this audience. Who dares order the arrest of my guest?” Cold silence filled the room. She said, “Hamalcath, I am displeased. You may go. Now.”
Mathi had never seen an elf blush so severely. Curls-Lord Hamalcath-bowed deeply and withdrew. Amaranthe dismissed the rest of her court until the only ones left were Mathi, Treskan, two of her personal guards, and herself.
She sat down in a high-backed chair, folding her hands in her lap.
“Speak now, and hold back nothing. Tell me of Balif.”
So they did. They took turns describing their journey, the growing curse and how it changed the general, his challenge to to Bulnac, and the overthrow of the powerful nomad force.
Very quietly Amaranthe said, “I was never certain if he was merely valiant or very clever. Now I see he was both.”
When Mathi described Balif’s championing the kender as the rightful owners of the eastern province, Amaranthe’s haughtiness returned.
“Does Balif think he can give away what is the Speaker’s?”
Diplomatically Treskan bowed his head. “It is not for me to say, Highness. I can only relate what my lord Balif has said in my hearing. The wanderfolk are here. Possession is a great measure of the law, it is said. Lord Balif saw them as harmless neighbors of the Silvanesti and a useful buffer against the humans.”
She nodded slightly and bade him continue.
“There is little more to say, Highness. I lost sight of the general in the melee of the last battle, and I have not seen him since.”
She drummed white fingers on the arm of her chair. “He is alive, I know it. Is there anything left of his true nature, or has the curse reduced him to a brute at last?” Truthfully, Mathi admitted she did not know.
Amaranthe stood abruptly. Mathi had a flash of memory, seeing her with Balif in the general’s strange, empty mansion. She stifled the unworthy image and tried to anticipate what the willful royal lady wanted.
“I am here against the wishes of my brother,” she said. “He bears no affection for General Balif, for the people love him in a way they will never love the Speaker. I have told Silvanos again and again that a great ruler does not need to be loved, but he resents Balif’s popularity and fears his influence.”
She did not say what was really in her mind: that Silvanos wanted Balif out of the way forever, curse or no curse. She didn’t have to say it.
Mathi said, “I understand, Highness. Your concern is the well-being of the general.” She looked her directly in the eye. “In this, we are agreed.”
“Then assure him of my … protection. In whatever form his destiny has chosen, he has every protection I can give him.”
With that, the interview ended. Mathi and Treskan were taken rather unceremoniously to change their clothes. Their fine court raiment was taken back, and they were given their old garments, and escorted to the boat. It was dusk, and the elves rowed up river to the exact spot Mathi and the scribe had embarked. They were put ashore. The boat pulled away and was soon lost in the gathering dusk.
Insects hummed in clouds above the water’s edge. Treskan slapped at them. It was eerily quiet there below the bluff. Mathi smelled campfires. She saw the flicker of firelight atop the hill, and that meant the Longwalker and his people were still around. Mathi decided to try a ploy he’d been mulling over since leaving Amaranthe’s ship.
“Would you really like to find Balif?” she asked Treskan.
“I want to not be devoured by mosquitoes,” he said sourly. “How will you find him when so many others can not?”
She cupped her hands to her mouth. Absurd, really absurd, the gesture, but she had to try.
“Rufe! Rufus Wrinklecap! Are you there?”
Frogs grunted in the mud around them. She shouted again. Turning in a circle on the river bank, she squinted into the twilight for some hint of the kender’s presence. Mathi drew in a deep breath to shout a third time but, before she could, she felt a tug on the back of her trailworn gown.
Without even turning around she said, “Rufe, I have a new task for you. Or I should say, an old one you may do again.”
“What’s up, boss?”
The kender was decked out in an assortment of leather and furs, spoils from the nomads no doubt. He had an oversized knife shoved in his belt and a bronze gorget at his throat. The martial effect of his attire was spoiled by his bare, muddy feet and the sprig of green sumac he was chewing.
“I need to find Balif.”
Rufe balked. “That’s not a good idea, boss. He’s not a friendly elf anymore.”
“Nevertheless, I need to find him. I’ll pay what it’s worth. What do you want for the job?”
Rufe thought for a long time, at least to a count of five. “I want to go with him,” he said, pointing to Treskan.
“Eh? Go with me where?”
“Wherever you go, boss. Back home to Woodbec, or anyplace else.”
It was unexpected. Mathi asked why he wanted to go with the scribe.
“He visits strange places,” said the kender. He poked his pointed chin with a finger. “Places I can’t get to. That interests me.”
Treskan pronounced it impossible. Absolutely impossible. Even if he wanted to take Rufe, he could not. The rules of his profession forbade tagalongs.
“Will you take me with you then?” he said to Mathi. She was taken aback. Her ultimate destination was unknown, even to her, but since she needed the kender to find Balif, Mathi said yes.
“Swear to it,” Rufe said with great solemnity.
She did, though she felt very guilty. Rufe gravely shook hands with her, hitched up his sword belt, and announced he would find Balif before sunrise. Mathi hoped that he could.
Rufe slipped away into the dark, damp woods. A mist was rising from the river.
“If I don’t sleep soon, I’m going to die,” Treskan declared. Mathi heartily agreed. She felt damp to the skin, so they went up the riverbank to the kender’s bridge. They crossed over and climbed the hill so many had died trying to take.
The wanderfolk were scattered over the hill in their usual careless fashion. The biggest campfire marked the Longwalker’s shelter, cobbled together from cast-off nomad blankets and poles salvaged from Lofotan’s barrier of stakes. Serius and his cronies hailed Mathi and offered her food and drink. It was good fare, cured venison and wheat beer, again courtesy of Bulnac’s shattered horde.
“What a day!” the Longwalker declared. “I have never seen the like!”
Mathi agreed. The kender refought the battles of the day, each storyteller emphasizing his own part in the struggle. Listening to them, Mathi had no idea so many brave kender had fought so well. The elves and the centaurs were mere bystanders in their version.
“Where are Zakki and his fellows?” Mathi asked. They were gone with the elf army, tracking the humans. And what about Lofotan?
“The Elder lord”-the Longwalker meant Artyrith-“tried to force Lofty to go with him, but Lofty refused. He said his place was here. I think he expects the general to return.”
“Lofotan is here? Where?”
Four kender hands pointed four different directions. The Longwalker scolded them and said, “On the high bluff, overlooking the water.”
Mathi thanked them for the meal. Treskan would have, too, but he had slumped forward where he sat, dead asleep.
She wove in and out of the hodge-podge of shelters until she reached the highest point of the hill. There she found Lofotan seated cross-legged in front of a small twig fire. Fire painted his face in dark colors.
“Greetings, captain.”
“Girl. Where have you been?”
Mathi sat down and told him everything. Lofotan was not surprised that Amaranthe had shown up. He was surprised to hear she granted the orphan girl and clumsy scribe such an intimate interview.
