There was a loud clanking from above. Slack went out of the chains, then the boat began to rise. Treskan and Mathi rushed to either side of the rail and looked over. Already they were out of the water, which was streaming down the boat’s hull in torrents. They rose a good ten feet until the boat’s rail was level with the flagship’s. The boom slowly retracted, bringing the small craft tight against the flagship’s side. Ropes were passed back and forth, tying each to the other. Then the messenger raised the hinged rail and stepped onto the great ship’s broad deck.
“Come,” he said to his guests.
The deck was like a city street. There were lanes on either side, and the center was crowded with buildings built exactly like houses or shops on land. They looked just like the stone structures common to Silvanost, but in passing Mathi touched a spiral column and discovered it was wood, made to look like stone.
Mathi and Treskan were led forward into a one of the two-story deckhouses. An elderly elf with white hair down to his shoulders eyed them once inside.
“The guests,” he said disapprovingly. “What a sight you are. Well, the first thing to be done is make you clean. Get off those filthy rags at once.”
Treskan fingered his collar. “Must I?”
“You cannot enter the August Presence of our patron looking and smelling as you do.”
“I cannot,” Mathi protested. “I am a maiden, a ward of Quenesti Pah. I cannot disrobe in the presence of males!”
Treskan had similar reasons for modesty. Under his clothes his elf diguise had worn thin. The nomads mistook him for a half-elf. If he stripped now, the Silvanesti would certainly arrest him.
The white-haired elf sighed. “Quarters suitable for your chastity will be provided. As for you, scribe-”
“I thank you, excellency, for the opportunity to cleanse myself! I have been too long without the simplest methods of hygiene. But-I must also undress and bathe alone,” Treskan said, feigning relief. The elderly elf haughtily asked why. He said, “I was a prisoner of the nomads. I am ashamed of the scars I earned at their hands.”
His appeal against ugliness worked. The white-haired elf showed him a shallow terra-cotta tub he could stand in, and the tall ewers of spring water he could wash with. He then led Mathi a few doors down to an identical room, also equipped with a washtub. Then he left.
When she was alone, Mathi carefully undressed. It was a strange and frightening bath. She lived in dread that someone would burst in and her deception would be revealed. In the past weeks on the trail, her perfect elvishness had faded. Downy hair ran down her back and across the tops of her legs and arms. Whatever ‘August Person’ she was being taken to, they were obviously too pure to endure the company of one of the brethren. If she was exposed here, she would pay for her blasphemy with her life.
No one broke in, so she quickly dressed in the clean robes provided. She struck a small brass bell when she was done, and the elderly courtier returned with soft leather sandals and a white leather headband for her hair. Dressed and dried, Mathi stood for inspection.
“Your face is pleasant, but your carriage is quite awkward,” the white-maned elf declared. “Too awkward for august company, but-” He sighed. “It is ordered, so it must be done.”
He held up a finger. “First rule, do not speak unless prompted to do so. Secondly, keep your eyes averted from the August One except when addressing her. Thirdly, tell no one of what you hear or say here. Is that understood?”
Mathi caught the telltale ‘her.’ She had an idea at last who she was going to see.
She was led aft to the center of the ship. Treskan joined her, escorted by another genteel courtier. They were guided to a broad staircase that led down into the interior of the great vessel. Armed soldiers stood at key points. They raised their swords in salute when Mathi’s guide passed. At the top of the stairs the old elf adjusted his headband, smoothed his robe, and started down. Riddled with curiosity, Treskan and Mathi followed close on his heels.
The deck they descended to was covered with soft carpets. Luminars in copper brackets lighted the between decks almost like daylight. Interior partitions below deck seemed to be made of gossamer silk. Shadows cast by luminars on the other side moved silently to and fro. Voices in the scantest whispers marked the visitors’ progress.
A younger elf with an elaborate head of ringlets thrust his head through the curtains. He and the guide exchanged hushed words. Curls glanced at Mathi and Treskan skeptically.
“Very well,” he said. “Come.”
Attendants swept back the sheer hangings, allowing them to enter. The room beyond was open and well lit, though the furnishings were more suited to a palace than a ship. Two young elves were playing lyres together. Small white finches flitted around, alighting in the branches of small cherry trees growing in hefty buckets of soil. Incense smoldered in cone-shaped censers. A score of elves were present, rather lost in the great open space. Everyone was clustered around a tall elf woman of middle years, not beautiful but quite striking in a commanding sort of way. Mathi recognized her at once, but she was careful not to show it. Their hostess was Amaranthe, sister of the Speaker of the Stars.
A ripple of murmurs spread around the room when Mathi and Treskan entered. Mathi knew she and her companion were uncouth by elf standards, but she was determined to be a dignified as any Silvanesti. Treskan frankly stared at everything. If his studious attention marked him as a boor, he could live with the elves’ disdain.
“Come forward,” said Amaranthe.
They did, keeping their eyes off her as they approached. The carpet was marked with broad red stripes, a helpful feature. Mathi counted stripes as they advanced. A warrior in gilded armor stopped them with an outstretched arm. Twenty-six stripes from the door, she reckoned.
“You are the girl known as Mathani Arborelinex, are you not?”
“I am, lady.”
“The August One is properly addressed as ‘Highness,’” Curls said stiffly.
“I am Mathani Arborelinex, Highness. Forgive my manners. I have not lived long in civilized society.”
“The other is the one called Treskan?” He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “You were personal scribe to General Balif, they tell me,” Amaranthe said. Her voice was warm and strong, hinting at both an iron will and personal passion.
“I have that honor, Highness.”
“Have? You are still in his employ? I am told he has departed …”
Mathi glanced up. Her appearance was refined, but simple. She wore far less jewelry and gilded silk than those around her. What was more, Mathi clearly saw the furrows in her forehead. She was concerned. She still loved Balif.
“Is General Balif dead?” Amaranthe said.
Treskan replied, “I do not think so, Highness. He was wounded in the battle with the nomad chief, but I do not believe they were mortal injuries.”
More sharply: “What became of him then?”
“Highness, I have not seen the general since the battle with the humans ended,” Mathi said honestly, lowering her gaze. “Where he is, I do not know, but I doubt he is far away.”
“Where is he then? Speak!”
Mathi folded her hands into her loose sleeves. “I cannot say for sure.”
“Impertinence!” Curls said. “Give the order, Highness, and the truth will be extracted from this impudent girl by any means necessary!”
Amaranthe was more reasonable. “Why can you not tell me all you know?”
“Many ears spread gossip as the leaves of a great tree spread raindrops.” Treskan said, quoting a famous aphorism of the sage Vestas. It was just the sort of thing a real Silvanesti scribe might say. “There are those who would like to know where General Balif is, who do not wish him well.”
“Double impertinence! Away with this scoundrel!”
Curls’ quick anger meant one thing to Mathi: he was the Speaker’s servant, not Amaranthe’s. Was he, like Artyrith, charged with finding the general and holding him for the Speaker’s pleasure?
The guards moved in either side of them. Amaranthe raised her voice, however, saying, “I have not ended
