"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."
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."
He wheeled on Gestana and pointed the tip of his sword at the man. "The decision is yours."
"Take them!" shouted Gestana. "Now!"
About half of the guardsmen, including Gestana, came forward. The others hesitated, only briefly, but it was enough. Silverdun leapt from the saddle and drew his weapon, swirling it in the air. Raieve and Honeywell followed suit. Satterly remained mounted, looking frightened.
Gestana raced at Mauritane, sword and dagger drawn. He led with a clumsy attack, lunging low at Mauritane's belly, dagger up to parry an overhead blow. Mauritane riposted, pushing Gestana's blade out of the way with an ugly scraping sound and thrusting at his midsection. Gestana's sword lodged in the cobblestones at Mauritane's feet and he stumbled. Mauritane lodged his sword in Gestana's belly and dragged upward, putting all his strength into the effort. An artery in the guardsman's chest burst, gushing a fountain of blood onto Mauritane's fur cloak. Gestana grunted and choked. He waved his hands, trying to rear back. A thin trickle of blood escaped his mouth and Mauritane dropped him.
Only a few of the other guardsman made it into the fray. Some of the remaining men were stuck in place, watching Mauritane disembowel their leader. The rest of them, overcome with fear, took a few steps back, then ran. The militiamen, apparently rethinking the efficacy of their knives, followed them.
When only five of the guardsmen remained, desperately trying to wield their cumbersome poleaxes against Raieve, Honeywell, and Silverdun, who had closed with them as promised, Mauritane stepped into their sightline and waved his sword.
"Enough!" he shouted. "Drop your weapons and go home. You're not soldiers and you don't deserve to die like soldiers."
The fighting stopped and the guardsmen noticed their fallen leader as a unit. The fight went out of them and they ran, saying nothing.
"Come on," said Mauritane to his people. "Get mounted and go. Don't give them time to think about it." He dropped his cloak on the ground, exchanging it for Gestana's. "I grieve at your death," he whispered into Gestana's ear. "You were a worthy adversary." Using Gestana's dagger, he cut a length of the man's hair from the back of his head and tied it in a loose knot, stowing it in his sabretache.
"What's Mave doing here?" said Silverdun, pointing at the former guard, who retrieved his horse from the alley and joined them.