Lofotan looked up at the sky. “A good day for travel.”
“The Speaker so ordered it,” Farolenu replied. “No rain to spoil the general’s departure.” From her humble place at the door, Mathi could not tell if they were jesting or not.
Complaining loudly, Artyrith appeared. No trews or breastplates for him. He wore a very stylish city-cut kilt and sleeveless tunic, topped by a bright scarlet cloak draped over one shoulder and pinned under the opposite arm. Standing on the steps with the imposing facade of Balif’s villa behind him, he looked more like the lord of the manor than his master.
Seeing the array of soldiery drawn up before him, Artyrith uttered a single pithy oath. The officers, Lofotan included, regarded him with supreme distaste.
Hatless, while Treskan, Lofotan, and Balif wore flat-topped, wide-brimmed travelers’ hats, Artyrith strode down the steps to the line of horses. He chose the best one, a dappled gray, and was about to mount him when Lofotan caught him by the elbow.
“Not that one. That is the general’s.”
The tall roan was the majordomo’s. That left the three ponies for the cook, the scribe, and the girl. Sniffing at the indignity of having to ride a short-legged nag, Artyrith chose the paint and swung nimbly into the saddle. Treskan stood by the dusty brown pony without complaint. He was an unsteady rider at best. At least with a beast such as that he didn’t have so far to fall.
Lofotan beckoned Mathi to take the last pony. She came on warily. Three paces away, the horses began to shift and snort. The pony left for Mathi rolled its eyes as she drew near.
“I warned my lord that animals do not like me,” Mathi said, backing away.
“Nonsense,” said Lofotan, dismounting. “The silly beast is just skittish.”
The silly beast was indeed skittish, and no amount of coaxing or handling by the expert Lofotan would calm it down. It began to look as though Mathi would be left behind or worse, have to walk.
Balif emerged, tying on his flat hat. Farolenu barked the command, and six hundred warriors snapped to attention, clacking their bronze greaves together as they stood straight as spears. The general of all the Speaker’s armies regarded his old comrades with a critical eye.
Farolenu stepped forward. “My lord! I wish I was going with you!”
“No, you don’t. It’s going to be terribly dull. Riding, camping, sleeping in the cold and the rain-no adventures, I fear.”
Farolenu was unconvinced. He knew his general too well. Where Balif went, things happened.
“I don’t understand why a suitable escort was not ordered,” Farolenu said. “The commander of all the Speaker’s armies deserves more company than one old soldier, an effete cook, a clumsy wordsmith, and a bumpkin.”
The cook retorted, “Your voice carries exceedingly well, my lord!”
“And your ears are keen,” Balif replied. “Fear not, my friend. I have the companions I deserve and wish.”
He glanced at the sky. The summer sun was well up. Widely spaced, bright white clouds drifted along. There was perfume in the air-the scent of all the flowers in the neighboring gardens.
“Time to go.”
“There is a problem, my lord,” said Lofotan. Balif queried him with a look. His majordomo explained how the pony left for Mathi to ride would not allow her on its back.
“So?” Balif patted the sturdy animal’s neck. He ducked under its low neck, running a practiced hand over the animal’s dusty hide. “Seems like a sound enough creature. Come here, girl.”
Mathi, loitering at a discreet distance, approached slowly. The ponies-not just hers-began to quiver and shuffle their hooves.
Balif removed his wide-brimmed hat and used it to cover the pony’s eyes. With a nod, he let Mathi know she should try to mount again. Holding the saddle pommel in both hands, she clambered rather clumsily onto the animal’s back. The pony pranced a little forward and back but did not buck.
“We need blinders; that’s all. Something in our girl’s complexion disturbs the beast.”
Lofotan went inside the villa and returned a short while later with a set of blinders, gray from long disuse. They were fitted to the pony’s head. Balif tied his hat on once more and gave Mathi her pony’s reins.
“Be kind,” he said. “Often we don’t know who we are carrying.”
His remark puzzled everyone, but at last the party was ready. Lofotan held Balif’s horse while he mounted. He wrapped the reins around his left hand and wheeled the animal around. Trotting back, he watched as Farolenu’s soldiers lashed the baggage panniers in place, looped the packhorses’ reins together, and gave them to the last rider in line, Mathi.
“Mind the reins,” Balif said. “We’ll be on short rations for sure if you lose those horses.” To her own surprise, the girl found herself promising to guard the animals’ leads with her life. What was it about the general that inspired such compliance? Mathi felt she would do anything the general asked. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling, the urge to obey.
Without fanfare, Balif assumed the lead of his little party. He signaled his people to follow him and set out down the avenue at a slow trot. Lofotan was on his right, and Artyrith trailed straight behind. Treskan came next, his writing board and leather cylinders of parchment banging against his legs. Mathi urged her animal forward, but the pony was reluctant. The gap between her and the scribe widened. Farolenu circled back, asking what the problem was.
“The blighted beast won’t go!”
“Really?” Farolenu smacked the horse’s rump, sending it lurching after the others. Jerked into motion, the packhorses followed with their ears laid back and teeth bared.
Farolenu barked, “Companies! By the order, quick march!”
One by one the infantry broke formation and marched after the balky pack animals. When the last one left the square, silence fell over the great house of Balif.
Balif reached the main eastbound thoroughfare in Silvanost, called the White Strand. It ran straight as an arrow to the E’li Gate in the ring of fortifications surrounding the city. Along the way the streets were strangely empty. Bands of warriors in fours and sixes stood on every corner, bracing to attention as the general went by, but no ordinary Silvanesti could be seen. Silvanos was not having a repeat of the previous day’s triumphal parade.
There was one vehicle drawn up at the edge of the White Strand. It was a closed coach, finely made but devoid of any decoration, talisman, or heraldry. The gleaming pearl-gray coach was pulled by four horses of the same hue, perfectly matched. No one sat on the driver’s box. As Balif rode out onto the broad avenue, he passed the coach. Taking the brim in his hand, he doffed his hat to the coach. Curtains drawn across the windows never stirred.
Seeing the exchange, Mathi urged her balky mount to go faster. Drawing abreast of Artyrith, she said, “What was that about? Who do you think was in that coach?”
Looking straight ahead, the cook replied, “What coach?”
Lofotan also ignored the vehicle. Treskan frankly stared at it until the marching ranks of Farolenu’s elves entered the street. Once Balif was far down the way, a liveried driver appeared from behind the conveyance. He climbed onto the box, cracked his whip, and drove the mysterious coach away.
Then it struck her: Amaranthe. She had come to say good-bye after all.
Nothing else of note happened along the way to the E’li Gate. The massive panels were standing open. Pennants of the House of Silvanos whipped from the towers above the gate. Balif rode through, stopped, and turned his horse around. Lofotan and Artyrith did the same, keeping the same positions behind their leader. With the pack animals between them, Treskan and Mathi couldn’t manage such a tidy maneuver. They settled for clearing out of the way, pushing the pack train to the ditch on the north side of the road.
Farolenu halted his troops inside the gate. Alone he walked through to the general. He gave his hand. “My lord, I want you to know I have written to the outposts at Free Winds, Greenfield, and Tanjanost, advising them of your coming. They will render any assistance you need.”