“This was not Silvanos’s order, was it?” Balif asked. He gripped his old comrade’s hand firmly.
Farolenu said nothing. When Balif released his hand, the one-time metalsmith saluted as old soldiers do, placing his palm over his heart. “The gods bless you, Balif of the Plains.”
“Thank you, my friend. Somehow I doubt they will.”
He left the puzzled Farolenu and rode away, spurring his horse to a canter. The others hurried after him. Ahead lay the ferry station and the broad Thon-Thalas. The ferry crew was standing by. Their craft was a broad, flat-bottomed barge with three steering boards and a pole mast supporting a white lateen sail. There was much talk in the city of training giant turtles to tow barges back and forth across the Thon-Thalas, but so far that had not been done.
Balif’s party boarded the empty ferry. Normally that time of day would find a sizable crowd filing aboard, but there was no one else in the station. Lofotan queried the crew about it. Nervously, they avowed no knowledge, but it was plain the Speaker wanted Balif’s departure made as quiet as possible.
The horses were secured, and the baggage stowed. Sitting on the rows of benches in the bluff bow, Mathi watched with interest as the sailors cast off. The sail went up, and the steering oars were turned by practiced hands. Mathi asked why there were three oars instead of just one.
“The Thalas is wide and deep,” Lofotan explained. “Though the surface is placid, there is a terrific undertow from the city all the way down to the sea. It takes more than one rudder to steady a craft on this river.”
Balif removed his hat and let the river wind tussle his pale hair. “In the Dream Days, the people who dwelt by the river called it ‘Thon-Flaxis,’ which means Drowning River in the old tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It was common for the river tribes to use the river as a way of solving disputes.”
Sensing a story, Treskan unlimbered his writing equipment. Artyrith, feet propped up on the bench in front of him, idly asked how it was done.
“Two elves with a conflict or an affair of honor could ask for a trial by water. Each would enter the Thon-Thalas from the opposite bank and swim to the other side. If one drowned, the survivor was judged to have won his case. If they both drowned, the subject of their dispute was taken away from both clans and given to a disinterested party.”
“And if both survived?” Mathi wondered.
“There is no record of that ever happening,” said Balif.
“Our ancestors must have been savages to employ such practices.” Artyrith sniffed.
Balif replaced his hat. With great dignity, he withdrew to the stern of the barge, where he gazed at the city slowly diminishing in the distance.
“Fool,” said Lofotan in a low voice. “Don’t you ever govern your tongue?”
“What have I said?” asked the cook innocently.
“Did you not know our lord offered to swim the Thon-Thalas as proof of his innocence in the recent scandal? The Speaker forbade it, but our lord was sincere. He would have undergone the ordeal had the Speaker agreed.”
Shamed, Artyrith looked away and said nothing. Mathi made her way aft to where the general stood, one foot propped on the stern post.
“My lord, don’t be so troubled. I’m sure our mission will succeed,” she ventured.
“Perhaps it will. Stranger things have happened.”
He continued to watch the city shrink to the horizon. Mathi tried to say something encouraging. How dangerous could their mission be? They weren’t expected to fight off an invasion with just five elves, merely find out what was going on.
“Our mission means nothing,” Balif said. “Any subaltern with half a mind could do it. What troubles me is quite different.”
Grateful for the opening, Mathi asked what the general had on his mind.
“I cannot escape the feeling this is the last time I shall see Silvanost,” he replied somberly. “And all who dwell here.”
CHAPTER 6
Once he set foot on the eastern shore, Balif was a different elf. All his melancholy contemplation vanished. He supervised the offloading of their horses and gear with crisp efficiency, tipped the ferry crew with gold for their labors, and bade them farewell. When the barge was out of earshot, Balif addressed his companions.
“From this point on, we are not the Speaker’s eyes and ears, seeking foreign invaders in our land. Do you understand? We are travelers, nothing more. Our outward goal is to find sites for new villages for settlers from the west. Silvanost and the heartland of the realm are overcrowded. Our people need space and land. Is that clear?” Everyone agreed it was.
“I am the party’s surveyor. I am not a general. Anyone who addresses me as such will know my displeasure.”
All eyes went to Artyrith. “What?” he demanded. “Am I so loose-lipped?”
Balif cleared his throat and went on. “Lofotan is our engineer. You’re chiefly interested in water sources, quarry sites, and places that need bridging. Artyrith will be what he is, our cook. Treskan is my secretary. As we travel, he will create a record of our exploration that will pass the closest inspection-a very long, very dull catalog of watersheds, fields, and forests. I want anyone who reads it to fall asleep after half a page, utterly convinced by your record’s tiresome authenticity.” Treskan assured him that he could compile a log guaranteed to numb an ogre.
“In this masquerade, what role do I play?” asked Mathi.
Balif gave her a strange, probing look. “You could be my wife,” he said. At the girl’s consternation, he smiled and added, “But it would be more believable if you were my daughter.”
“How shall we call you, if not ‘my lord Balif’?” Lofotan asked.
“I shall go by the name the foresters gave me, Camaxilas.”
Mathi thought it all made sense, though it seemed a little elaborate, considering that they were still deep within the Speaker’s realm. Farther east, in the uncharted forests and meadows beyond the Thon-Tanjan, Balif’s precautions would be wise, but why enact them so early?
Artyrith thought the same way and had the impertinence to ask why.
“I want our pose ingrained in all of us by the time we reach the Tanjan,” Balif said. “Treskan’s catalog must already be detailed when we get there. Also”-he gestured over his shoulder with a sweep of one hand-”do not be fooled by where we are or what we are close to. This land is not the Speaker’s palace garden. There are many who do not relish his rule and do not love the Silvanesti in any case.”
That being so, why pretend to be the advance guard of a wave of settlement? Surely that would cause much resentment where they were going, Artyrith objected.
Lofotan said, “Sometimes a wise commander gives his enemy what he expects, just so he is free to do what he truly wants-the unexpected.” Mathi understood. If they tried to appear totally harmless, that would incite more suspicion than if they were merely mercenary intruders.
Everyone mounted. Treskan took the reins of the pack-horses to relieve Mathi for a while. Balif took out a small, leather-covered case. He snapped open the lid and held it skyward, turning in his saddle to catch the sun.
“What’s that?” asked the city-bred Artyrith.
“A sunstone,” Lofotan answered. A naturally occurring jewel, sunstone was used to show direction. By aiming the largest flat facet at the sun, light was scattered through the prismatic interior of the stone. A bright blue line at right angles to the sunlight indicated north.
Balif pointed to his right. “That’s our line of march, north by east.” He tucked the sunstone away and spurred his mount. The others hastened to keep up with him.
Through the next day, they worked hard to overcome lifelong etiquette and not constantly refer to their leader as “my lord.” Lofotan had the hardest time. He’d been with Balif for a century of campaigns. Calling Balif “my lord” was as natural to the old soldier as breathing. Artyrith had a much easier time. Breezy manners came easily to him, as he regarded Balif more as an equal anyway. Treskan simplified his problems by saying as little as possible. Mathi practiced calling Balif “Father.” The title took hold in a curiously natural way.