made to look like the sea grasses of the Silvanesti coast. Forged in tempered glass by the best artisans in the city, the glass fronds bent and fluttered very realistically with every breeze. They were also a first-class defense. Anything trying to run through them would be cut to pieces by the delicate-looking but razor-sharp leaves.
A single torch burned outside the front door. The evening breeze tormented the flame, whipping it from one side to the other but never quite extinguishing it. Balif homed in on the torch like a moth.
The paved area before the ornate door was big enough to parade a company of infantry. A few stone benches dotted the expanse, finely carved out of the hardest purple porphyry, veined with red like blood vessels. The seats were splotched with lichen. Moss welled up between the seams of the pavement.
At the door Balif paused to look back over his shoulder. The plaza appeared empty, but the general surveyed it for a long time.
The great front door opened before Balif could grasp the brass knob. Waiting inside was Balif’s majordomo, Lofotan Brodelamath, impeccably turned out in his servant’s uniform. A soldier who had served more than half his long life with the general, Lofotan had followed Balif home when he retired. Balif did not ask him to come, nor did the old warrior request a position as the general’s servant. He simply came. It was his job, so long as he lived, to serve Balif.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Hello.”
He stood with his hands over a polished copper bowl while Lofotan poured warm water over his hands. It was the homecoming ritual enacted in every elf home in the city, every day. In that evening’s case Balif called for a second rinse. His hands felt unusually soiled.
Lofotan did not ask about the day’s events. It was not his place. He did say, “My lord, there are two persons waiting to see you.”
Drying his hands on a snowy linen towel, Balif raised an arched brow. “Couriers or courtiers?”
“Neither, I should say. One has the look of a priestess. The other is a scribe.”
“I’ve not summoned either.” Discreetly checking the sash at his waist for the dirk concealed there, Balif crossed the dimly lit hall.
“In the morning hall, my lord.” Balif went to the room indicated.
Within, a single bank of oil lamps burned. While many in Silvanost relied on magical luminars to light their homes, Balif was old-fashioned enough to prefer flame. Seated in the circle of light by the lamp stand were two elves unknown to him. Hearing the general enter, the strangers got to their feet. A stylus and a writing board clattered to the floor.
As Lofotan said, the young female was dressed as a priestess, though without any badges or talismans indicating her temple. Her hair was long, dark and plainly cut. She had slim arms and long fingers but a curiously round face, not at all like the high-cheeked elf women of the city.
The other stranger was middle-aged with the blue-tinged hair of a western woodlander. His clothes were plain homespun with the green stripe of House Servitor worked in with the black cuffs of the scribal guild. Seeing his writing equipment on the floor, the visitor went down on both knees to retrieve it.
Balif approached. He said, “You don’t look like assassins.”
“Sir?” said the clerically dressed female.
He surveyed them with folded arms. “You didn’t come here to slay me, did you?”
The scribe stared blankly. Beside him the apparent priestess replied, “No, my lord! Why in the world would anyone want to harm you, my lord?”
At arm’s length, Balif paused, sizing up the strangers. “No reason. I make a poor jest. What are you called?”
“Mathani Arborelinex, at your service!” She bowed from the waist. The middle-aged scribe stiffly imitated her gesture. His black metal stylus hit the floor again.
“That’s a feast of a name,” Balif observed. “Are you known as Mathi to those with less time for the full treatment?”
“Yes, my lord, or Math, if you prefer.”
“Why are you here, Mathi?”
“The sisters of Quenesti Pah sent me from the Haven of the Lost, my lord.”
Balif understood. He was patron to several worthy causes, one of which was an orphanage run by priestesses of Quenesti Pah in the far west of Silvanesti. The Haven of the Lost was a refuge for victims of the almost constant border warfare between the elves and marauding bands of human nomads on the frontier. Anyone, from infants to adults, could find shelter there. After a certain age, residents of the haven were expected to support themselves.
“You are a ward of the temple?” Mathi bowed her head yes. “You are welcome. We shall discuss your case at dinner tonight.” Balif turned his penetrating eyes to the scribe.
“Who are you?”
“Treskan of Woodbec, my lord.”
“Why are you here?”
The scribe looked crestfallen. “I was told you required a scrivener-”
Balif turned away. “I can’t imagine who told you that. I have less than no need for a scribe. Good evening.”
He walked out, leaving the hall door ajar. Treskan was speechless, but Mathi followed Balif, saying, “My lord! Your servant says there is no one in the house but yourself, him, and a cook. Surely an important elf like yourself has need of a professional scribe?”
Balif laughed shortly. “Don’t confuse being well known with being important.” In the entry hall, Lofotan had been lurking by the door with a stout staff, gripped like a halberd. Seeing there was no trouble, he set it aside.
“My affairs these days are very simple. I do not need a scribe.”
The girl said to the scribe, “I am sorry.”
Treskan replied in a low tone, “Never mind. My hopes were not high. Now I shall have to relinquish my stylus to the guild.” Treskan started for the door.
Balif watched him go, staring at him until he reached the door. “Why will you have to relinquish the tool of your profession?” he asked, suddenly curious.
“I have been without employment too long. With this rejection, I shall lose my membership in the guild.”
“Try elsewhere in the city. Many households in Silvanost employ scribes.”
With a last clumsy bow, Treskan of Woodbec departed. Balif bade Mathi follow. They strolled across the soaring hall, footsteps echoing on the bare, polished walls.
Balif said calmly, “How long were you among humans?”
Mathi halted as if clubbed. “How did you know that, my lord?”
“Where were you captured?”
She looked somber. “In the west. Beyond the forest.”
Trailing behind, Lofotan said, “You were captured by the barbarians?” The girl nodded. “A slave?” She gave another nod.
Balif reached the far side of the monumental hall. “I would know more of this. You shall stay for now, as my guest. Lofotan, have an extra place set for dinner.”
Mathi went down on one knee. “May the goddess bless you, my lord!” She tried to kiss the general’s hand, but Balif was not having it. He ordered the girl to stand.
“Lofotan will find you quarters. Dinner will be at the eighth hour. Lofotan will fetch you then.”
Shadows were building fast. The interior hall had no windows to the outside, and it rapidly darkened as the sun set. The general of the armies of the Speaker of the Stars lit a lamp from a side table and, after a polite farewell, took his leave. Mathi watched the globe of light recede down a long hallway, finally disappearing around a corner.
It was only the seventh hour. She said to Lofotan, “What should I do until dinner?”
“Remain in your room. I will show you there now.”
Without another word, the old soldier lit a lamp of his own and gestured for the girl to follow. Lofotan
