A minor trove of gemstones cascaded down Treskan’s sleeve. Garnets, beryl stones, tourmalines, and a trio of big, uncut rubies littered the ground.
“Too much?” Rufe taunted the gawking nomads.
Vollman dug through the collar of his deerskin shirt and brought out a small leather bag. “This is all I got.” He poured out his poke. Amid the rings, bangles, and the odd gold tooth lay the desired talisman.
“That’ll do. You toss,” Rufe said. Mathi passed the gourd and tiles to the nomad. That pleased him. After all, how could the fat stranger cheat if he was throwing the tiles himself?
“Your call,” he reminded Treskan/Rufe.
“One,” said the kender.
No one said a word as Vollman shook and tossed the dried cup. With a flourish, the warrior upturned the gourd in the dirt. He held his hand there, not removing the cup.
“Well, what are ya waiting for?” said Rufe.
He snatched back the gourd. One. Rufe had gotten the talisman back and a lot more besides.
Vollman drew a dagger from the small of his back. “No one makes four hits in a row-not unless they’re cheating!”
Frightened, Treskan forgot to stop the kender’s mouth. Rufe replied, “I ain’t lucky and I ain’t a cheater. I am loved by fate; that’s all.”
“Your fate, fat pig, is to die tonight!” The dagger came up under the scribe’s chin.
Rufe squirmed under his shirt. Mathi thought he was coming out to run for it. The sensation of the little man scrambling against his ribs and stomach proved too much for Treskan. He laughed.
“Funny, am I? Let’s see how much you laugh with a cut throat!”
At that, Rufe pushed his head through Treskan’s lacings. His cheeks were bulging. The nomads seated across from them recoiled, unsure of what they were seeing. Before Vollman could strike, Rufe spewed a stream of liquid onto the lamp. It exploded.
A ball of fire gushed upward. The flash dazzled everyone’s eyes, including Mathi’s. Rufe’s arm snaked out and grabbed Vollman’s booty. “Now go!” he cried, kicking backward into Treskan’s ribs.
Mathi lashed out, upsetting the lamp. Burning oil splashed on men’s laps and in the dirt. The dry hide tent quickly caught fire. Players were bailing out as fast as they could in every direction, slapping out the flames licking their clothes. Vollman’s sleeves were on fire. Roaring, he rolled on the ground to put them out. In the chaos Treskan crawled away on all fours until Rufe wriggled free.
The kender and Mathi hoisted the scribe to his feet. “Up now and run!”
He did and the kender leaped on his back. The tent blazed and everyone fled. In the general uproar, no one paid any attention to them. Once away from the conflagration, Treskan and Mathi assumed a calmer manner and walked carefully to the fence of stakes. En route Treskan brushed by the red-bearded nomad he’d bumped into on the way in. Without Rufe under his shirt he no longer resembled an obese nomad.
“What’s the row?” exclaimed Red Beard.
“Fire,” Treskan said in his own voice. He made sure he faced the nomad, hiding the kender clinging to his back. “See?”
The hulking warrior hurried to the blaze. Mathi and Treskan hurried too, in the opposite direction. They didn’t stop running until they reached their ponies still staked and undisturbed. Rufe let himself down from the scribe’s back.
The glow of firelight for the camp was brighter than before. Mathi threw the blanket over the pony, wondering aloud if the whole camp would burn down.
“Nah,” said Rufe. “Just six tents.”
“How do you know it will be six?”
“I know.” He tapped his high forehead with two fingers. “Want to bet how many?”
Neither one of them was willing to take him up on it. They had seen enough of the kender’s prowess at gambling.
“What was that you spit on the lamp?” Mathi asked, climbing onto her horse. She held out a hand to the kender.
“Oil.” Rufe carried a small vial of oil on a loop of cord around his neck.
“Why do you carry that?” Treskan asked.
“Tastes good on greens,” he replied.
They rode off quietly, keeping to low ground to avoid being seen by nomad sentries. Treskan clutched the returned talisman in his hand as if his life depended on having it.
“All good, boss?”
“Well done, friend Rufus.”
“You are a dangerous fellow, do you know that?” said Mathi.
“I’m just gettin’ by. So when do I get my pancakes?”
Relieved like an unwound spring, Treskan nodded on his pony. The sturdy beast plodded ahead with a slack hand on the reins. Somewhere along the way, Rufe had left her, for when the moons rose early after midnight Mathi, discovered she and Treskan were alone. She had no idea when Rufe got off or where he went.
She let Treskan’s mount draw ahead. When she was sure he was asleep, she took a wide roll of birch bark from inside her gown. By the moons’ light she scrawled in her childish hand the message she hoped her brethren would find. It read:
Mathi rolled it up and tied it with a strip of rawhide that she had chewed until it was pliable. The crude scroll she tucked under her arm for a mile or so until her body warmed it. Then she dropped it in the waving grass. Her brethren searched by scent, and if they found her note, they would know it was from her by the smell. If they found it. If they were following her still.
The forest edge was just a few yards ahead, looking like a black wall. Treskan’s pony had halted, head down, staring at the impenetrable gloom. Mathi’s did likewise.
The scribe stirred at the sudden loss of motion. “Where are we?” he asked thickly. She didn’t answer, but he saw the trees and knew anyway.
“’S all right,” he said, climbing off the pony and patting its shaggy neck. His pony would not proceed until Treskan led it by the reins.
“Go on; there’s no reason to fear the dark,” Mathi told her mount. She said it, but the canny animal had other ideas. Only when Mathi got down and led the pony like Treskan did it stir from where it had stopped.
The trees closed in overhead, a vault of green leaves turned to black stone by night. They cut off the constant wind of the plain, leaving the way between the trunks airless and still. Even so, Mathi and Treskan felt they had little to fear. They knew where the nomads were, the centaurs were kindly disposed toward Balif, and the kender were probably all asleep too.
They followed the trail signs to the kender camp. By the time they reached the picket where Balif’s and Lofotan’s horses were tethered, they were both bone tired. There couldn’t be more than three or four hours of night left, not long to rest. They tied their ponies, pulled the blankets off and hung them over a tree limb, and set out for their bedrolls. Treskan still had his talisman clenched tightly in his fist. Mathi wondered if he would ever put it down again.
She made for her sleeping spot but halted when she heard talking. They were low and calm, and there were two distinct voices. Balif and Lofotan? No, the outline of the slumbering majordomo was plainly visible under his blanket. Balif and who? Treskan was a few yards behind her, sleeping apart as usual.
She saw that the general of the Speaker’s armies was chained again. There were no modest trees to bind him to, so the indefatigable Lofotan had dug a shallow hole and chained his lord to a root as thick as Mathi’s waist. Balif was sitting up, back as straight as a Silvanesti spire.
“Who’s there?” rasped a guttural voice that Mathi didn’t recognize.
Balif looked at her. His eyes glowed from within with a foreign, amber light. Tired as she was, Mathi rooted to the spot. The transformation had come over Balif again, more severely than before. Every inch of the elf’s exposed skin was covered with dense, brown fur. The skin on his nose and lips was black, like a dog’s, and hard claws studded the ends of his fingers.
“The girl,” Balif said, drawing out the initial sound of the word.
