By guess and by luck, they found the villa. It was more empty than usual. Lofotan was nowhere to be found. The scribe retired to an empty room off the main hall to transcribe his notes on Balif’s audience with the Speaker. Mathi roamed the vast halls, calling the majordomo without success. In the end she found her way to the kitchen. From far down the hall, she heard Artyrith laboring mightily, clattering cutlery and pans. He punctuated his struggle now and then with high-flown Elvish oaths. What elf obscenity lacked in earthy vigor it made up for with poetic ferocity. After hearing a few barrages from the cook, Mathi halted outside the kitchen, fascinated and horrified at the same time. What was that he said? Put the mixing spoons how deeply where?
The door shielding her from the cook flew open.
“The country girl! Why are you lurking in dark hallways?” Artyrith exclaimed.
“I am looking for Lofotan,” she replied. “Have you seen him?”
“I’ve seen no one since you two came down to collect the general’s breakfast.” His belligerent tone softened. “Did he like it, by chance?”
Mathi honestly could not remember. She said, “He liked it very well.”
“Strange, he usually eats like a songbird. Maybe feeling like a condemned convict improved his appetite.”
Artyrith grabbed a broom from the corner outside the door. Mathi noticed that the broom, like most artifacts she’d seen in Silvanost, was impossibly elegant for such a homely tool. The handle was made from a long, white bone, a wing or leg bone of some unidentifiable creature. At the other end, the broom’s head looked like a solid block of some kind of soft, gray material.
She followed Artyrith. The kitchen was well lit by assorted luminars-proof Balif never came down there. A transparent vase lay smashed on the floor. Saffron dust spilled out in drifts from the point of impact. Sighing, Artyrith started sweeping up the spill. He muttered something about how much gold per ounce the spilled powder cost.
“Why do you call the general a convict?” Mathi asked.
“Because death or exile hangs over his head like a sword. Have you not heard?”
“I’ve not been in Silvanost long, my lord.”
Having his pretensions polished made Artyrith beam. “Of course. You are a hopeless provincial.” She must have frowned, for the handsome cook explained, “No offense, my dear. One is either from Silvanost or not.”
So far the distinction did not seem much of an honor to Mathi. She saw Artyrith start to dump a pan full of broken glass and golden-red powder in a waste bin. Mathi objected. Why not sieve it, filtering out the bits of glass?
Artyrith was delighted. “Trust a practical peasant to know how to squeeze a coin!”
He placed a large copper bowl on the table and laid a slightly smaller sieve of the same metal on top of it. Dumping the spilled powder in the sieve, he noted with satisfaction that it passed through, leaving slivers of glass behind.
“Tell me about Lord Balif,” Mathi said. “I know the songs they sing about his courage and generalship. Who is the real one I owe my rescue to?”
The cook tapped the sieve to speed the powder through. “Ah, the general. No one is so talked about in Silvanost as our lord! Time was Balif was the second most powerful person in the kingdom, and without doubt the most respected. But something happened to change all that. It was that rogue, Vedvedsica.”
Artyrith’s voice dropped when he said the name, as if he feared invoking the magician by speaking his name too loudly.
“I have heard the name, but I know little of him,” Mathi said.
“He’s a blackguard of the first order. By attaching himself to Lord Balif, he gained much prestige. He lorded it over everyone for a very long time, and then he fell, blackening the name of his great patron when he toppled.”
Vedvedsica was a woodland wizard, once one of the leaders of a coalition of wild, self-taught mages known as the Brown Hoods, from the homespun robes they wore, Artyrith explained. When Silvanos Goldeneye was extending his rule over the elves of the wildwood, the Brown Hoods were his most serious opponents. The mages had their own candidate for Speaker of the Stars: Balif Thraxenath, hereditary clan chief of the Greenrunners. For a while it looked like civil war was brewing, but Vedvedsica performed a powerful augury ceremony for Balif to divine his future. After seeing what was in store for him, Balif willingly submitted to Silvanos and publicly proclaimed him Speaker. After that Silvanos had no serious opposition.
“What became of the Brown Hoods?” said Mathi. “Surely all of them didn’t follow Vedvedsica and Balif?”
“They didn’t. Once he was in power, Silvanos organized a quiet campaign to destroy the woodland magicians. Some were slain. Others were thrown in prison, while others were exiled to rocky islands in the southern sea. Vedvedsica organized the purge for Silvanos.”
Mathi sat down at Artyrith’s feet, folding her legs beneath her. By dropping a few more “my lords” to the talkative cook, she easily extracted the rest of the story.
Artyrith said, “Vedvedsica seemed unassailable then. He served Silvanos, and at the same time remained General Balif’s personal counselor. He put his magical skills to work for both of them. When their goals clashed, Vedvedsica’s intervention meant success for the one he chose to side with.”
The last of the spilled powder was in the sieve. Artyrith thrust the broom at Mathi. Only then did she recognize the head was made of feathers-hundreds of tiny, gray feathers embedded in a bar of solid bronze. How was such a thing made? And for common household use too!
Mathi asked Artyrith what brought the mage down from the height of power.
“No one knows but those involved. It is a capital crime to speak of it.” Artyrith drew a narrow finger through the salvaged spice powder. “What I have heard is this: Vedvedsica embarked on a personal scheme of a blasphemous nature. He duped our lord into aiding his work. When he was caught, he tried to buy his way out of punishment by offering the Speaker the head of the illustrious general, our master. The Speaker has never been comfortable with our lord. He’s too honest and too popular. He pretended to agree with Vedvedsica’s proposal then put the mage on trial for his life.”
Mathi all but dropped the broom. “That’s monstrous!”
“Your word, country girl, not mine.”
The conversation finally seemed to spook the loquacious cook. He suddenly professed to be extremely busy and shooed Mathi out of the kitchen. Head abuzz with new facts, she made her way back to the front hall. There she found Lofotan removing a cloak and wide-brimmed hat.
“What are you doing here? Where is our lord?” Mathi had to admit she had lost Balif in the crowd outside the Tower of the Stars. The old soldier did not appear concerned. When Mathi told him about the Speaker’s command that Balif investigate the infiltration of the east by foreign interlopers, the majordomo was elated.
“Good!” he said. “It’s about time we quit this wretched city! You cannot trust anyone here.”
Mathi said the general was ordered to leave at first light.
“It shall be done! You will help, girl. The clumsy scribe too.”
“My name is Mathi,” she replied. “The scribe’s name is Treskan. They’re not hard names to remember.”
Lofotan ignored her. He bustled in and out of rooms, collecting garments from chests and flinging them into the girl’s arms. When Mathi was staggering under the burden, Lofotan led her to a small room under the grand stairway. Neatly racked along the walls were swords, bows, quivers of arrows, javelins, and light lances. Lofotan spent some time examining the blades, checking them for straightness and their edges for nicks. He had selected three when he asked Mathi to come forward. Struggling under an armload of clothing, the girl tried to comply.
“Oh, drop all that.”
Mathi heaved the garments on the floor.
“Are you right-handed? Hold out your arm.” Bewildered, she did so. Lofotan laid a slim elf sword against her outstretched arm. “How can you have long limbs and such a short reach?”