Honeywell opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Eventually he drifted back to join the others, who'd remained silent through the entire exchange.
As they neared the river, Mauritane suddenly brought the company to a stop, holding up his hand for silence. "Do you hear that?" he whispered to Silverdun.
Silverdun focused on his hearing and nodded slowly. "There are riders coming. More than a few, from what I can tell."
"From which direction?" said Honeywell drawing his sword.
"Over there." Silverdun pointed at a low rise to the south, downriver, where a narrow trail ran parallel to the water's edge. The rise was high enough that whatever lay beyond it was completely hidden from view.
"Who'd be riding out here during Midwinter?" asked Gray Mave, drawing his own weapon.
Mauritane set his jaw. "I can think of two possibilities. Either a band of highwaymen or a Guard detachment searching for escaped prisoners."
Silverdun listened harder. "They're riding in step," he said, frowning.
"Then it's a detachment."
"Could they really be looking for us?" said Mave.
"It's safe to assume so," said Mauritane. "There's no other reason for them to be patrolling this far from the city."
A line of riders appeared over the rise, at least twenty in number, some in the blue-spangled colors of the Hawthorne Guard, some in the red of Colthorn. Their leader was an officer of the Colthorn Guard, wearing the long mustache popular with men in that city.
"Wonderful," said Silverdun.
The riders stopped upon seeing them. Their leader raised his hand and waved it twice overhead.
Honeywell gawked. "He wants to parlay? Why? They outnumber us four to one!"
"You know these country folk," said Silverdun, examining his blade. "They hate dying. Avoid it at all costs."
Mauritane cut him off with a glance. "I'll ride out to parlay with them. The rest of you wait for my signal and make for the river when I give it."
"But sir!" said Honeywell.
"Honeywell," warned Mauritane.
"Yes sir," said Honeywell.
"You know what to do," said Mauritane. "I'll…"
He stopped short. Without speaking, Honeywell had ridden ahead without him.
"Lieutenant!" Mauritane barked.
Honeywell turned to face him. "Don't follow me, Mauritane. It will make us look weak." The riders on the hilltop, outside of hearing range, watched their leader intently.
"What are you doing?" Mauritane's face was red.
"We both know that capture is not an option, and we both know that whoever rides up there isn't riding down again. If you're to make it across the river under pursuit, you'll need that touched horse. And if you're to make the City Emerald," he said, "you're going to need a captain. I've decided that if I'm going to jump from a wall, I'm doing it on my own terms for once." With that, he turned again and rode to meet the Colthornan.
Mauritane's knuckles whitened from his grip on Streak's reins.
"What are we going to do?" said Mave, his voice shaking.
Mauritane said nothing for a long minute, watching Honeywell ride up the hillside. Finally he said, "You heard the man. Let us respect his wishes."
"What will he do?" said Silverdun.
"He'll wait until his opponent raises his hand to begin the parlay and then he'll run the man through. Then he'll ride directly for the first man who comes after him. It will buy us some time to escape."
"How do you know all that?" asked Silverdun.
"Because that's what I would do," Mauritane said. "And Honeywell knows it. When you see the Colthornan raise his hand, break for the river at top speed. When we hit the ice, drop your reins. Streak will guide the horses across." Mauritane bent down and whispered to the beast, his eyes never leaving Honeywell.
They watched the two riders approach each other warily, the Guard leader suspicious of Honeywell's every move. The Colthornan stopped his mount a few paces from Honeywell and said something none of them could hear. Honeywell raised his arm in the salutation of parlay, his unsheathed sword hidden behind his back.
The Colthornan raised his hand in answer and Honeywell dug in his spurs, his horse rearing beneath him. The horse leapt at the Colthornan, and before the man could lower his arm, Honeywell's sword had already pierced his chest. Honeywell rode past him, pulling his weapon from the Colthornan's body without looking back.
"Go! Now!" shouted Mauritane. As one, they spurred their mounts and raced for the water's edge.
Mauritane spared a glance back toward Honeywell. The guardsmen had responded admirably; some of them already had their blades drawn when Honeywell engaged them. The first to gain his wits was one of the Hawthorne Guard. Honeywell rode straight for him and managed to unseat him with a bold thrust. Unsure what to do next, the other riders forgot about Mauritane and his companions and concentrated on the more immediate problem in their midst.
Mauritane reached the river first. Streak hit the ice at a run but slid quickly to a stop and resumed with a tall, prancing gait that resembled the trot of a parade pony. "Drop your reins!" shouted Mauritane.
Streak called out in the language of horses to the other mounts, instructing them to follow his lead. With some difficulty, they copied his gait, and they began to make progress across the slick ice.
Mauritane looked back again. At some point in the intervening seconds, Honeywell had fallen. He lay on his back at the top of the hill, a spear in his chest, his mount bolting for the hills above. His maneuver had bought them even more time than Mauritane would have expected; they would be halfway across the river before the guardsmen reached its banks. Only now were they resuming the chase. Without a leader, they had little hope of mounting an effective pursuit. Mauritane urged Streak faster anyhow.
The guardsmen took the slope at a gallop, jumping their horses onto the ice and spurring them on. It was a critical error. The running horses lost their footing on the frozen surface of the Ebe and most of them went down, throwing their riders. They few that remained standing slowed to a walk and began to pick their way carefully. The rest would eventually recover, but by then it would be too late.
Mauritane led them to the far side, prodding Streak up the steep western bank. They stood on the bank briefly, looking across the river, all of them hoping for a glimpse of Honeywell. But he was too far away, and the snow was beginning to fall again.
"Let's ride north for a few minutes," said Mauritane. "Then double back through the trees and rejoin the road a few miles south. "It'll confuse them."
As they rode off, Gray Mave remained in the rear, hiding his eyes, hoping that no one would catch him crying.
mortal creatures!
the bittersweet wayward mestina
Deep into the night and through the forests near Miday they rode, skirting the few towns and villages they came across, running the horses to the point of exhaustion. The trees swept by in a blur of white, gray, and brown, sometimes whipping their faces with tiny branches and dead leaves. The bitter southern wind reddened their faces and hands and stung their eyes. Fortunately, their flight left no opportunity for conversation; no one felt much like talking.
Finally, Streak begged to be allowed to rest. The other horses, he said, were dangerously fatigued and desperate for water. Mauritane ordered a stop and saw to the horses himself, anything to further delay speech. While Silverdun started the fire and Raieve and Satterly began cooking, Mauritane took the horses two at a time and walked them. Just downhill from the campsite, a trickle of a stream ran past some brown grass, and Mauritane left the horses there to feed and water themselves, ordering Streak to keep them nearby.
Mauritane returned slowly to camp, his limbs aching and his head low, unable to put it off any longer. "All of you sit," he said. "It is time to remember our friend."