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
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 was 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
