand. Once on their way again, she would get a slip from the scribe and leave word to the others.
She yawned and stretched. It was very late. The small hours of the morning were just that, a time when the smallest things seemed large or loud. Mathi rubbed her burning eyes. Her hand strayed down to the neckline of her acolyte’s gown. She hated the clinging, stifling clothing. If she had been sure of the door, she would have stripped it off and slept naked, as she preferred. But her hand touched something small and hard hanging from her neck, hidden by the outer layer of the gown.
Mathi fumbled through her clothing and found a small object on a silken cord around her neck. She had never seen it before, and it had not been there earlier when she came to bed. It had shown up some time since Rufe awakened her.
Rufe! She should have known. The light-fingered little man must have put the necklace on her while she slept. She’d felt nothing, but there it was. Mathi fished it out. It was an intricate bit of yellow metal, probably gold, wrapped around a sizable green gemstone. It wasn’t pretty exactly, but it had an air of importance and precision about it. Where had it come from, and why did Rufe give it to her?
She padded across the cold stone floor to the door. Just as her hand touched the handle, she realized she had no way of finding the little man or even of contacting him.
A tremor ran through her. What if the necklace belonged to Governor Dolanath or worse, Balif? If caught with it, her life would be forfeit. She almost snatched the thing from her neck there and then, but something stayed her hand. There was no need for haste. Rufe would return. Mathi owed him payment for his services. When the little man showed up next, she would return the necklace to him. She prayed to her lost god that the fool little man didn’t steal it from someone too vengeful. The idea of her mission ending in prison or on a gibbet was both horrifying and laughable, but Rufe had a way of making horrible, laughable things happen all the time.
She heard soft footfalls in the passage. Thinking Rufe was prowling around, Mathi flung the door open and hissed, “You there! Where do you think you’re going?”
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