Midwinter

"Because that's the best I could do after three years at… an unnamed university."

"Ah," she said, raising a finger. "Unnamed universities are the worst of all. They seldom attract the finest instructors."

"You raise an excellent point."

"If you wanted, perhaps I could provide some… private instruction."

Silverdun whistled. "I'm not certain I could afford the tuition."

She looked at him. "My rates are very reasonable. All you have to do is whatever I want."

"Something tells me," said Silverdun, "that could be quite a lot."

"Yes, but," she said, "like the Aba of the Arcadians I never ask for more than my subjects are prepared to give."

They were interrupted by a pair of mounted men who rode from opposite sides of the path, blocking the road with their horses. The men were ragged from time spent outdoors, their beards long and unkempt, their clothes dirty and worn.

"Stand and deliver!" said the larger of the two, who wore his dark hair at shoulder length, free of braids. He carried a loaded crossbow and had it aimed at Silverdun's head. The other was blond and similarly braidless, equally menacing, sword in hand.

"Why look," said the blond, "it's the same mestina we visited yesterday!"

"I don't suppose they've turned a profit since last we met?" said the darkhaired man.

"Doubtful," said the blond. "But there are other forms of payment." He cast a long look at Faella, an ugly grin smeared across his face.

"Just so," said the dark-haired thief. "Just so."

One of the women aboard the front wagon screamed abruptly, a brief cry that stuttered and faded. Raieve, sitting beside her on the bench seat of the wagon, squeezed her hand gently and slipped off the vehicle's far side.

Mauritane nudged Streak forward from his position alongside the caravan and began riding at a walk toward the highwaymen.

"You just stay where you are, mestine," said the leader, bringing the crossbow around. "I don't want to have to use this."

Mauritane continued riding toward him. His expression was like stone, and there was no weapon in his hand.

"Stop. I'm not kidding!"

At a distance of about twenty paces, the leader steadied his wrist and fired the crossbow directly into Mauritane's face with a sharp snapping sound. At the same instant, Mauritane's hand flashed out in front of him and returned just as quickly to his side. Someone shrieked; several gasped. Silverdun, who was now alongside Mauritane, flinched and recoiled. When he turned his eyes back toward Mauritane, his friend was neither dead nor injured; he was, in fact, totally unharmed.

"That," said Mauritane, his expression unaltered, "was a mistake." He opened his hand, and the spent crossbow quarrel fell to the ground.

Mauritane drew his sword and advanced on the dark-haired man, who had become ill at ease.

"I…" he began, jerking backward on his reins.

The leader's mount began to rear but stopped when Mauritane grabbed its bridle and pulled downward with a sharp tug. The horse leaned forward, nearly throwing the thief. When the man leaned forward as well, Mauritane swung his sword in an arc and brought it down on the highwayman's neck, severing his head with a single blow. Both head and rider fell to the ground, a dying word curtailed.

"Oh dear," said Faella. Silverdun turned just in time to see her slide from her saddle into his arms, her face pale.

The blond, his fight taken out of him, began to turn his horse. As he turned, a hand reached from behind him and grabbed his cloak. Raieve appeared at the man's side, her lip curled upward in a snarl, almost feral. She dragged him from the saddle, his legs kicking out uselessly in front of him.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Wait!"

He fell to the ground on his back, his sword tumbling to the ground out of his reach. He made a quick fist and lashed out, catching Raieve in the lip. She caught his arm before he could retract it and pinned it, bringing it down over her knee with a dull cracking sound. He screamed, rolling onto his side.

With the flat of her sword, she smashed the wrist on the other hand, breaking the bone so badly that it tore the skin. Blood began to pour from her lip.

"Stop!" the man shouted. Raieve could not hear him.

She rolled him again onto his back.

"Raieve," said Mauritane.

"I don't like men like him," Raieve muttered.

"I believe you've subdued him."

"It's not my intent to subdue him. It's my intent to castrate him."

"No!" the highwayman shouted. "Please don't!" He tried to lift his arms and was unable.

Raieve leaned in to him, spitting blood on his face. "You should have thought of that before you raped the girl on the wagon."

The man started to cry. "I didn't mean to… it was a mistake! Please!"

Raieve took a thin dagger from beneath her cloak. "Lie still and it won't hurt as much," she said.

She raised her dagger arm and held it aloft, reading the fear in the man's eyes. But when she moved to bring it down she found Mauritane's hand gripping her wrist.

"No, Raieve," he said.

"This is my business," she said.