“I wandered along the eastern shore of the river, going south. I fell in with a party of woodlanders, who delivered me to the Haven. I lived there a year until the sisters of Quenesti Pah decided I was fit enough to go out on my own. They sent me here to seek your guidance, my lord.”
The general tore a loaf of flat bread in two, placing half on his guest’s plate. For a great lord of Silvanost, he certainly kept an ascetic table.
“The scribe, Treskan; you met him on the journey here?”
“Yes, my lord. He hails from Woodbec, not far from my old home.”
“What do you know about him?”
Mathi poked her cheek with the little spear points. Wincing, she replied, “Only what he told me, my lord. He has had much bad luck in his life. Three of his patrons died, one after the other, and he acquired the reputation in Woodbec of being bad luck. Hence no one would hire him.”
“Hah! Bad luck doesn’t frighten me. I’ll hire him. You may tell him that,” Balif said. Another cover lifted, revealed a bowl of fresh greens. Balif served Mathi. Oil and honey dressing was in the diamond cruet, he said.
Mouth open, Mathi did not know what to say.
“Food to your liking?” asked the general.
“How did you know-?”
“That the scribe is still about? My dear child, this house is protected by powerful conjurations. When someone breaks a door ward, the effect is noted immediately. Is he in the house right now?”
She nodded dumbly.
“Your suite?”
“Yes, my lord. Do forgive me! He’s desperate and I only meant to do him a kindness-”
“I understand. It is because of your kindness, your belief, that I changed my mind.”
Balif refilled her cup and his own. “This city, splendid as it is, is in many ways as cold and hard as the crystal towers soaring over us. Scarcely a week goes by that I’m not accosted by some worthy seeking favors, charity, or largesse. Lofotan has standing orders to throw such beggars out. Being from the Haven, you deserve every kindness, and by showing grace, you earn grace for your friend.”
Mathi wasn’t about to deny being Treskan’s friend. She barely knew him, but she was delighted to have done him a service.
Lofotan appeared as if on signal with a very chastened scribe in tow.
“You know record-hand as well as script?” Balif said, raising his voice to fill the room in commanding fashion. Record-hand was an abbreviated form of writing used to keep records of events. Treskan swore he knew it perfectly.
“You are retained. Lofotan will find you quarters. You may eat in the kitchen.”
The old soldier clapped a heavy hand on Treskan’s shoulder to pull him away. The scribe said, “Thank you, my lord! May Astarin and Matheri bless you-but wait! What will my duties be?”
“You will handle all the writing that needs to be done in the household, of course. Good night!”
Lofotan steered Treskan away. Balif parted his last bit of fish with his fork and said loudly, “If you ever enter my house illicitly again, it will cost you your head. Understood?”
Treskan stammered, “Ah, perfectly, my lord. Thank you for this chance!”
“You will surrender the ward-breaker you used to Lofotan too.”
“Already done, my lord,” said the majordomo, holding up a small metal and crystal talisman.
Dinner ended with Mathi hardly less hungry than when she started. Balif did not escort her to her room. He merely asked her to return there if she was finished.
Mathi got up and bowed to her host. “Thank you, my lord. May I ask one question?” Sipping spring water, Balif nodded. “What shall become of me?”
“That is for the gods to decide, is it not?” He smiled not unkindly. “I shall inquire around the city for you. What skills do you have?”
“My best talent is beekeeping,” she said.
The general asked if she had any special deficiencies.
Mathi lowered her head. “I do not get along well with domestic animals,” she said. That was a problem she never realized in her sylvan home, but while a slave of the nomads, Mathi discovered that their domestic animals could not abide her. Cows, goats, sheep, even dogs were restless around her. Birds took wing, and cats fled in terror.
“To what do you attribute such a reaction?”
“I do not know, my lord. Perhaps my scent disturbed them. I cannot say.”
“Very well, your warning is duly noted. Good night, Mathani. Remember to stay in your room tonight unless summoned by me or Lofotan.”
She bowed and departed. Mathi’s head was reeling with many conflicting thoughts. The mighty general was nothing like she expected. Kind but aloof, humble yet commanding, he seemed like an elf at war with himself. All his precautions-all his defenses-had to be in place to ward off a real threat. But from whom … or what?
Far off in the silent, empty house, she heard a sudden loud clang. Mathi was awake at once. Rapid footfalls echoed in the long hall outside her door. She picked up her luminar but left it unlit. Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open a finger’s width.
Something flashed by. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Mathi was sure what ran past was on all fours, such as a dog. There was a shout from the top of the stairs, a wordless cry of alarm. Mathi pushed the door shut, held her luminar up and spoke the word to make it shine. Then she flung the door wide and ran out.
Where the broad steps met the wide hall, two figures struggled in a deadly embrace. Both stood upright. Light glinted on a red metal blade. The taller one was Lofotan. He had a short sword in one hand as he grappled with a darkly clad opponent who seemed to be wearing fur robes. The old soldier’s eyes caught the glare of the luminar.
“Put out that light!” he cried.
His enemy turned to see who Lofotan was shouting at. In that instant Mathi saw his face. It was elf-shaped but covered with brown fur. Enormous dark eyes, all pupils and no white, reflected the light, glowing red as hot coals.
Mathi stumbled back, dropping the light. The luminar hit the floor and went out.
She heard rather than saw what happened next. Someone landed several hard blows, each one followed by grunts of pain. There followed the unmistakable sound of flesh being cleaved. A sharp howl filled the hall. Lofotan uttered a soldier’s oath. Then all was quiet, save for the elf’s labored breathing.
“Come here, girl.”
He had to call twice before Mathi gathered enough presence of mind to comply. “Bring your light,” Lofotan added. He coughed dryly. Mathi brought the luminar but did not activate it.
“Shine it there.”
The cone of light revealed the intruder dead at his feet, lying in a spreading pool of blood. He resembled an adult male elf except for the startling fur. Elves were not hirsute. They regarded humans and dwarves as beastly simply because they had body hair and beards.
Lofotan cursed again and stepped back out of the gore. Remembering that he was in the presence of a Haven girl, he apologized, saying, “Forgive me. It was stronger than I expected.”
The old soldier edged into the light. He was wounded. A long, bleeding gash ran from his left ear down across his throat. The front of his white tunic was soaked with blood. A patchwork of scratches covered his face.
“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.
“It’s nothing.” He prodded the corpse with the point of his sword.
“What happened here?”
A new voice said, “It came to kill me.”
The servant and the girl looked down the stairs and saw Balif, bearing an oil lamp in one hand and a naked sword in the other. Lofotan instinctively straightened. Ignoring his hurts, he raised his bloody blade in salute.
“The other one got away,” Balif said, approaching. Mathi stared at the pair of unsheathed blades handled with such casual skill.
“Can this one talk?”