“Hello,” was all Mathi could think to say.
“I bear this message for your master.” He presented the girl with a golden scroll case, exquisitely embossed with sun symbols and the glyphic monogram of Silvanos Goldeneye.
“I will convey this to the general,” Mathi promised.
Under the glittering helmet brow, the officer’s eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. “I am to wait for a reply.”
Mathi shut the door. When she turned around, she found Lofotan and Balif on either side of the closed door, swords in their hands. She was so rattled that she dropped the royal message case.
“Steady on,” Lofotan chided, stooping to retrieve the tube. He and Balif returned their blades to their scabbards. “Assassins, as a rule, don’t arrive bearing messages.”
By some unseen hinge, the tube opened along its length. Within, a gold-colored sheet of parchment unrolled itself in Lofotan’s hands. Balif asked what it said.
Peering over the old warrior’s shoulder, Treskan scanned the message. “You are commanded to the royal residence at once,” he said.
“Does it say ‘residence’?”
Treskan looked again. “Why yes, my lord. Not the royal palace, but residence.”
Lofotan said, “What does it mean, my lord?”
Balif unbuckled his sword belt and gave it to his old comrade-in-arms. “The Speaker grows more subtle every day. Maybe he has some empty new honor to bestow. Maybe I will be arrested. Who but the gods can say? If I do not return, take the treasure I have hidden-you know where it is, Lofotan-and leave Silvanost at once. Don’t try to find me or help me.”
“My lord, I-” Lofotan began. Balif silenced him with a stern glance. “Yes, my lord. I’ll pay off Artyrith and go, as you say.”
“Our association may be brief,” he told Mathi, taking her hand gently. “Perhaps we will meet again.”
Balif asked how many soldiers were waiting outside. Mathi, whose eyes were quick, knew exactly.
“Thirty-six, my lord.”
“An honor company. How kind of the Speaker.”
His hand on the door, Balif said to Treskan, “Come along, scribe. There may be work for you.”
Lofotan protested. If anyone were to accompany the general, it ought to have been him. Balif firmly ordered him to stay at the house.
“No one else knows where everything is. Our late-night visitor must be disposed of too. Stay, Captain. Come, scribe.”
Before the general opened the door, Lofotan said, “My lord, are you dressed to be received by the Speaker?”
Balif was wearing the same clothes he wore to the Night Chamber the previous day. “Whatever fate Silvanos has for me I can meet as I am.” He smiled. Mathi observed the great general had an easy smile and used it often. “Guard the gates, Captain. I shall return soon or not at all.”
He threw open the door and strode out. The honor guard, idling on the weedy terrace, snapped to attention. Watching through the open door, Mathi had never heard arms click into place so quickly. Thirty-six elves in the immaculate livery of the Speaker of the Stars stood in rigid order, two parallel lines facing each other. Their officer, no less attentive, faced Balif.
“My lord! Good morning!”
“It is a good morning.” Balif’s tone was relaxed, but every fiber of his being was alert. He stepped down from the doorway, tugging on pale doeskin gloves. “This is my personal scribe, Treskan. He will be accompanying me.”
“My orders were to bring you alone, my lord,” said the officer.
“And
The officer opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. He raised his sword hilt to his face in acknowledgment, turned on one heel, and snapped orders to his waiting troops. As Balif crossed the terrace to the street, thirty-six blades thrust skyward. The hiss of so much bronze being bared made Mathi flinch.
“My lord!” she called, stepping through the door. Balif paused and looked back. “My lord, allow me to come!”
He made no reply, so Mathi ran to meet him and Treskan. The guards’ commander protested anew. Enjoying the officious elf’s predicament, Balif agreed to let Mathi accompany him.
“My lord, this is a serious breach of protocol!” said the officer.
“Yes,” said Balif, not smiling.
Any other noble lord of Silvanost would have entered a fine carriage and ridden off to the Speaker’s palace with the honor guard following on foot. Balif disdained such airs. He remarked to Mathi that he had at one time been provided with a silver-chased carriage of the finest make, drawn by four matched white horses. He rode in it once then gave the horses to deserving soldiers of his army. The carriage went into storage and had not seen the light of day since. Ever since, he had walked where he needed to go. If his destination were far, he would hire a common carter to carry him.
Five steps behind Balif, Treskan made careful note of what he heard. The day had just begun, and already he had much to write about in his chronicle.
The square on which Balif’s grand house stood was fronted by three other imposing homes. When Balif reached the street, he chose to walk down the center of the lane, trailed by Mathi, Treskan, and the glittering honor guard. Gardeners and other servants working on the neighboring estates stopped their work and bowed as Balif passed. He walked serenely on, paying the honor no special heed.
At the end of the lane, he reached a busier thoroughfare, the Sunpath. That street led into one of the great byways of Silvanost, the circular street known as the Star Way. Everything in Silvanost was natural, Mathi noticed. As she walked behind General Balif, she got her first full view of the elf capital. Beneath her feet the paving stones were natural river stones, taken from the Thon-Thalas and fitted together with astonishing accuracy. Stones large and small nestled together with such unity that one could not be pried out without lifting a half dozen others surrounding it. Each stone was a different pastel color. Mixed together, the effect was very pleasing, like a well- made carpet of living rock.
On either side of the street were shade trees and flowering shrubs, guided by elf hands into living colonnades. Spread beneath them were hand-laid strands of white river sand. The people of Silvanost passed back and forth on their daily affairs. Beyond the shaded footpaths were the gardens of individual homes. From them rose phalanxes of fiery orange lilies, scarlet roses on thorny ropes of green, and golden daisies the size of warriors’ shields. All the flowers were not outsized, though. That would be too garish. The Silvanesti also loved miniature blossoms. Hyacinths and cyclamens, shrunk to the size of jewels, made carpets of color on many lawns.
Farther back from the street were the houses of Silvanost. The residents of the Sunpath were mostly artisans who worked in trades supervised by House Artisan. There the skill of the elves in manipulating wood and stone was well displayed. Mathi saw houses formed from living tree trunks, conglomerations of native boulders, and even some woven from leafy vines. The effect was not as primitive as it might sound. The elves loved vertical forms, and each home thrust skyward with exuberance. A glance might mislead a visitor into thinking a house was made of cut marble, but no chisel ever touched a Silvanesti home. Through natural magic and secret art, the people of Silvanost had learned how to shape natural substances into any form they desired. Only careful study could reveal that a lovely green townhouse was actually made of live ivy. A tower that resembled cut glass from afar might, close up, turn out to be polished quartz, the crystals mined and assembled like logs.
Not long after entering the Sunpath, the crowds lining the route began to multiply. Gardeners went to fetch their masters and mistresses. Artisans left their tools. Elf children-who seemed scarce to Mathi, compared to the children of a nomad tribe-came running from under bowers and arbors. Everyone wanted to see the celebrated general.
For his part Balif kept his course resolutely ahead. At times he acknowledged a familiar face with the slightest of nods, but the acclaim of the growing crowd he ignored. Mathi looked back. Stretching behind them, the street was filled with curious, excited elves. They crowded the honor guard, jostling the rear ranks until the soldiers started elbowing them back. The proud residents of Silvanost did not take kindly to such treatment. They
