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
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?”
Crouching a few steps away was someone much larger than the little thief. In the feeble light of the hallway, all Mathi saw was a hunched-over figure silhouetted against the pale illumination filtering down the passage. What riveted her to where she stood were the interloper’s eyes. They glowed from within with a vibrant red the exact shade of blood.
“You should not be here,” she hissed. “Go back! Wait until he’s in open country.”
The shadowy creature sniffed. Mathi had a clear impression of wet nostrils twitching as the sanguinary eyes bore straight through her. There was no recognition in them, no understanding that Mathi was a sister, a being like him.
She backed up a step. It was clear if she moved that it would leap upon her and rend her to bits. Bracing herself, Mathi ducked inside her room and slammed the door. She braced her shoulder against it. Where was that sword, that useless sword Lofotan pressed on her?
She heard it come close to the door. There was the slightest scrape on the outside panel; then the sniffing began again, down at the gap between the door and the floor. Mathi held her place, pushing against the unresisting door. The thing snuffled from one side of the gap to the other then withdrew. Sweat trickling down her forehead, Mathi braced for an attack.
The door handle descended ever so slowly. It was a simple bronze handle, turned to fit a round socket through the door panel. Mathi grabbed the latch and held it up. More and more force was applied from the other side. She couldn’t hold. She couldn’t keep the door shut.
Leaping back, she ran to the side chest and found the sword Lofotan gave her. Gripping it with both hands, Mathi squared off, facing the door. She hated fighting a brother, but when her brethren got to that state, such reversion to primal form, they were beyond reason. If he came through the door for her, she would fight.
The handle swung down to the end of its arc and stopped. All that was needed was the slightest pressure to push the door open. It didn’t happen. With equal slowness, the latch returned to its closed position.
Six feet away Mathi could not hear if the creature had gone. She waited as long as she dared then rushed the door and peeked out. The gloomy passage was empty. She ran pell-mell to the room occupied by Balif and the elves. Mathi pounded on the door. Lofotan admitted her, sword in hand.
