The narrow street was empty except for herself and a bony cur gnawing at something dead in the gutter six doors away. Zala inserted her knife in the gap between the door and frame, lifted the latch, and slipped inside.
The room beyond was dark and uninhabited. When her eyes had adjusted, she crept through the room toward the rear of the house. An open window framed a swatch of green and brought the scent of flowers to her nostrils. Remembering the fellow had been called a gardener, Zala slipped warily out the back door. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.
In the small area behind the house, where most folk would have a chicken coop, pig pen, or privy, there was indeed a garden, and no mere kitchen plot for herbs or root vegetables. A verdant carpet of jade-colored grass covered what soil was not already filled with flowers. And such flowers! Sunflowers taller than Zala herself with heads so heavy they had to be supported by strips of ribbon tacked to the lath wall behind; roses, with blooms large as soup bowls and the color of ox blood, filled the air with their dense perfume. Creamy white lilies were beginning to close for the day. Cornflowers, yellow daisies, irises in bold purple and pale gold, violets, and marigolds stood in serried ranks like perfect soldiers. Most remarkable of all was a stand of enormous dandelions, with puffy white heads as big as Zala’s own.
In the center of this magnificent display grew an apple tree, its branches still covered in white blossoms. Fat bumblebees buzzed through the branches, and narrowly avoided collisions with a profusion of butterflies in nearly every color of the rainbow.
Zala’s astonished trance was abruptly shattered by a scraping sound. It came from only a few steps away, from behind a screen of trumpet lilies, their white blooms spotted with red, like blood on snow. Although she circled around the screen with customary stealth, the figure kneeling on its other side knew she was present, though his back was to her.
“You needn’t skulk there. Come forward,” he muttered, continuing to dig the point of a small trowel into the black earth around the lilies.
She advanced, but halted when he turned to look up at her. Her shock was mirrored on his face, and both of them recoiled.
The gardener was a Silvanesti. That fact itself was startling enough, here so far from the elf homeland. But what truly took her aback was his appearance.
Never in her life had Zala beheld such a homely member of the ancient and elegant race of Silvanesti elves. His long hair was a dull dusty gray, tied at the nape of his neck by a scrap of ribbon. Eyes the pale blue of Quenesti Pah’s crystal staff might have been arresting, if they hadn’t been set so close together. Add a long, thin nose, and pale skin covered by too many splotchy brown freckles, and she fully understood the sobriquet he’d been given: he was an unsightly gardener indeed!
For his part, the strange elf recovered quickly from his surprise and said, “So, you’ve come to kill me.”
“What? Why should you think that?” Zala stammered.
“You have the tread of a hunter, but you’re a female half-breed. Such a combination speaks of desperation, so I take you for an assassin.”
Zala folded her arms and put her nose in the air. “I am a tracker, not a murderer. Who are you, that you expect assassins in your own garden?”
“You don’t know me?”
Zala shook her head. He stood, brushing dirt from his Ergothian-style trousers, and said, “I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, formerly general of the armies of the city of Tarsis. Among humans, I am called Tylocost.”
“You’re the one called ‘Tolandruth’s captive?’ ”
“I am. I was defeated in battle and taken prisoner by Lord Tolandruth.”
Time weighed heavily on Zala. Abandoning discretion, she asked, “Where might I find Lord Tolandruth?”
Tylocost smiled, revealing an uneven set of teeth.
“So that’s why you’ve come. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.”
He stooped to retrieve his trowel. When he straightened, Tylocost found himself staring down Zala’s Made. The length of polished iron drew nothing more than a shrug from the former general.
“I still don’t know.”
“I think you do. Silvanesti never forget an injury, and this Tolandruth did you a grave one when he humbled you by defeat. You know where he is.”
He reached out a long arm and plucked a white rose from its trellis. “You have a fair face for a half-breed,” he said, smiling. The smile vanished as Zala pushed the point of her blade through his cloth jerkin.
“I didn’t come here to kill you, General, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you to find out what I must know!”
He stepped back. “I believe you, my dear.”
“I’m not your ‘dear,’ ” she snapped. “My name is Zala.”
Pigeons flew low over the rooftop. Tylocost glanced up.
“Day is done,” he murmured. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”
She followed cautiously, mindful of treachery. For a Silvanesti and a general, this Tylocost was certainly an odd one. He didn’t seem proud or martial. He seemed-well, very like a gardener.
Tylocost blew on the cinders in the hearth grate until they glowed. With these he lighted a thick, stubby candle. He took a wooden mug from a shelf, filled it with water from a bucket, and placed his white rose in it. He set this on the table. Pouring more water into a tin pan on the table, he carefully washed his hands and face. Zala bit her lip and waited, determined not to betray her impatience. In the course of his ablutions, Tylocost stripped off jerkin and trousers, until he was standing in only a loincloth. Unclothed, he was even more unsightly. The brown spots on his face continued over his body.
Seeming unconscious of his appearance (or at peace with it), the elf donned a light linen robe and fixed a gilded band around his forehead. He seated himself at the table and gestured for her to take a chair. She did so, and asked again for Tolandruth’s whereabouts.
“Time is running out, General-for you and this town,”
she added. “The nomads may attack any day now.”
“Within three days, I estimate. And I doubt the town will survive. The garrison was withdrawn by Lord Bessian after bakali destroyed Lord Hojan’s hordes. Fewer than eight hundred warriors remain. The townspeople have taken up arms, but they won’t delay the nomads for very long.”
“However,” he added, “I’m not worried, because you’re going to get me out of here.” His upraised hand cut off her protests. “That’s my price, dear. I’ll lead you to Lord Tolandruth, if you take me out of Juramona and get me away from the human savages beyond the walls.”
With a disgusted snort, Zala stood. She pulled her hood over her head again and turned to go. He waited until her hand was on the door latch before he spoke.
“Empress Valaran does not brook failure, I’m told.”
She froze. “How do you know my patron?”
“Logic, dear, logic and reason. Someone very powerful wants to find Lord Tolandruth.” Tylocost laid a bony finger alongside his nose. “Ackal V would never send for him, not for any reason. His hatred of my captor is well known. Who then would go to such lengths? The Empress of Ergoth, of course-Tolandruth’s lover.”
Zala blinked in astonishment, but would not he sidetracked. “Who the empress loves or hates is not my concern. My task is to find Tolandruth and return him to Daltigoth as soon as possible.”
“Or else-what?”
In the dim little room, redolent of the flowers in the fantastic garden, Zala felt her world shrink, like a noose drawing tight around her neck. She clenched her teeth. Despicable, homely, Silvanesti. What choice did she have?
“I’ll bring you out of Juramona, if you guide me to Tolandruth,” she said. “In seven days or less.”
“Why the hurry? Do you think to fetch him back here to save Juramona?”
Zala shrugged, but did not share her thoughts. How could a stranger understand that it was not merely her honor on the line, but her aged human father’s life as well? The empress knew where he lived. If Zala failed to carry out her mission, she knew her father would pay the ultimate price. And he was far too old and weak for Zala to consider spiriting him away from his home in Caergoth.