STARS SHONE GOLD ON INDIGO AS STALWART rode out of Holmgarth, following the Great West Road. Although the livery stable was out of fresh mounts, Sherwin had done him proud by loaning him a horse of his own, a chestnut mare named Yikes.
“Call her that ’cos she’s a tad skittish,” he explained. “A Blade can handle her. She’s got stamina like you never saw. An’ I wan’ her back!”
“You shall have her back, Sheriff,” Stalwart promised. “You hold the best security I can give.” He meant his lute, which he loved almost as much as Sleight. “And I shall tell the Chancellor how helpful you have been.”
So he shot out of the yard, letting his nervy horse run off her excess energy for the first league or so. He had a long way to go and no moon before dawn. But with a good mount, a dark lantern, his rapier at his side, gold in his pouch, all he needed was fair chance. Those and a lot of endurance would bring him to Ironhall before daybreak.
Failure was still a sour taste in his mouth. He had come so close! He could not even understand what he had done wrong. Silvercloak had ridden out in the stampede, obviously, but why had Norton and the other hands not seen him go? He had not been disguised when Stalwart saw him—at least he had been wearing the same face as he had in Quirk Row, which was the face the men had been told to look out for. Could even a magical disguise be changed so swiftly?
It was something to think about in the night.
The posting house at Beaslow was dark and closed. Knowing she had done her fair share, Yikes nickered hopefully. She could scent other horses and sweet hay. Normally a Blade would bang on the doors and shutters until he got service, but there was small chance of finding a better mount in Beaslow after the Guard had passed through. Moreover, Stalwart lacked a binding scar. Several times since he joined the Old Blades he had been challenged to justify his cat’s-eye sword. Always he had got by with some bluster, sometimes flaunting a flashy document or his White Star. Tonight he had neither of those with him. A hostler hauled out of bed at this hour might well insist on the letter of the law.
“Sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “We have a long way to go yet.” He rode on by, into the dark and cold. But Yikes could not carry him all the way to Ironhall.