masks rode by, saw the horse, looked interested. I looked proprietary. The horse
looked mean. The hawk-masks rode away. I just thought I’d see if you showed
soon, and let you know.’
A movement at the edge of his field of vision warned him, even as the horse’s
ears twitched at the click of iron on stone. ‘You should have kept going, it
seems,’ said Tempus quietly, as the first of the hawk-masks edged his horse out
past the intersection, and others followed. Two. Three. Four. Two more.
‘Mothers,’ whispered Cudgel Swearoath’s prodigy, embarrassed at not having
realized that he was not the only one waiting for Tempus.
‘This is not your fight, junior.’
‘I’m aware of that. Let’s see if they are.’
Blue night: blue hawk-masks: the sparking thunder of six sets of hooves rushing
towards the two of them. Whickering. The gleam of frothing teeth and bared
weapons: iron clanging in a jumble of shuddering, straining horses. The kill
trained grey’s challenge to another stallion: hooves thudding on flesh and great
mouths gaped, snapping; a blaring death-clarion from a horse whose jugular had
been severed. Always watching the boy: keeping the grey between the hawk-masks
and a thief who just happened to get involved; who just happened to kill two of
them with thrown knives, one through an eye and the other blade he recalled
clearly, sticking out of a slug-white throat. Tempus would remember even the
whores’ ambivalent screams of thrill and horror, delight and disgust. He had
plenty of time to sort it out: Time to draw his own sword, to target the rider