Matthew Sturges - Midwinter

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.

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?"