The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  "You know more about this than I do?"

  "I know only what I've heard you say just now," Grinsa said, holding the a'laq's gaze. "But from that, I've learned that this Torgan Plye is a merchant who cares for little beyond his own wealth and the selling of his wares. Since you know him by name and reputation, it seems that he must do a fair amount of trading with Fal'Borna septs, which makes me wonder why he would suddenly decide to kill you off."

  E'Menua narrowed his eyes. After a moment he began to chuckle.

  "You don't hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Forelander? I like that."

  He turned to the other two men, as did Grinsa.

  Q'Daer didn't look at all pleased, and Grinsa thought he knew why.

  A moment before it seemed that Grinsa had angered the a'laq. Now the sept's leader appeared even more impressed with him than he had been before. This could only serve to fuel the younger Weaver's jealousy. "Word is Torgan is headed south, toward the Ofirean," E'Menua said. "That might bring him near us. Find him." He glanced at Grinsa before adding, "But don't kill him. Bring him to me."

  "What if the Mettai woman is with him?"

  The a'laq looked at Grinsa again and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

  "I know little about Mettai power, but if they need blood to wield it then I'd assume that they carry a blade of some sort."

  The a'laq nodded. "They do."

  "Then tell them to surrender their blades," Grinsa told the two young Weavers. "Tell them that if they refuse you'll kill them where they stand. And, if necessary, use mind-bending magic to keep them from defying you."

  Q'Daer and L'Norr eyed Grinsa sullenly, clearly unhappy about having to take orders from him. Q'Daer looked particularly resentful; Grinsa couldn't help wondering if he regretted their initial encounter on the plain and wished he had turned Grinsa and Cresenne away from the sept. But E'Menua nodded and laughed. "Who would have thought that a Forelander would have such stones? Go," he said to the two men. "Take forty warriors with you. Let Torgan see that we don't mean to play games."

  "Yes, A'Laq," Q'Daer said.

  Both men bowed, then turned and strode toward the paddock of horses west of the village.

  "They're both shocked that I allow you to speak to me so." "I wasn't aware that I was speaking disrespectfully."

  E'Menua looked at him. "You do not address me as A'Laq. You challenge me and argue with me without hesitation. Few men who are not a'laqs themselves would dare do the same."

  "My apologies," Grinsa said, but again, he didn't call the man A'Laq. Was he purposefully goading E'Menua?

  "Is it because you were used to leading Qirsi in the Forelands? Do you miss having such authority yourself?"

  "No, I was never a leader like you are. I was a simple gleaner in a traveling festival. And then I served an Eandi king in his war against renegade Qirsi."

  E'Menua regarded him briefly. After a few moments he turned his gaze to the hills beyond his sept. "I'd heard some talk of this war, and of the Qirsi who fought with the dark-eyes, but I never understood. Why didn't you join with our people?"

  "Our people fought on both sides," Grinsa said pointedly. "The man-the Weaver-who led the renegades would have been a despot. He was cruel and arbitrary and would have ruled through fear and violence. I would have opposed him no matter the color of his eyes."

  "He was defeated. You had a role in that?"

  "I killed him," Grinsa said.

  "But not before he shattered your shoulder," the a'laq said. "That's right."

  "And today you risked my ire by arguing for the innocence of an

  Eandi merchant. Some would say that your blood runs more Eandi than it does Qirsi."

  "They'd be wrong. But they'd also be wrong to assume that I'll always side with a Qirsi against an Eandi, no matter the circumstances."

  "That's a dangerous attitude in this land," E'Menua said. Though he'd been living among the Fal'Borna only a short time, Grinsa knew that at times the a'laq spoke in veiled threats. He didn't seem to be doing that now. He was just offering an observation, Weaver to Weaver. "I'm not saying it's wrong," he went on, sounding thoughtful, "but it is dangerous."

  "I understand."

  "Be sure that you do, Grinsa." The a'laq turned to face him. "You wish to leave us, to move on and perhaps find another clan to live with. We wish for you to stay, and it remains to be seen which of us will get his way. But no matter where you and your family settle, you'll need to keep such thoughts to yourself, at least until you're better known and more fully trusted. The Blood Wars have been over for more than a century, but they're not forgotten. Our grandfathers' grandfathers made peace with an enemy they hated. To this day, that peace has endured, and so has the hatred. Make no mistake, my friend: Weaver or not, if the Qirsi with whom you settle believe you to be a traitor to our people, they'll kill you, and your family as well."

  Grinsa searched his mind for some appropriate response, something brave, something that would show the a'laq that he wasn't afraid. But nothing came to him, nothing at all.

  Q'Daer seethed as he and L'Norr went to gather riders. Who did this orelander think he was, giving them orders as if he had already moved into E'Menua's z'kal? And for that matter, why was the a'laq al- ready placing so much faith in this man, who seemed so eager to reject Fal'Borna ways and challenge E'Menua's every word?

  Q'Daer had served the sept faithfully for nearly six years now, ever since coming into his power. L'Norr had done the same for nearly as long. They followed custom; they obeyed the a'laq's commands. Fairness demanded that someday one of them would assume leadership of the sept. Yes, they were rivals, despite their friendship, which was as old as memory. But Q'Daer never questioned L'Norr's worth. If eventually E'Menua chose the younger man to succeed him, so be it; Q'Daer would accept that. He'd do all in his power to win the a'laq's favor, but at least in L'Norr, the sept would have a Fal'Borna leader, a man who understood his own people.

  This Forelander, though, was a different matter. Q'Daer had been, quite literally, the first to welcome Grinsa into their community. He could see the value of adding another Weaver to the Sept, of strengthening themselves against their foes and enhancing their prestige among the other Fal'Borna on the plain. But what good to them was a man who remained so wedded to the ways of the Forelands? What benefit could come to the sept if Grinsa refused to be joined properly to another Weaver? How could E'Menua even consider allowing such a man to become one of his trusted advisors?

  And he was considering it. Q'Daer could tell as much. When was the last time the a'laq praised him the way he did Grinsa? When had E'Menua ever tolerated any display of disrespect from either Q'Daer or L'Norr? Yet E'Menua allowed this Forelander, who had been living among them for but a matter of days, to say whatever he pleased.

  "We should take H'Shem and his horsemen," L'Norr said, as they walked among the z'kals toward the paddock.

  Q'Daer nodded absently. "Fine," he said.

  "You disagree?"

  He looked at the man, pulling himself out of his musings. Or trying. "Not at all. H'Shem is a good choice."

  Q'Daer meant it. Like most a'laqs, E'Menua had chosen his best riders and made them a'jei, leaders of smaller hunting parties. Each party consisted of eight men, plus the a'jei. Some septs might have as many as three dozen such leaders. E'Menua had twenty-six. H'Shem was the most competent of them, and the one Q'Daer liked best. It bothered him just a bit that L'Norr had thought of H'Shem for this undertaking. An a'laq might choose his successor based in part on the recommendations of his a'jei, and for some time now Q'Daer had assumed that H'Shem would support him. But if L'Norr and the a'jei were building a rapport…

  "He's a very good choice," Q'Daer said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

  "What's the matter with you?" L'Norr asked.

  "Nothing."

  L'Norr just kept watching him, waiting. They were as close as brothers; their fathers had been as well. That both of them turned out t
o be Weavers had seemed at first too good to be true. And perhaps it was. They spent much of their time together, but they were constantly vying against each other for E'Menua's esteem. How could they help it? Both of them wanted to be a'laq. Both of them wanted to be the first to be joined to another Weaver, for how many opportunities would there be for either of them to marry? As the older of the two, Q'Daer had the natural advantage. Simply by dint of Fal'Borna custom, he was to be given command of most hunting parties and raids against rival septs.

  Even this tradition, though, had proved to be a blade that cut both ways. He'd had his share of successful hunts, and one glorious skirmish against a small J'Balanar raiding party, during which he himself had killed the leader of the invaders. But there had also been the one disaster, and he knew for certain that E'Menua hadn't forgotten.

  It happened less than a year ago, early in the Planting. Too early, the a'laq had warned. But the Snows had been harsh and their stores of food were depleted. Q'Daer pushed hard and finally persuaded E'Menua to let him take a small hunting party-just one a'jei and his men-south to find a herd of rilda. Their hunt was successful: sixteen bucks killed. Before they could return to the sept, however, a storm swept down over the plain, bringing fierce winds and blinding snow. The riders searched for a sheltered spot where they might wait out the squall. Small clusters of trees grew along the banks of the streams flowing out of the Fallow Downs, and they tried to find these. But Q'Daer lost his bearings in the blizzard and led the riders away from the hills rather than toward them. By the time he realized his mistake, night had fallen and the riders had little choice but to lay low in their rilda skins and blankets, exposed on the plain. Five men died that night, including G'Fen, the hunting party's a'jei.

  It was no one's fault, of course. Morna's moods, it is said among the people of the plains, are as fickle as her winds. Only the goddess herself could have foreseen that storm. E'Menua told him as much upon the survivors' return to the sept. But it seemed to Q'Daer that the a'laq held him responsible nevertheless. The hunt had been his idea in the first place. More to the point, it was the way of the Fal'Borna. No matter the circumstances, a leader-be he an a'laq, a Weaver, or an a'jei-was always judged according to the fates of those under his command. Q'Daer had gloried in his previous triumphs; it was only just that this failure should bring him shame.

  It was no coincidence that L'Norr now had a concubine and he did not. The girl's father, S'Qel, had offered her to the younger Weaver after the storm and Q'Daer's failure on the plain. Had she come into her power only a few turns before, she might well have been his. It shouldn't have mattered to him-she was a warm body; nothing more-but still it rankled. It made him wonder if E'Menua might make a similar choice when U'Vara, the a'laq's daughter, came into her power. She was the one Q'Daer wanted, the one who all in the sept believed would be their next Weaver. Though young still, she showed all the signs. Already she had given indications of possessing fire magic, mists and winds, shaping, and language of beasts. So many magics, and she'd yet to complete her fourth four. Surely she would be a Weaver, and a beautiful one at that.

  As the older unjoined Weaver, Q'Daer should have been the clear choice to be her husband. Now, though, after the storm, with L'Norr already having a concubine, nothing was certain. Grinsa's arrival in the sept only served to complicate matters. Had he been properly joined to a Weaver, Q'Daer might not have minded so much. But in just these past few days Q'Daer had begun to hear talk of U'Vara being a perfect match for the Forelander, one whose beauty and youth might lure the man away from his concubine and convince him to make E'Menua's sept his home.

  Neither Q'Daer nor L'Norr could allow that to happen, though his friend seemed oblivious of the danger. E'Menua's other two children were both boys. In all likelihood, they would be Weavers, too, and when they came of age, they would need to find wives. How many female Weavers could one expect to find in a single sept? How many fathers would choose Q'Daer or L'Norr for their daughters rather than the son of the a'laq? It seemed likely that U'Vara would be the last Weaver from this sept to whom either Q'Daer or L'Norr could hope to be joined. Sometimes Weavers from separate septs were married as a way of forging new alliances or strengthening old ones, but this was rare.

  U'Vara had to be his. He wanted sons; sons who would someday be Weavers. He wanted to rule the Sept. And by Fal'Borna custom, only a joined Weaver could be named a'laq.

  "Who else, then?" L'Norr asked him, as they continued to make their way through the sept. "Aside from H'Shem?"

  "I don't know," he muttered.

  This time L'Norr halted, grabbing Q'Daer's arm to make him stop, too. They were about the same height, and they stood watching each other, their eyes locked. "Something's bothering you," L'Norr said. "I want to know what it is."

  Q'Daer took a breath. "It's the Forelander; I don't like him. You shouldn't, either. None of us should."

  L'Norr shrugged. "I'm not sure I do like him. We've only known him for a few days. I haven't made up my mind about him one way or another."

  "Well, I have," Q'Daer said, looking away. "He cares nothing for our customs. He argues with E'Menua at every turn and mocks us with his disrespect. We should send him away, and his whore and bastard with him. They have no business living in our sept."

  "You've decided all this already?"

  "Haven't you heard the others talking about him, about what a fine husband he'd make for U'Vara?"

  L'Norr shook his head slowly. "I don't think Grinsa has any intention of marrying anyone. His woman might not be a Weaver, but I have no doubt that he loves her as he would a wife."

  Q'Daer dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. "That's not the point."

  "Isn't it? You dislike him because he doesn't respect our ways. But in this instance, that's a good thing, right? He won't live by Fal'Borna customs, so he won't see any need to marry a Weaver. He's happy with the woman he has."

  Just as Q'Daer had thought: His friend didn't understand the danger. And for now at least, perhaps that was all right. Q'Daer would take care of the problem himself, and so would reap the rewards that would come of getting rid of the man. Eventually, E'Menua would tire of the Forelander's disrespect. And when that happened, Q'Daer would be ready.

  "You're probably right," he said, nodding and forcing a thin smile. "I think you're humoring me."

  Q'Daer grinned and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. L'Norr might have been too trusting of strangers, but he certainly understood his friends well enough.

  "I am," he admitted. "But still, I see the sense in what you're saying. And anyway, there isn't much I can do about Grinsa right now. Let's gather the men, and go hunting for those dark-eye merchants." He looked to the west and then up at the sun. It seemed a fair day, but Q'Daer knew that a storm was coming. He could feel it in the wind. "I want to be back before nightfall," he said. "It'll be raining by then."

  L'Norr said nothing. Perhaps he thought that Q'Daer had become too cautious when it came to storms, but he had the good sense to keep this to himself. He merely nodded, and they started off again in search of H'Shem and the other horsemen.

  Cresenne could not have been more surprised. She'd told Grinsa that they'd have to play along with the Fal'Borna for a time; that they'd need to do everything possible to become part of the sept. So when the women of the village made it clear to her that they expected her to join them in their daily labors, she could hardly object. True, she'd been resistant at first, particularly when it became clear that they expected her to leave Bryntelle in the care of several girls who couldn't have been much past their Determining age. But the other mothers trusted these girls, seemingly without hesitation, so Cresenne forced herself to do the same. And at the end of that first day Bryntelle had been just fine. Better than fine, Cresenne had to admit. She'd never seen her child in such a good mood, and it occurred to her that Bryntelle had spent precious little time in the company of children her own age, or of any other age for that matter. No wonder sh
e seemed so happy.

  But it was Cresenne's own experience that came as such a shock to her. On this, her fifth day as a Fal'Borna laborer, she had come to the undeniable conclusion that she was a skilled tanner of rilda skins. It wasn't just her opinion, either. Several of the women commented on her work, on the grace and ease with which she spread the tanning agent-a foul mixture of animal fat and ground organs-over the skins as she prepared them for smoking, on the evenness of the color she drew from the hide, and on the suppleness of her first few finished pieces. For the first time since their arrival in E'Menua's sept, Cresenne felt that she had been noticed for something other than being Grinsa's concubine or wife, or whatever she was.

  What made all of this even more surprising was that she enjoyed the work. She'd spent her early days with her mother, roaming the kingdom of Wethyrn in the Forelands with the Crown Fair. Her mother had been a gleaner with the fair, following it from town to town, telling children of Determining and Fating ages what their futures would bring. Eventually, when she came into her power, Cresenne began to glean as well. Later, when the Weaver found her and drew her into his conspiracy, she continued to glean, though with a dark purpose. And after she turned against the Weaver's movement, she occupied herself day and night simply with staying alive, with keeping the Weaver from entering her dreams so that he might kill her as she slept, and fighting off the assassins he sent for her. But never before had she worked with her hands in this way. It was ironic, really. In the Forelands, where Qirsi magic was poorly understood and even feared, she had been almost solely a creature of magic. Only now, living in a land where Qirsi power was accepted to the point of being taken for granted, was she learning to make her way in the world without magic.