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?"
"Aye, 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?"