Midwinter

by Matthew Sturges

  Mauritane smiled. "You're right. It's unseemly of me. I suppose I'm out of practice in a few things."

  Silverdun chuckled. "You've got the Gift, Mauritane. Just let it flow and go where it points you. Our Gifts are not ours."

  "An Arcadian sentiment."

  "A true one."

  Mauritane pulled Streak's head back toward the road. "Let's go," he said.

  Gray Mave, who had served as Low Chief of Watch at Crere Sulace for twenty years, sat in a darkened, nearly empty cottage near the edge of Hawthorne. He was perched at the edge of a peasant bed, which was a wooden frame filled with straw and covered with a goose down mat. In his hands was a length of rope that he tied and untied into a hangman's noose without looking. In his years at Crete Sulace, he'd been trained to tie a noose that would never slip and that would always snap the neck when the gallows dropped. Mave had no gallows, but he had a stool and a sturdy roof beam. They would have to suffice.

  Chapter 8

  hawthorne by the sea

  Mauritane rode to the gate and stopped, waiting for the lone guard at the gatehouse to rise and amble out to meet him.

  "State your name and your business," he said, in a voice heavy with the accent of the East.

  "My name is Mauritane; I'm a merchant from Miday. I've come to arrange for a shipment of eel."

  The guard looked past him at the remainder of the party. "It takes four retainers to pay for a shipment of eel?"

  "These are dangerous times," said Mauritane.

  The guard shrugged. "You may enter. And ah," he said, leaning up toward Mauritane, "if you need any companionship during your stay, I can probably point you in the right direction."

  Mauritane lifted an eyebrow. "That won't be necessary."

  "Suit yourself." The guard waved the party forward and retreated to his perch.

  Inside its walls, Hawthorne came alive with sights and sounds, the colorful flags of the fishmongers and their calls across the wide market just inside the gate: "Smelt, two coppers! Eel fifteen coppers!" The smell of cooking fish and sawdust and the ever-present seawater mingled in a way that Mauritane found comforting.

  Mauritane motioned Silverdun to him and dismounted. "Silverdun, take the horses and have them freshly shod. Send Honeywell to get the supplies on the list. We'll meet back here in three hours."

  "Aye, Mauritane."

  "Give me some of the money we got from Purane-Es," said Mauritane. "A few silvers and some copper."

  Silverdun measured out the coins from the purse at his belt and Mauritane pocketed them.

  "Take the signal flare from my saddlebag. If anything happens, use it."

  "Where will you be, o captain?" said Silverdun, shaking the dust from his hair.

  "I need to see about some maps and charts of the land west of here. And there's another errand I'll tell you about if it's successful." He handed Silverdun his reins and strode off into the throng of the marketplace.

  Silverdun leapt from his mount, trying to shut out the fatigue of the long night and the soreness of muscles long unused to riding. "Honeywell, our great captain has spoken. We're to fetch and carry like porters while he peruses the cartographer's."

  Honeywell smiled uneasily.

  "Oh, don't fret, Honeywell," said Silverdun. "I don't have a mutinous streak; I just have a healthy sense of humor."

  "There's some as might not find that sort of humor funny, sir," said Honeywell. He too dismounted. "What are my orders?"

  Silverdun rolled his eyes. "Take the list of supplies and fetch whatever you can. I'm to take the horses to the farrier's. Would you rather have the human or the woman?"

  "I'll take Satterly," said Honeywell. He whispered, "He says he knows about horses, but I don't think he really does."

  Silverdun glanced at Satterly, who sat rigid in the saddle, peering off into the market. "Humans are just that way. They lie like boggarts. If I were you, I'd keep an eye on that one."

  "Aye, sir." Honeywell turned, then turned back. "That last bit, about humans, was that also your sense of humor, sir?"

  Silverdun sighed. "Trust me, Honeywell. There's nothing amusing about them; not in my brief experience."

  Silverdun and Raieve led the horses down the steep, narrow cobblestones of Hawthorne, past the market.

  "Why don't you just ask where the farrier is?" said Raieve, frustrated.

  "I'm sure there are a dozen of them in a town this size," said Silverdun, leading three of the horses beside him. "And a gentleman never asks directions."

  Raieve rolled her eyes. "Gentlemen must spend a lot of time wandering around, then. You just passed it."

  Silverdun turned and looked up. A simple wooden sign above a shop showed a horseshoe turned upward.

  "And here we are," he said. The farrier's shop was an open-berthed storefront, with a fire and bellows in the back and a set of makeshift stables running the length of the side wall. Shoes, bridles, bits, and other pieces of tack hung from pegs on every vertical surface.

  The farrier, a short, red-faced elf wearing a heavy leather apron, approached them from the back of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag.

  "How can I help you today, sir?" he said, bowing to Silverdun.

  "I need all five of these reshod and all their saddlery checked and rehardened."

  "Of course, sir. I can have them ready for you in two days." The farrier smiled.

  "That won't work. I want them in two hours."

  The farrier frowned deeply, scratching his beard. "Hm," he said. "I don't know. That's a tall order and there are others ahead of you."

  "What if I added thirty in silver? Would that speed things up?"

  The farrier struggled to contain himself. "Ah, thirty, sir? I suppose I could rearrange my schedule a bit. Three hours, then? I can't do much better than that if you want your silver rehardened."

  "Fine," said Silverdun. "I'll be back then."

  The farrier took the reins of Silverdun's roan and examined the silver bridle. "Excuse me, sir," he said, just as Silverdun turned to leave. "Where did this bridle come from?"

  Silverdun, without missing a beat, said, "I'm sure I don't know. It was a gift from a relative. Why do you ask?"

  The farrier fingered the bridle gently. "No reason. I'll see you in two hours, sir."

  Silverdun placed ten silver coins on a nearby workbench. "Here's ten for your discretion, my good man."

  The farrier nodded, saying nothing.

  Silverdun strode regally out of the shop and took Raieve by the elbow. "The farrier suspects something," he said. "We should be prepared."

  "For what?" said Raieve, easing him into an alley.

  "I don't know. Just be prepared. If anyone finds us out, we're in a difficult situation. We have no papers and we're here under false pretenses."

  Raieve had pulled him close for privacy, and now Silverdun found himself with her practically in his arms. "I… you're a very lovely woman," Silverdun said.

  She pulled away. "Not bad looking for a half-breed, right?" she spat. "Thinking of me as a pincushion is unwise, Lord Silverdun."

  Silverdun forced his best smile. "My apologies." Raieve turned away, storming from the alley.

  Mauritane examined the charts laid out for him on the cartographer's table. Each of the thick sheets was held in place by a number of ornately carved stones.

  "Is this the farthest west you have?" said Mauritane, pointing at the regional map.

  "Aye," said the cartographer, an elderly bespectacled man with a trimmed beard. "We don't get much call for farther west than the Ebe. And if it's the Contested Lands you're thinking of, there are no charts of those." He tugged at his beard. "I've got a royal map that shows some of the details to the west."

  "I'll take it," said Mauritane. "I'll take all of them."

  The cartographer began rolling the charts. "I've got a scribe in house; I can have them for you in a day."

  "No," said Mauritane. "I need them from a copyist. Is there one in town?"

  "Ay
e, but he's expensive. Eighty coppers per sheet."

  "That's not a problem. Have it done."

  "This is one hell of a hunting expedition you're going on, sir, if I may be so bold."

  Mauritane looked him in the eye, his face cold. "No, you may not."

  The cartographer looked away, laughing nervously. "Of course. Will an hour be enough time?"

  "That's fine. I've some other business in town. You don't happen to know a man by the name of Gray Mave, do you?"

  Gray Mave's home was at the end of an unpaved street on the edge of Hawthorne. The roadway straddled the coastline beneath a sheer granite cliff that formed the southern wall of the city. Mave's house nestled in a row of similar structures, anonymous and aging, a sagging willow tree before it.

  Mauritane knocked on the heavy oak door and waited. There was no response. Then, from inside, there was a sharp crack of wood against wood and a brief, choked cry. Mauritane threw his shoulder against the door and broke it down, splintering the wood around the latch.

  In the middle of the front room, hanging from the rafter by his neck, was Gray Mave. He swung slowly from side to side, facing toward the ocean. A toppled stool lay beside his twisting legs.

  Mauritane rushed into the room, pulling his blade from its sheath. He struck the rope above Gray Mave's head, severing it almost completely, but not quite. The body recoiled at the blow and swung in the other direction, nearly knocking Mauritane off of his feet. He swiped again with the cutlass, and Gray Mave fell to the floor.

  Mauritane knelt beside the man and listened at his chest for breathing, loosening the coil of rope from around his neck and throwing it on the floor. There was no breath in the man. He felt for a pulse-nothing. Or was there? He reached out again and detected a heartbeat, weak and uneven, but evident. As Mauritane held his fingers against Mave's neck, he felt the man's pulse grow stronger and stronger until it beat normally.

  Mave's body shuddered and he took a deep rasping breath, then coughed, choking. His body came to life then, all at once. He twisted onto his stomach, his large frame moving more quickly than Mauritane would have imagined. With a fierce spasm, Mave vomited on the floor, then pushed himself backward and sat up. His eyes were wide open and crosshatched with red.

  "Where have I gone?" said Gray Mave after a moment, his voice thick and hoarse.

  "You're alive. Barely," said Mauritane. There was a pitcher of water on the sideboard. Mauritane poured Mave a cup and sat down next to him.

  Mave felt around his neck. "My throat hurts."

  "You're fortunate that you're a poor executioner."

  Mave looked at him for the first time. "You. What are you doing here? Were you pardoned?"

  "Not exactly. My reason for coming was to apologize for last night. While I do not regret that I made the attempt on Purane-Es, I deeply regret that it was you that suffered as a result. I am responsible for this." Mauritane held up the remnants of the noose.

  Mave looked at him for a long moment, the focus steadily returning to his eyes. "You should have let me hang there," he finally said. "When the town finds out what I've done, I'll be a laughingstock. I'll never get on one of the boats."

  "Why does anyone need to find out?" said Mauritane. He toyed with the pommel of his sword idly.

  "It's no good, Mauritane. I can't face these folk anymore. I can't go back onto the fishing boats; I'm too old and out of practice with the nets. I scan my future for something bright, sir, and I see nothing but blackness."

  Mauritane stood and faced the window that looked out upon the sea. "If that's so then you have nothing to lose by coming with me."

  Gray Mave took a sip of water and choked but managed to keep it down. He chuckled. "Come with you? Where are you going that I would be useful to you?"

  "I've been charged with a task for the Queen," said Mauritane. "I need to be in Sylvan by Fourth Stag. That means riding through the Contested Lands."

  "A suicide mission," said Gray Mave, taking the noose from Mauritane and throwing it on the floor.

  "Not on my watch it won't be," said Mauritane. "Anyway, at least come as far as the Ebe. If you don't care to join us crossing the Contested Lands, you can find work as a guard somewhere."

  "I don't know, sir. This is too much for me. I just… yesterday everything was so simple!" Mave pounded the floor with meaty fists.

  "Come on," said Mauritane. "Bring your horse around front and saddle her. We need to be off quickly."

  Gray Mave let a few tears fall onto the dusty wooden floor of his nearly empty home. "All right," he said. "Let me get my things."

  They had just retrieved the maps from the cartographer when Gray Mave took Mauritane's arm and pointed into the sky over the market. "Look," he said.

  It was Mauritane's signal flare, bursting into glistening trails of red fire.

  "Are your men in trouble?" said Mave.

  "They'd better be," answered Mauritane. "That was my only flare."

  Chapter 9

  life is fragile

  "You are under arrest! Dismount and lay down your weapons."

  Gestana, the leader of the Hawthorne City Guard, was a young man, with thin, oily hair that sported two limp victory braids which hung down his back. He led twenty-two of the Hawthorne Guardsmen, including the gatekeeper, as well as a few dozen of the city's militia. The guardsmen, armed with poleaxes, had Silverdun, Raieve, Honeywell, and Satterly surrounded in the center of the fish market, while the militiamen, most of whom were fishermen, stood ready to leap into a melee with their long, serrated fish knives.

  Silverdun remained in the saddle of his roan, a sour expression on his face. He still held the spent flare cartridge in his hand. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Raieve and Honeywell sizing up their opponents with the same pessimism he currently felt. Satterly was trying his best to remain calm but still cast furtive glances at the gate from which they were now separated by two layers of armed men.

  "You heard me," said Gestana. "I said dismount. And no tricks."

  "What crime have we committed?" asked Silverdun.

  "What crime?" Gestana chuckled. "You want to do it this way? Fine. We have reason to believe that you are escaped convicts from Crere Sulace."

  "By what evidence? I won't lay down my arms without evidence." Silverdun dropped the spent flare and touched his sword.

  Gestana sighed. "Appeals to legality will only delay the inevitable," he said. "And they won't improve your treatment in our cells one bit."

  "I only ask what is mine by right." Silverdun narrowed his eyes.

  "Fine," huffed Gestana. "Milon, come forward."

  Silverdun recognized the farrier, who stepped forward and pointed at Honeywell's horse. "The bridle on that mare," he said, "belongs to Jem Alan. He's the Vice Warden at Crete Sulace and my wife's brother. I fashioned the bridle myself as a birthday gift for him two years ago."

  The farrier nudged Gestana's shoulder. "And those boots. Those are prison issue."

  Gestana thanked the farrier and turned to Silverdun. "Such is our evidence."

  "That means nothing," said Silverdun. "Perhaps Jem Alan loathes this man and rues the day his sister married so far beneath her station. He probably threw the bridle in the trash the day he received it. I myself received it as a gift from a notoriously cheap uncle." He shrugged.

  "Hold your glib tongue, or I'll have it cut," said Gestana. "Dismount. Now."

  Mauritane entered the market from a side street and strode to the center of the market, a scroll tube under his arm, with Gray Mave a few paces behind him. "He'll do no such thing," Mauritane said. He walked past Gestana and took Streak's reins from Honeywell. "Now step aside. We're leaving."

  "I think not!" shouted Gestana, his face reddening. "I don't know who you people think you are, but you'll dismount and surrender right now!"

  "Or what?" said Mauritane, casually stowing the long cylinder containing his charts behind his saddle. He looked Gestana in the eye. "What will you do?"

 
Gestana's eyes widened. "We'll cut you down where you stand! Is that clear?"

  "No, you won't," said Mauritane, busying himself with the straps of his saddle.

  When it became clear that Mauritane was not going to elaborate, Gestana laughed. "You're mad! Pray tell me, why not?"

  Mauritane turned on Gestana and marched toward him, his sword still scabbarded. "You won't kill us. You won't even try. For two simple reasons: you lack the skill and you lack the desire."

  "That's enough," said Gestana. "Men! Take…"

  "Be quiet," said Mauritane, holding up his hand for silence.

  "You don't tell me…" Gestana began.

  Mauritane raised his voice. "I said be quiet." Mauritane's stare was fierce and unmoving. Gestana fell silent beneath it, the weight of Leadership bearing down upon him.

  "First of all," said Mauritane, "my men are well trained and well armed, whereas yours have been poorly trained and armed even worse. The weapons your guardsmen are carrying are appropriate only against mounted opponents. As soon as you order an attack, my men will dismount and close with them before they have a chance to take a swing. Regardless, half of your men are handling them incorrectly." Mauritane waved his hands around the market, which had grown silent.

  Mauritane turned his back on Gestana and addressed the guardsmen. "Second, each of my men is prepared to die here attempting an escape. We have been charged with a mission of critical importance to this land, and we will stop at nothing to achieve our goal. You, on the other hand, have nothing to gain by killing us and very little to lose by allowing us safe passage. Certainly you outnumber us, but how many of you do you think we can kill before you take us? Twenty? Thirty? Which of you wants to be the first to die? Which of you wants to make his wife a widow? His child an orphan? Anyone?"

  Mauritane drew his sword and swung it over his head. "Life is fragile, friends," he said. "Once we're gone, you can make this story out to be whatever suits you. But if we fight, you will never be able to glamour over the loss of your brothers and sons."