Midwinter

The fishing port of Hawthorne nestled around a natural harbor, surrounded on three sides by rock formations jutting from the foot of the Olive Mountains. Perhaps the oldest city east of the Ebe, Hawthorne sported the white stucco walls and blue tiled roofs of the antebellum east, from an era before the southern architecture of rounded spires and granite walls rendered such places quaint. The Hawthorne Road cut a gently curved path between the hills and into the city, ending at the docks themselves.

From above Hawthorne, Mauritane watched the fishing boats coming in from their morning runs, blowing their horns. He could just make out the shouts of the fishermen calling out their catches to the vendors on the docks, their cries mixed in with those of the gulls and the crash of the waves from beyond the harbor. There was something enviable about that life, Mauritane thought. He'd been told by the guards at Crete Sulace that the Channel Sea was a harsh mistress, but she couldn't be any harsher than Regina Titania, nor half as cold.

"What's the matter?" said Silverdun, coming up next to him on the bluff. "You've stopped."

Mauritane looked around. The others were waiting for him on the road, their horses shifting back and forth on eager legs.

"Sorry," he said. "The only faces I've seen in years are those of my jailers and my fellow inmates. It's not an easy thing."

"No more easy for any of us," Silverdun whispered, leaning in. "But you're their leader. You can't let them see that it bothers you."

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.

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?"