by DAVID B. COE
He thought briefly about going back to see what had happened. Perhaps there were wounded in need of aid. Perhaps, though, the city was still under siege, or at war with itself. Perhaps there were raiders behind him on the plain making their way westward. He packed up his belongings, not bothering with breakfast, and drove his cart northwest, keeping the smoke and the sun at his back. He didn't spare the whip either. Trili, the old horse pulling his cart, wasn't capable of much anymore, but on this day Torgan determined that the beast would give her all. He rested only occasionally, ate little, for he wasn't hungry, and tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Neck.
There were said to be Fal'Borna settlements throughout the north. This was where the rilda spent the warmer months, and though the Harvest had begun, they might still be up this way. The Fal'Borna were a difficult people, even as Qirsi went, and because Torgan was Eandi, they had shown him little friendship over the years. But he enjoyed a reputation among the various septs as a merchant who sold quality goods, and who could be trusted. It wasn't much, but it was all he had, and if there were brigands on the plain, he wanted to be under the protection of the Fal'Borna.
When evening fell, however, he was still alone. He stopped for the night in a small ravine and, despite the cold, didn't make a fire, for fear of attracting the notice of anyone else on the plain. Climbing out of the ravine and keeping low to the ground, he looked back toward the Neck. He saw nothing. No orange glow. No bolts of light. This meant little, though. He'd covered at least five leagues on this day; even if there had been something to see, Torgan wasn't certain that he was still close enough to see it.
The night passed without incident, as did the following two days and nights. He found no septs, but neither did he encounter any brigands. And as the memory of that first night grew more distant, he began to question what he had seen. Perhaps there was another explanation for the fire and smoke, one that didn't involve warriors or raiders. Maybe, alone in the darkness, he had allowed his fears to get the better of him. By the time he fell asleep on that third night, he had convinced himself that this was so. But once again, he didn't build a fire.
For two more days he searched the northern reaches of the plains, until at last he decided to turn southward and seek the Fal'Borna there. He could have gone farther west, but he didn't wish to cross the mighty Thraedes so late in the year, lest he find himself forced to cross it on the way back after the weather had turned wetter and colder. As his frustration at finding no septs grew, his fears continued to fade. On those fourth and fifth nights he allowed himself a fire, and though he jumped at every unexpected noise and loud pop from the flames, his blaze attracted no brigands.
At last, late in the morning of the sixth day, he spied a sept in the distance and drove his cart toward it. It was a large settlement-larger than most of the Fal'Borna villages he had encountered in the past-and as he drew near he saw that several other merchants had set up their carts on its fringe. Seeing his approach, several Fal'Borna children ran toward his cart calling out for him to show them what he had to sell and asking if he sold sweets or toys or anything else that they could think of that was more interesting than cloth or fruit or baskets. Of course he had sweets, he told them. For he did. Selling sweets to children often made it easier to sell more substantial goods to their parents.
The men and women of the sept eyed him with a combination of suspicion and challenge and curiosity that he'd come to realize was unique to the Fal'Borna. They were a violent, difficult clan. But they were also uncommonly acquisitive, far more so than the other warrior clans, the J'Balanar and the T'Saan.
Torgan climbed off of his cart and pulled out the sweets first, distributing them one by one to all the children who had gathered around him. He didn't bother to keep track of faces or names. The cost of the treats was minimal; the goodwill he could engender by giving them away couldn't be fixed with a price. After the children wandered off, their mouths full, he began to bring out the rest of his wares. Slowly, a crowd of older Fal'Borna wandered toward his cart. Many of them recognized him, nodding when he caught their eye. Others stubbornly refused to look at him at all, staring intently at his goods instead. This, too, he had experienced before. Even a few of the other peddlers strolled over, no doubt to see what he had and what prices he was asking. Torgan Plye's arrival in a marketplace rarely went unnoticed.
As he had expected, the baskets he'd bought from Y'Farl drew a good deal of attention.
"How much for these, Torgan?" one of the peddlers asked, lifting one and examining it closely. He didn't know the man's name, though clearly the stranger knew his. He was a younger man. Eandi. "Mettai work, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mettai," Torgan said. "And they're three sovereigns."
The man's eyebrows went up. "Three?"
"Firm price," Torgan added. "No bargaining on those."
"But three," the man said.
"Look at them. If you can show me any baskets that are finer, I'll let you have it for two."
"I thought you said the price was firm."
He grinned. "I did. That's my point."
The other merchants laughed. He even drew grins from a few of the Fal'Borna.
"Where did you find them?"
"Back in the Neck."
"What?" the man said.
"C'Bijor's Neck."
Everyone stared at him, their expressions turning his innards to water.
"Is that supposed to be funny, dark-eye?" one of the Qirsi asked, his voice hard.
"Not at all," Torgan managed to say, though abruptly his mouth was so dry that he could barely move his tongue. "What's happened?" "You truly don't know?" another peddler asked.
How could he answer? He had seen fire and smoke. But what did he know? What had he seen that night?
"Please, tell me."
"Pestilence," the Fal'Borna said. "Worst I've ever heard of." "Pestilence?" Torgan repeated. Of all the things they might have said, he least expected that.
But the Qirsi nodded. "According to some, the fever drove them mad. Houses and shops were burnt to the ground or shattered. There's talk some were even blown over by winds, though I doubt that."
"But how-?"
"Magic," another peddler told him. "Y'Qatt magic. The pestilence drove them to use their magic."
"Demons and fire," he whispered.
"Indeed."
"How long ago did you leave there, dark-eye?" the Fal'Borna man demanded.
"Days," he said, too stunned to think clearly. "Five days, maybe six." The Qirsi shook his head. "If it had gotten in your blood you'd be dead by now. You were fortunate."
Fortunate. To say the least. The Fal'Borna had no idea just how close Torgan had come to dying. Hours. Maybe less. Suddenly he remembered how flushed Y'Farl had looked when they concluded their trade. Torgan had assumed at the time that the man was merely angry. But maybe he'd already been feeling the effects of the disease, in which case Torgan should have been dead.
"I trust you're not feeling ill," the man said, eyeing him closely.
Torgan shook his head. "I wasn't until now. But hearing this…"
The Fal'Borna nodded. "Yes, I know. This isn't the first we've heard of the pestilence in this part of the plain. The cold turns could be long and hard this year."
Torgan said nothing. He really did feel ill, as if the fever were upon him. His stomach felt hollow and sour; his body ached. One of the peddlers asked him something else about the baskets, but he barely heard and he offered no response. At that moment, all he wanted was to leave, to get as far away from the Fal'Borna and the north as he could.
"Come on, Torgan," one of the peddlers said, picking up a basket. "Two and a half. Three is just too high."
"Yes, all right," he said absently.
The other traders gaped at him. One might have thought he had told them they could have his entire cart for that amount, so surprised did they look.
"What did you say?" the peddler asked.
Torgan turned to look at him, making up his mind. Two and a half per basket would make him a small profit, and then he'd leave. The truth was he felt fine. At the first mention of the pestilence he'd imagined himself growing ill, but he knew better. Somehow he had managed to avoid the disease. It was nothing short of miraculous, a gift of the gods. And having been given such a gift, he now resolved to do what he should have done in the first place. He'd been warned about going north, about the dangers of the pestilence, and he'd gone anyway. He'd been reckless, and had nearly paid with his life. It was time to head south.
"You can have the basket for two and a half. In fact, I'll sell all of them at that price."
"But you said-"
"I know what I said. But this once, I'll make an exception, as a way of honoring my friend in C'Bijor's Neck who sold them to me, and who's now dead, for all I know." He shuddered, but forced himself to smile.
The peddlers crowded around his cart, each trying to find the best ones, and in just a few moments Torgan had sold all of them.
He made a show of remaining in the marketplace and chatting with the Fal'Borna and the other peddlers for an hour or so. He even sold a few more items, mostly cloth, and also a few ornate blades. But with the sun still high above the plain, he began to pack up his goods. The peddlers watched him, some of them frowning slightly, others speaking in low tones as their eyes wandered in his direction. One of the Fal'Borna approached him.
"You're leaving already, dark-eye?"
"Yes," Torgan said. "To be honest, I'm unsettled by the news from C'Bijor's Neck. I'd just as soon be gone from this place."
"The Neck is a long way east of here."
"I know it is. But it's time I was headed south."
The Fal'Borna nodded once, but his tone remained grim. "The a'laq usually expects that peddlers will sup with him the night of their arrival here. He also expects a small tribute from those who sell in his sept."
Torgan should have expected as much; he'd done business with the Fal'Borna before. But with all that had occupied his thoughts on this day, he'd forgotten. He reached into his purse and pulled out four sovereigns.
"Who is a'laq of this sept?" he asked.
"S'Plaed, son of I'Baln."
He handed his coins to the man. "Please give this to him with my respects, and my deepest apologies for having to leave so soon." "He won't be happy."
Torgan shrugged. "I'm sorry. But I'm leaving just the same."
The Qirsi frowned at him, but then he pocketed the money and walked away without saying more.
"Where will you go, Torgan?" asked the young peddler, the one whose name Torgan didn't know.
"To the Ofirean, I think," he answered, making up his mind in that moment. He resumed his packing. "I'm sure I'll find a few septs between here and there, but I think I'm done with the plains for a while."
"Well, good luck to you," the man said, sticking out his hand.
Torgan had to smile. Had he once been this eager? "What's your name, friend?"
The peddler grinned, pumping Torgan's hand. "Jasha Ziffel. I'm a big admirer of yours."
"Have we met before, Jasha?"
He shook his head, still grinning. He was a small man, a good deal shorter and thinner than Torgan. He spoke with a Tordjanni accent, and his hair was yellow, like that of so many from the Tordjanne coast. The bridge of his nose was generously freckled and his eyes, widely spaced in an open round face, were pale blue.
"I've seen you," the young man said. "We've been in the same marketplace a few times. But we haven't been introduced, at least not so's you'd remember."
"Well, it's good to meet you," Torgan said, giving his hand one last shake before turning his attention back to his cart.
"Is it true what they say about your eye?"
Torgan glanced at him. "What is it they say?"
"That you lost it in a fight with a coinmonger. That you lost your eye, but he lost his life."
He briefly considered telling Jasha the truth. He quickly decided, though, that it might be convenient to have such a reputation, just in case there were brigands on the plain. Besides, anyone foolish enough to believe such a tale didn't deserve the truth.
"That's close enough," he said at last. "There were actually two of them: the coinmonger and one of his men. But the rest is true."
Jasha stared at him, just drinking it all in. Torgan could have told him that he'd bested five men, and the man would have believed him. He wanted to believe him. Fine, then.
In another few moments, Torgan had finished packing up his wares and was climbing onto his cart.
"Good-bye, Torgan," Jasha said, waving. "May gold find you wherever you go."
It was an old merchants' saying, one that he hadn't heard anyone use in years. The boy was trying far too hard.
"You, too" was all he said before clicking his tongue at Trili and steering his cart away from the sept.
He didn't push the beast hard on this day. She had labored enough recently-the last thing Torgan needed was for the old nag to fail him now, when he was this far north. When he halted for the night and made his camp, he was no more than a league south of S'Plaed's sept.
So when the first burst of fire arced into the night sky, Torgan saw it clearly. He was holding a half-eaten piece of dried meat, which he promptly dropped.
Coincidence. That was the word that came to him. It had to be a coincidence, a random act of magic that had nothing to do with what had happened in the Neck.
Then a second burst of flame lit the night, and a third. Torgan thought he heard cries coming from the settlement, though surely he was too far away for that to be possible. He stood, as if to go somewhere, but he didn't take a step. He just watched as the night came alive. Streaks of yellow fire stabbed up into the darkness like blades. Smoke began to rise from the plain. And yes, those were cries he heard. And screams. And the whinnying of horses.
He still had a mouthful of meat that he'd been chewing, and he spit that out now, though he didn't look away.
Pestilence, the Fal'Borna had said. Worst he'd ever heard of. Men and women driven mad, Y'Qatt destroying their own homes with magic. And now it was happening again.
Coincidence.
Surely, that's what it had to be.
He felt his stomach heave, and he bit back the bile rising in his throat. He'd been fine a moment before. But seeing what was happening at the sept, knowing with the certainty of a condemned man that this was the pestilence come again, he knew that he should have been sick.
He'd escaped the disease once; how could he possibly expect to do so again? His stomach heaved again and he gagged. But that was all.
I'm not sick.
"I'm not sick." Saying it aloud calmed him, and he said it again. "I'm not sick."
Trili looked at him and stamped.
More shafts of flame carved through the night. Smoke rose into the sky, obscuring the stars. He could smell it now: burning wood and grass, the bitter smell of charred flesh.
"That's the shelters burning," he told himself, reassured by the clarity of his thinking, the solid sound of his voice. "The z'kals," he added, remembering the Fal'Borna word for them, as if he were conversing with someone.
Why was the pestilence here? As the Fal'Borna said, if he'd been infected, he would have been dead days ago. He couldn't have brought it with him. It had to be one of the others. But they hadn't seemed sick either. Someone else then.
Worst he'd ever heard of. "I'm not sick."
He sat down slowly, his eyes fixed on the northern sky. What were the chances of the pestilence striking two towns that were so far apart, on the very days he had visited them? Not just the pestilence, but a strain of the disease that was so severe, it drove people mad and caused
Qirsi to lose control over their magic. That was what was happening. That was what had happened in C'Bijor's Neck.
Coincidence.
He wanted to believe it, but he couldn't. It's me.
This he didn't say aloud.
How could it be him if he wasn't sick? It had to be something else. What else did this sept and C'Bijor's Neck have in common?
He dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him. How could an object-or even ten-sicken people? More to the point, how could they infect entire towns and yet leave him unaffected? No, it couldn't be the baskets any more than it could be Torgan himself.
But the thought continued to echo in his mind. What did the two settlements have in common? Torgan, and the old woman's baskets. Yes, he had other items in his cart, but he'd had them for far longer, and as far as he knew, none of the villages or cities he'd visited prior to the Neck had been struck by the pestilence. If it was anything he carried- and really, how could it be?-but if it was, it had to be the baskets.
Still the streaks of fire darted up into the night. Still the smoke drifted over him, thicker now and acrid. The cries sounded closer, but he saw no riders approaching, no sick Qirsi converging on his small camp.
Why had that woman been so eager to be rid of her baskets?
He'd thought of Y'Farl several times in the past few days, wondering if the old peddler would still be angry with him the next time they met. He could only assume now that they wouldn't meet again in this world, and while he hadn't considered the Y'Qatt a close friend, he was saddened nevertheless.
Since leaving the Neck, however, he'd not given a thought to the old Mettai woman. It all came back to him now, though. The way she'd looked as she left the city. The satisfaction she seemed to feel at having gotten so little for baskets that appeared to be worth so much.
Had she known that there was something wrong with them? Not merely that they weren't as fine as they looked, but something truly wrong. Something… evil.
"This is nonsense," he whispered to the night.
It had to be a coincidence. Dark, even tragic, to be certain. But a coincidence, and nothing more.
Yet, now that the old woman had entered his mind, he couldn't drive her out. Nor could he help thinking that he was glad to be rid of those baskets. He knew that he wouldn't sleep-not this night. So once again, he started to pack up his belongings, intending to drive his cart farther south. The skies were clear, and this late in the waxing the moons were close to full and would be out for most of the night. He could put another two or three leagues between himself and the sept if he pushed himself.