by DAVID B. COE
When Giraan finally started back toward the village, he was as giddy as a child. He'd caught a stoat in the seventh trap. By the end of this day, Sedi would be trying to change the terms of their bargain, or he'd be looking for a way to be done with it altogether. Angry as Sedi would be, though, they'd have a good laugh over it before the night was through.
On his way back home, he walked past the village plantings and checked to see how the crops in his and Aiva's plot were faring. It had been a fine Growing season-warm, with enough rain to keep Elined's earth moist and dark. It would be another turn before the goldroot was ready, but they might be able to begin picking the vine beans in half that time. Whenever it finally began, Giraan was certain that this would be a generous Harvest.
His home stood near the southern edge of the village. It was no larger than any other house in the village, but it wasn't small either. And now that all the children had been joined and had built their own houses, it felt almost spacious, like one of the great palaces in which the Qirsi clan lords lived.
Aiva sat out front, sharpening the blades she used in the kitchen. Her white hair was pulled back into a plait, and she wore a simple brown dress. She'd been a beauty as a youth, with long, thick hair and eyes as pale as bark on an aspen. As far as he was concerned, she'd lost nothing to age. As he drew near she looked up and waved. Giraan held up the two animals he'd trapped and laughed at what he saw on her face: her widened eyes, her mouth agape and covered with a slender hand.
"Two of them!" she said, breathless.
"A beaver and a stoat." He couldn't keep the pride from his voice. In truth, he didn't even try. Where was the harm in letting his beloved Aiva see how pleased he was?
"Does Sedi know?"
"Not yet." He smiled. "But he will soon enough."
"He'll be angry."
Giraan shook his head, the smile lingering. "He'll act angry at first, but he won't really mind. He knows that it was a fair bargain we struck."
"I hope you're right." She stood and looked at the stoat and then the beaver. "They're fine animals, Giraan. You should be very proud."
"I doubt that either one is fit for eating."
"We both know that you didn't trap them for their meat. You trapped them for gold, and for the sheer challenge of it."
Giraan frowned. "You sound as though you disapprove."
"Not at all. Just don't be talking about the lack of meat as if that makes you less thrilled about the catch than you really are."
She smiled to soften the words. Then she raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Take them to Sedi," she said. "I don't want them in my kitchen."
He had to grin. "Yes, my lady."
It usually made her laugh when he addressed her so, but suddenly Aiva was looking past him, toward the path that wound by their house to the marketplace. He turned to look.
An old woman had paused on the track to watch them. Her hair was as white as that of any Qirsi, but the darkness of her skin and eyes marked her as one of Ean's children. She wore a simple brown dress much like Aiva's except that this one was frayed and tattered. Though the day was warm, she also wore a faded green wrap around her bent shoulders. She carried two large baskets, one under each arm, both of them covered with small blankets that concealed their contents. She also wore a carry sack on her back.
"Hello," Giraan called, raising a hand in greeting as he stepped around Aiva to put himself between this stranger and his love.
"This house is new," the woman said, her voice so low that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard her correctly.
"I'm sorry, but I believe you're mistaken. My wife and I built this house ourselves nearly sixteen years ago."
The woman stared at him a moment. Then a faint smile crept over her face. "Yes," she said. "And to me, that would make it new."
"You were here that long ago?" Aiva asked, taking a step forward. "It's been sixteen fours," the woman said. "I was just a child." "Sixteen fours!" Aiva said. "Truly the gods have blessed you!"
The woman grinned, revealing sharp yellow teeth. "Yes, they have." "You live near here?" Giraan asked.
"I did once. We lived… we lived south of here. But my people moved about a good deal."
"You're Mettai," he said.
She stared at him for several moments, her smile fading slowly. "We are," she answered, ice in her voice.
Giraan shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."
"Why should I be offended? You merely told me what I already know. I'm Mettai."
"Yes, of course. But I I…"
"When you said I was Mettai, did you mean to insult me?"
It almost seemed that she was trying to confound him with her words and her indignation. "Not at all," Giraan said, smiling, trying to mollify her.
"But you know that we are hated by Eandi and Qirsi alike, and so you feared that I would take offense. If you were to see a one-legged beggar in a marketplace, you would not say to him, 'You're a cripple.' You would ignore his infirmity, or at least pretend to. But you would slip a silver into his cup as a gesture of pity, and feel that you had done a good turn. So it is with the Mettai. You spoke without thinking, stating what was obvious, and now you fear that you have reminded me of my infirmity."
"I assure you-"
Aiva laid a hand on Giraan's arm, silencing him.
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood my husband, good lady," she said. "He simply apologized because we do not judge people by their race or even their clan, and he feared that you would think he was doing just that. We are Y'Qatt. We know as well as anyone what it is to be shunned by one's people. You would be welcome here no matter your clan or your nation." She beckoned to the woman with an open hand. "Please. Come and sit with us. No doubt you've traveled far. You must be weary. We haven't much, but we can offer you food and drink."
"My lady is most kind, but I should be getting on to your marketplace. The day's nearly half gone, and I've farther to go."
"What is it you're selling?" Giraan regretted the question as soon as the words crossed his lips. He would have preferred that this strange woman move on and leave them in peace. But he was curious about those overlarge baskets she carried, and he couldn't help but give voice to that curiosity.
She smiled again, and he thought he saw a flash of malice in her dark eyes. He knew what she was thinking. He and Aiva would buy something from her now, or at least agree to a trade. He'd asked the question. But more than that, he was still stinging from what she'd said earlier. They'd barter over price and he'd convince himself that he needed whatever she might be selling. But in the end, no matter how much he gave her, it would be the same as that silver slipped into a beggar's cup: a token of his pity, a way to assuage his guilt. For the truth was, as soon as he said that she was Mettai, he had cringed inwardly. Her infirmity. He would never have phrased it that way, but yes, that was just how he thought of it. Whatever Aiva might have said, being Y'Qatt was nothing like being Mettai.
He and his people chose to live as they did because they knew that in resisting the urge to use their powers, they were acceding to Qirsar's wishes. Their way of life honored the Qirsi god. The Mettai, on the other hand, were born to their fate. Some said that they were created by the Eandi god, Ean, to mock Qirsar. Here, Ean seemed to be saying, I give you Eandi sorcerers who are neither frail of body nor cursed with brief lives. Others claimed the opposite. Qirsar made them, these people said, to show Ean how his children might have been if only he'd been able to give them the gift of magic. Either way, the Mettai were mongrels, or worse, the bastard offspring of some rivalry between the gods. In a sense, they were the embodiment of the Blood Wars, the violent conflicts that had been fought throughout the history of the Southlands.
More to the point, though, they used blood magic, opening their veins for every act of sorcery. They were as different from the Y'Qatt as the darkest, coldest night of the Snows was from the bright warmth of this fine day.
"You'd like to see
what I'm carrying?" the old woman asked, tilting her head to the side as might a mischievous child.
Aiva nodded, no doubt eager to end the unpleasantness. She hated it so when anyone failed to get along. "Yes, please."
"All right, then." The woman placed both baskets on the ground and stretched. Even without her burden, her back remained bent, her shoulders rounded.
Then she removed the blankets that covered the two baskets, and Giraan forgot everything else. The strange awkwardness that had made him wary of the stranger just moments before seemed to vanish, as if swept away by magic. Within the large baskets were smaller ones of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Basketry was the one craft for which the Met- tai were renowned throughout the land, and clearly this woman had mastered the art as few others had.
"They're beautiful!" Aiva whispered.
The woman smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you, my lady." "You made all of them yourself?"
"I did."
"There are so many. It must have taken you years."
"Several, yes."
Giraan looked at her. "Haven't you been selling them all along?"
"I promised myself that I would see as much of the land as possible before Bian called me to his side. So I made these baskets and set them aside from those I sold day to day. I trade these for food and gold, sometimes even for a night's sleep in a warm bed. As you can see, there are plenty here, and they're of good quality. And if need be, I can make more. Osiers are easy enough to find."
The smile remained on her tanned, wrinkled face, and she didn't shy away from his gaze. But something about what she was telling them struck Giraan as odd. Still, even if the woman was half mad, there could be no denying the worth of her wares.
Aiva had already chosen two baskets, one that was shallow and round, and another with steeper edges and a braided handle.
"You've chosen well, my lady," the woman said. "Those are two of my favorites."
She might have been strange, but clearly the woman had been peddling for a long time. She knew this craft as well.
"How much for the two of them?" Giraan asked, reverting to the tone he had used in his shop when negotiating the price of a new wheel for a cart, or the repair of a broken rim. "We don't have much gold."
"I don't need gold; only something else I can trade in another village." She nodded toward the beaver and stoat that he still carried. "I'd trade them for pelts if you have any."
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Food then. Salted meat? Cheese? A loaf or two of bread?" "Baskets such as these would fetch a fair bit in the marketplace. I'm not sure that we can spare so much from our kitchen."
"I'm an old woman, sir. I don't eat much, and I'm not trying to grow fat and rich in my last years. As I've told you, I seek only enough so that I can continue my travels. Surely you and the lady would be able to part with one loaf of bread and half a wheel of cheese."
"You'd trade the baskets for so little?"
She frowned, seeming to consider this. "I don't suppose you have any wine as well?" She glanced at Aiva, the grin returning. "I might be old, but that doesn't mean I've forsaken all my old pleasures."
"Of course you haven't," Aiva said kindly. "But I'm afraid we have no wine. Perhaps some smoked fish. We've been preparing it for the colder turns, but we already have a good deal, and we've time to catch and smoke more."
Aiva looked at Giraan, a question in her eyes. He was reluctant to part with the fish, but he could see that she wanted the baskets, and she was right: They did have time before the end of the Harvest. They could catch more fish.
"Three whole fish," he said, facing the old woman. "In addition to the cheese and bread."
She nodded. "Done."
They stood in silence a moment, the woman eyeing him expectantly. Then he realized that Aiva was already holding the baskets she had chosen, and the stranger was waiting for her payment.
"Right," he said. "I'll get the food."
He turned, walked into the house, and quickly gathered the fish, cheese, and bread, wrapping them in an old cloth, as ragged as the woman's dress. When he stepped back outside, he heard Aiva speaking to the stranger. It took him only a moment to understand that his wife was trying to make conversation, and that the old woman was doing little to encourage her.
"… with your family when you came here?"
"I believe so. I was very young."
"Do you remember how old you were?"
"No."
"But you remember the village. You said so. Is it so different now? Have we changed that much?"
At that the woman looked up, gazing first at Giraan, who had paused on the top step, and then at Aiva. "No," she said. "I don't think your people have changed at all."
She swung the carry sack off her shoulders and held out a thin, roughened hand for the food.
Giraan walked to where she stood and handed it to her.
"Thank you, sir," she said, placing the bundle carefully in her sack and shouldering the burden again. She looked briefly at Aiva. "My lady. I hope you find good use for the baskets."
With that, she started off into the village. She didn't so much as glance back at them.
"I'm glad to see her go," Giraan said.
Aiva nodded absently, admiring her new baskets. "She is odd. But she does fine work."
"I suppose."
She glanced at him. "Go find Sedi. Get your animals skinned and tanned. You'll feel better."
Giraan laughed. "You're right." He started for his friend's house. "I won't be long."
He walked slowly, having no desire to catch up with the old woman. He even stopped briefly by the wash, just to sit and watch the water flow by before continuing on his way. By the time he reached Sedi's home, at the west end of Runnelwick, he felt reasonably certain that the stranger had seen to her business in the marketplace and moved on.
Sedi glanced up from his work as Giraan entered the shop. An instant later, his eyes snapped up a second time, fixing on the two animals Giraan carried.
"I don't believe it!" he said, setting aside his work and standing. "Two already? And a stoat, no less!"
"Both in need of your skills, my friend."
The tanner shook his head, a smile on his thin face. "I should have known better than to make such a bargain with you, Giraan. I've known you for more than eight fours, and you've always managed to best me in everything."
"Not everything," Giraan said. "You've always been the better fisherman, and our garden never looks as fine as yours."
Sedi nodded, conceding the point. "Almost everything, then."
"You know that I'll gladly do whatever work your wagons ever need." "Of course, and I'm happy to treat your skins."
Giraan handed him the rope on which he'd tied the animals.
"That's a good-sized beaver," Sedi said. "It should fetch a fair price when the next peddlers come through from the sovereignties."
"The sovereignties?"
"Yes. Wait for an Eandi. No matter how much a Qirsi peddler offers you, an Eandi will beat the price. Particularly if he's headed for Qosantia or Tordjanne."
Giraan knew immediately that this was sound advice. It made sense, really. Since the end of the Blood Wars, the Eandi nations bordering Qirsi lands-Stelpana and Naqbae-had remained hostile to anyone or anything having to do with the Qirsi, even outcasts like the Y'Qatt. The people of Aelea were much the same way. The wealthier nations of the lowlands, however, seemed more than happy to trade in Qirsi goods, and in fact, according to many of the peddlers who came through Runnelwick during the course of the year, they often sought out certain items from the Qirsi clans-baskets, blankets, the fine light wines of the H'Bel and the Talm'Orast. It shouldn't have surprised him that they would also covet the fine animal pelts found in the northern lands near the Companion Lakes.
"All right, then. Thanks for the advice," Giraan said.
Sedi grinned. "You sure you should trust me? We're competitors now."
Giraan had to laugh. "Hard
ly." He turned to leave the shop. "Thank you, my friend."
"My pleasure. I won't get to them today, and they'll need a few days to dry once I've done the work. Give me until the beginning of the waning."
"Of course." Giraan opened the door, but then paused on the threshold. After a moment he faced the tanner again. "Aiva and I had a strange encounter today. A Mettai woman along the road."
"The one peddling baskets?"
"You saw her, too."
Sedi shook his head, light from the doorway shining in his bright yellow eyes. "No. But I've heard others speaking of her. Of her baskets, to be more precise."
"What are they saying?"
The tanner shrugged. "That her baskets are the finest to be seen here in anyone's memory."
"But what about her?" Giraan demanded, his voice rising. "What are they saying about the woman?"
Sedi frowned. "I've heard nothing about her. Why?"
Giraan sighed, then took a long breath, trying to calm himself. Why, indeed? He wasn't sure himself. "Forgive me. I found the woman… odd. Disturbingly so. But I said something foolish when first I saw her, and it may just be that she didn't like me very much."
"What did you say?"
"It doesn't matter." Giraan forced a smile, embarrassed by the memory. "Forget that I mentioned it." He left Sedi's shop, intending to walk back home. Instead, not quite knowing why, he turned and walked to the marketplace, scanning the stalls, peddlers' carts, and byways for the old woman. He didn't see her, but he soon realized that her baskets were everywhere. Or rather, not everywhere, but present in numbers enough to be noticeable. Several of his fellow villagers had already purchased their own, and a number of sellers had traded for others and were peddling them along with their wares.
Wherever she was now, the old woman's purse had to be bulging with Runnelwick's gold. Giraan wasn't certain why this disturbed him so, or why he should begrudge the stranger her success. What was the old woman to him? Yes, she was strange, not to mention rude. But even he could see that her baskets were lovely. No wonder so many of his neighbors wanted them. Hadn't Aiva herself traded for two of them? After some time he shook his head and turned for home. This was too fine a day to waste brooding over a strange old Mettai witch.