More torches joined the first. “How many in your party?”
“Five, with ten horses!”
“Stand fast,” called down the voice. “We’ll lower the crane!”
Squeaking and creaking, a contraption of wood and rope rose above the battlement. As they watched, it swung out over the wall. It looked like a platform of planks with a waist-high railing. It was lowered by a single stout rope from a derrick leaning over the wall.
The platform landed with a thump. All four stepped up, colliding at the single entry through the rail.
“You go,” Lofotan said, deferring to Balif. The general got on. Artyrith and Lofotan collided, trying to enter next.
“We’d better not go together,” Balif said to his old comrade. “Lest we are both lost at the same time.”
“How could you get lost?” wondered Artyrith. Lofotan dryly observed that the rope could break halfway up the wall.
The cook got on, and their respective horses were led on next. When Balif shouted they were ready, the platform jerked skyward. It swung back. Balif and Artyrith vanished behind the wall.
Standing in the dark with Lofotan and the scribe, Mathi had a distinct sense of foreboding. She mentioned her unease. Lofotan affected calm.
“Trust the general. He’s no fool. I’ve never known him to unwittingly thrust his head into danger.”
Even so, the crane did not return for a long time. Weary, Mathi knelt in the dust. The horses snorted and nudged her, impatient for water and rest. Then without warning, the platform swung noisily over the battlement and descended for them.
Lofotan put Mathi and the packhorses on. Groaning and creaking, the apparatus hoisted them aloft. She gripped the rail tightly. Fortunately it was dark, and she couldn’t see the ground reeling beneath her. The horses huddled together as quiet as could be. When the platform reached its zenith, the boom pivoted, swinging the scribe and horses in a breathtaking arc. Below, torches burned, lighting a courtyard inside the fortress. Down came the platform. As she neared the ground, Mathi saw that the platform was operated by a gang of human prisoners in tattered rags and dirty breechcloths. They were chained by ankle and wrist with heavy, bronze fetters. Five elves armed with spears stood by them, while an elf in artisan’s robes gave orders to operate the machine. But where were Balif and Artyrith?
A well-dressed elf standing between two warriors greeted Mathi. “I am Dolanath Arkesian, governor of Free Winds.” Mathi gave her name and described herself as the daughter of the surveyor Camaxilas.
“Your father is within, enjoying our hospitality,” Dolanath said smoothly. He indicated an open, lit doorway in the central keep. “Go and refresh yourself.”
Warily Mathi complied. She glanced back and saw their packhorses being led off to a stable built against the outside wall. The crane squeaked into life a third time to fetch Lofotan, Treskan, and the last of the horses.
Unescorted, Mathi wandered inside. It was pleasantly cool inside the thick, stone walls. She smelled something savory and, going straight down the hall, came upon a dining room with a set table. Several chairs were askew, but the plates had been cleared away. There was no sign of Balif or the lordly cook.
She picked up a plate. It was made of that parchment-thin stuff the city elves called “porcelain,” shiny as glass and hard as metal. No one made porcelain like the Silvanesti. Silver urns simmered on a sideboard with fat candles beneath them. Mathi lifted the lids one by one. Fine fare: airy dumplings, clear soup, edible leaves flash- fried so quickly they didn’t lose any color but were as light and crisp as the finest wafers. Crystal ewers of nectar and fruit essence stood on a separate table, chilled in wet basalt buckets. All very hospitable, but something was not right by a mile. Balif would not absent himself before all in his party were inside.
Carrying a plate and a fine silver goblet, Mathi drifted to the table and sat down. No sooner had she done so than two elves appeared on either side. A wooden rod was jammed between her teeth. It tingled strangely and Mathi found that she couldn’t spit it out. Nor could she lift her arms from the chair or stand up. She was pinned down by some unseen force.
The elves picked her up, chair and all, and hustled her through a curtained opening. In moments she was dumped rather roughly in a small, plain room. The elves went out. The ominous sound of a bolt being thrown made it chillingly clear Mathi was a prisoner.
CHAPTER 7
The tingling sensation in Mathi’s gag slowly dissipated. When the tingling vanished, she spit out the rod and leaped to her feet. Trying the door proved futile. She was solidly bolted in. But why? No one in Free Winds even knew who they were-or did they? Was it some plot of the Speaker’s to get rid of Balif? Or was the abduction aimed solely at her? That, she decided, could not be. She was unknown to everyone-not above suspicion but well below it.
Unused to politics or court intrigue, she tried to untangle the situation. Silvanos was jealous of Balif, going back to the fact that Balif was once favored by many elves to be Speaker. Balif was Amaranthe’s lover, which would infuriate the highly moralistic Silvanos if he knew. Then there was the Vedvedsica affair. Though Balif had cooperated with the prosecution of his former counselor, Speaker Silvanos might want to hush up the blasphemous doings of the rogue magician by silencing all those who knew him, Balif included. Balanced against all those negatives was Balif’s undeniable service to the crown, defeating the Speaker’s foreign enemies. So which weighed more in Silvanos’s estimation? Mathi could not decide.
Hours passed. Whenever Mathi detected footsteps in the corridor, she pressed an ear to the door and listened. She heard nothing but strangers passing in silence. As it grew late, her weariness from their long ride began to tell. There was no bed in the room-in the cell-so Mathi found a spot opposite the door, lay down, and with some effort, dropped off to sleep. A luminar embedded in the high ceiling dimmed and went out.
It was black as pitch when Mathi heard a noise. It sounded like the scrape of wood on stone. Her eyes slowly opened, but there was nothing to see except darkness. Straining, she heard very faint movement within the room.
Fearing assassins, Mathi sat up and called out, “Who is it? Who goes there?” No one replied, so she repeated the demand more forcefully.
“Be quiet,” said a small voice. “You’ll wake the whole castle.”
“Who are you?”
“Just a visitor passing through. What did they lock you up for?”
“I’ve done nothing,” Mathi said urgently. “I only arrived this evening. My reception was cordial at first, but then they threw me in this dungeon!”
“Not very friendly of them.”
The voice sounded like a child’s, but the choice of words and the irony of the tone suggested an older person.
Feeling less threatened, Mathi sat up and said, “Do you have a light?”
“There’s one of those elf shards up here. How do they work?”
Mathi explained you had to know the proper word to excite them.
Her unseen visitor chortled merrily. “Excite, huh? What if I tickle it? Will it work then?”
Mathi spoke the word she knew to activate luminars. Some owners had secret words to start their lights, but when she spoke the common word, the foot-long crystal began to glow, dark red at first. As it grew stronger, the color became pinkish.
The girl looked around for her unseen companion. She saw no one. The cell door was still shut and locked. Who had she been talking to?
“Up here.”
She looked up, spotting her visitor at once. Clinging to the wood-beamed ceiling was a small person about two-thirds Mathi’s height. He was dressed in dark blue woolens and had long, auburn hair tied back in a single thick hank. The little fellow’s feet were bare.
