The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  "Fifty-seven. That's right."

  He hesitated, and immediately Lici knew why. Perhaps there was a way to do this without delaying him any further. Merchants commonly carried great sums of gold, and with road brigands quite common throughout the Southlands, they generally had several secret caches hidden within their carts. Clearly Brint was no exception to this. He would have to retrieve her payment from one of these, but he would be reluctant to reveal the location of even one of his caches, even to her.

  "Perhaps you could leave me alone for just a moment?" he asked.

  "And risk having you drive off with my baskets?" She shook her head. "I'm old, but I'm not a fool."

  "No, of course not! I merely… I need to get you your gold. That's all.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I'm going to wait right here while you do."

  The merchant made a sour face, but after a moment he nodded. He dropped to the ground and crawled under the cart.

  Lici bent down too, placing her hands on the ground as if to brace herself. "What are you doing?"

  "Getting some gold," he said impatiently. "Please, can I have a moment of privacy?"

  "Yes, of course." Lici stood, and as she did, she grabbed a handful of dirt.

  She quickly pulled her knife free, cut the back of her hand, and began the familiar chant, keeping her voice to the barest whisper. At the same time, she caught some blood on the flat of her blade and let it trickle into the earth she held in her hand.

  Her spell was more complicated than most-just as it was more powerful than most. But still, she had long since committed the words to memory.

  "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, magic to dust, dust to curse, curse to pestilence, pestilence to baskets, baskets to magic."

  Saying this last, she threw her hands toward the opening to the merchant's cart. Dust flew from her fingers, dust that had been blood and dirt. It glittered briefly in the failing sunlight, before settling on the baskets. It coated them like light snowfall for just an instant, then vanished, as if absorbed into the osiers.

  "I'm sorry?" Brint called to her. "Did you say something?"

  "No, nothing." She licked her blade and sheathed it, then licked the back of her hand.

  A few moments later, he crawled back out from beneath the cart, a small leather pouch in one hand, the back of his shirt and trousers stained and covered with dead leaves and twigs.

  "Here you are," he said, handing the pouch to her. "Fifty-seven sovereigns. You'll want to count it I'm sure."

  Lici didn't care to really, but neither did she wish to raise his suspicions. She stepped to her cart and poured the coins out onto the bare wood, making a quick count. Satisfied, she returned the coins to the pouch and faced him again.

  "Thank you, sir. I hope the baskets bring you all the profit you seek." "I'm sure they will. The plains people always pay well for Mettai baskets."

  Lici blinked. "The plains people? I thought you were heading toward the lakes."

  "No, the plains."

  "But there are no Y'Qatt on the plains."

  "Well, there are a few. But I'm not sure I need to go looking for the Y'Qatt. Not anymore."

  "But you said you were! You said you were looking for Y'Qatt and Mettai!"

  He smiled, though he was looking at her strangely. "Well, I found a Mettai, didn't I? Those baskets are quite beautiful. I'm sure they'll fetch a good price in the septs of the Fal'Borna. And as for the Y'Qatt…" He shrugged. "We're well into the Harvest now. I need to be heading west and then south, back to Tordjanne. I don't want to be abroad when the Snows come."

  "No! You don't understand! You have to find the Y'Qatt! Those baskets-" She stopped herself, grabbing handfuls of her silver hair. "The Y'Qatt will buy those baskets," she went on a moment later, trying desperately to sound reasonable. "They love Mettai baskets."

  "I believe you," Brint said. "But I'm sure they'll sell on the plains, too. Or in Tordjanne."

  "No! You can't sell them on the plains! Not to the Qirsi!"

  The merchant took a step back, frowning once more. "Why not?"

  She opened her mouth, swallowed. "I hate them," she said. It was the only thing that came to mind. "I don't want my baskets going to the white-hairs. The Y'Qatt-they're all right. But not the rest! You can't let the rest have them!"

  "I'm sorry, but they're not your baskets anymore." He turned away and started toward the front of his cart.

  Lici hurried after the man, grabbing him by the arm. "I want them back then!" She held out the pouch of coins to him. "Here! Your gold! I don't want it anymore! Just give me my baskets back!"

  He pulled his arm loose and walked briskly to his horse. Lici followed and tried to push the pouch into his hand.

  "Get away from me!" he said, shoving her away with one hand. She stumbled back, but quickly righted herself.

  "I'll give you more gold! I have twenty sovereigns! You can have them, too!"

  He scrambled up into his seat and took hold of the reins.

  "All of it! I'll give you all my gold! Everything I have! Just don't take those baskets to the plains! I'm begging you!"

  Brint didn't answer. Lici rushed forward and grabbed his leg, digging her fingers into his calf. "You can't go!"

  "You're hurting me!" he shouted, kicking at her, trying to free himself from her grasp. His foot caught her in the chin, but still she held fast to him. He kicked her again, harder this time. She let go and fell to the ground, addled for the moment.

  "I… I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. But you… What was I supposed to do?"

  She shook her head, sobbing now. "Please!" she said. "Don't go! You're doing something terrible!"

  He stared down at her, looking confused and scared. "I'm just a merchant. I sell and I buy. How much harm can come of that?"

  "Death!" she said, her voice rising. "Death of thousands! And ruin! Entire villages destroyed!"

  "You're mad!" He snapped the reins and his cart started forward.

  Lici pulled her knife free and clawed at the ground, picking up a handful of dark earth. She cut a deep gash across the back of her hand and let the blood drip into the dirt she held. "Blood!" she shouted, raising her hand over her head. "Earth and power! Power to fire!" She lowered her hand and stared at the mud she held. That wasn't right. What were the words? She knew how to do this. She had just done it. "Earth to magic," she began again, raising her hand once more. "Magic to fire. Fire to… to that man." Her hand dropped to her side, and once more she began to cry. "Death!" she shouted after the merchant. "Death and ruin! I've seen it! You'll see it, too! Mark my word, you'll see it, too!"

  But Brint didn't stop. Lici sat on the ground watching him drive his cart away from the village, her baskets in his cart, her curse following him like a storm cloud. How many would die? Who could say? It would carve through the Fal'Borna septs like a Mettai blade through flesh; it might even reach the J'Balanar. Her magic couldn't tell one Qirsi from another. It could kill any of them, all of them. All except the Y'Qatt, who lived to the north, near the lakes.

  "You're a fool!" she shouted after the man, though he had turned a corner on the road and she couldn't see him anymore. "You don't know what you're doing!" Then she raised her face to the sky and screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was gone.

  ventually she must have passed out, for she found herself lying sprawled on the ground some time later. The sun had set, and only a faint sheen of daylight clung to the western sky.

  She sat up and looked around her. Darkness oozed from the abandoned houses and empty lanes, like blood from some ancient wound. An owl called from far off and some creature-a fox perhaps, or a wildcat- growled low and harsh from the brush beyond her old house.

  "You lied to me."

  She started at the voice, her heart pounding in her chest. A figure loomed beside her, dark, insubstantial.

  "Mama?" she whispered.

  "You told me that you brought healers."

  "Is that r
eally you?"

  "You lied."

  She peered at the form, trying to make out a face.

  "I was scared," she finally said. "I'd gone the wrong way. I didn't know what else to do."

  "You lied to me!" the voice said again, loud and shrill.

  Even as Lici flinched away, she felt herself growing angry. She wasn't the little girl anymore. She was old and tired, and she had done far worse in the years since leaving Sentaya.

  "Yes, I lied," she said, sitting up straighter. "It was too late for all of you. I told you what you wanted to hear."

  "And now you've condemned thousands to a death as terrible as mine."

  "He said he was going to the Y'Qatt! It's not my fault that he lied to me!"

  "Isn't it?"

  "No!" She launched herself at the dark form, trying to take it by the neck. But there was nothing. She was grappling with air, flailing about in the dirt and leaves. Lici stopped herself and sat up again, her chest heaving, tears on her face. "Mama?"

  Nothing.

  "I didn't mean it."

  She heard whispers coming from nearby, and, forcing herself to her feet, she started toward them.

  "Mama?" she called. "Papa?"

  The whispers seemed to fade, as if to draw her deeper into the gloom.

  She halted, refusing to play their game. "Baet? Kytha?"

  Was that a giggle? Were they teasing her?

  "Come here!" she said, trying to sound stern.

  She heard them on her right now, closer to the house, and she hurried after them.

  "Let me see you! Show yourselves!"

  Now they were to her left. Not in the house, but on the far side of it. She strode toward them, tripped on something, pulled herself to her feet, and trod on. It was so dark. Lici could barely make out the houses and trees, and soon found herself walking with her arms outstretched, to keep from walking into anything. But the voices continued, gentle and elusive, coaxing her on. The lane was behind her and to the left. Or perhaps it was more directly to the left. She wasn't quite certain.

  But there was laughter before her, not playful anymore. Mocking.

  "Stand still! Who are you?"

  No one answered, but Lici thought she heard footsteps on the dry leaves. Slightly to her right now, and still ahead, always ahead. Arms reaching, fingers splayed, eyes wide, sightless, straining in the dark, she followed.

  He had long since crossed the bridge and had put nearly a league be- tween himself and the wash when he finally slowed, allowing his horse to graze on the long grasses. His hands still trembled, though not as they had before.

  "Damn crazy woman."

  The horse looked back at him for an instant, chewing loudly.

  He had forty-seven baskets to sell. Fine ones-quite possibly the best he'd ever seen. He'd gotten them at a good price, and would probably manage to sell each at twice what they had cost him. That was what mattered. The rest was nothing more or less than the ranting of a mad witch.

  Death and ruin. It was laughable. These were baskets, not blades or spears.

  But they come from a Mettai.

  He'd been searching for her people. Isn't that what he told her? Blood magic. It sounded strange and dangerous, and just slightly alluring. Selling Mettai goods, even things as harmless as blankets or baskets, was always profitable in Tordjanne. People there didn't quite believe in blood magic-most of them had never seen a Mettai. But they wanted the goods. They wanted to be able to point to something in their home and say, "That was made with blood magic." Here on the plains, merchants paid less for Mettai goods that they suspected had been made with magic rather than by hand. But in the Eandi sovereignties, especially those that were farther south, items made by magic often sold for more, simply because people there wanted to believe that they were buying something… well, magical.

  But what was blood magic, really? Was there blood on these baskets? Is that what she was saying?

  "She was mad," he said, scolding himself. "That's all."

  Brint snapped the reins, forcing his horse into motion, though he sensed that the beast would gladly have eaten more.

  He'd sell the baskets at his first opportunity. There were septs all around here and Qirsi villages along the wash. He wouldn't get as much for them in these lands as he would in Tordjanne, but he'd get enough. And then they'd be gone, and with them the memory of that old woman.

  He absently rubbed his arm where she'd grabbed him. For an old woman, she had been uncommonly strong. Or simply desperate.

  Fifty-seven sovereigns. He should have just done as she asked and given her the baskets back. Probably she was just deluded, but at this point he wanted nothing to do with her or her wares.

  Brint was headed toward a bend in a narrow tributary of the Silver- water. He often met other Eandi merchants there to share what food they had, to speak of prices in the various marketplaces, to share tidings from other parts of the land, or simply to swap tales and sing songs. It was here that he first met Torgan Plye several years before. For all Brint knew, Torgan was there tonight. He never was sure who he might encounter at the bend, but usually at least a few merchants gathered there on any given night. And this evening was no different. Topping a small rise as the sun stood balanced on the horizon, he saw that there were already five carts in the bend, and as many figures seated around a small fire.

  At first opportunity. He made the decision in that moment, with a clean conscience. Surely the woman was insane. That was why she said all the things she did. He would remember the crazed look in her dark eyes for as long as he lived. He'd recall the smell of her breath and the feel of her bony fingers digging into his arm and then his leg. That was why he couldn't keep these baskets for even one night. But for other merchants, men and women who hadn't encountered the old hag, they were simple baskets-beautiful, brilliantly made, and reasonably priced. He'd be doing them a favor, even if he did manage to turn some profit.

  As he drew nearer to the bend and the merchants' fire, he recognized a few of the people there-a woman from Stelpana who was known simply as Lark, for her fine singing voice; another man from Tordjanne, whose name he'd forgotten, and Stam Corfej, who came from Aelea, but now spent more time in Qirsi lands than in the sovereignties. Good people all, successful merchants. They'd know the quality of the baskets, and they'd have no trouble selling them in the Fal'Borna septs that roamed these plains.

  Stam turned at the sound of Brint's cart and raised a hand in greeting.

  "If it isn't Young Red," the man called, removing his pipe from his mouth. "You'd better have food to share. We're a bit spare tonight."

  Brint grinned. "I've plenty," he answered, halting by the other carts and climbing down out of his seat. "And wine, too."

  Lark nodded. "Then you're certainly welcome."

  "I've wares for you to see as well," Brint said. "Fine ones and at a good price."

  "Offering bargains, are you?" Stam said skeptically, winking at the others. "And which one of us will be fortunate enough to be giving you gold?"

  Brint pushed aside the cloth that covered the back of his cart and began gathering baskets in his hands.

  "I imagine it will be all of you," he said. "There's plenty to go around."

  Chapte 21

  FAL'BORNA LAND, THE CENTRAL PLAIN

  So, if you don't go with them, they'll simply be executed?"

  Grinsa nodded, afraid even to look at her. He'd left her once before to save the life of a man falsely accused, and it had nearly destroyed them both. Now they were the parents of a baby girl, trying to make sense of a strange land, held captive by a hostile people. How could he consider such a thing? That's what she would ask him; that's what he was asking himself.

  Cresenne sat beside him, her eyes locked on his, and she asked, her voice as even as the plain, "What are you going to do?"

  "What can I do?" he said. "I'm going to let them die. I can't leave you and Bryntelle. Not here; not now."

  She raised an eyebrow. "So you'll jus
t stand by while two men are put to death without cause?"

  "They're strangers to us. Innocent people die every day. I can't be expected to put our lives at risk for every one of them, can I?"

  Cresenne took his hand in her own, and lifted it to her lips. "Not every one, no."

  He looked away, his gaze wandering the shelter until at last it came to rest on Bryntelle, asleep in a cradle by their pallet. "That's right. There's only so much one man can do."

  "Even if he is a Weaver."

  He faced Cresenne again. "What does that mean?"

  "It means, this isn't you."

  He frowned. "I don't understand."

  "Oh, come now, Grinsa. 'They're strangers to us'? 'Innocent people die every day'? You've never thought such things in your entire life. You've just convinced yourself that you can't leave us here, and you're trying to make peace with that."

  "And you'd have me do different?"

  "I don't want you to leave. You have to know that." She ran a hand through her long white hair. "But I also know that you'll never be able to live with yourself if these men are killed while you have a chance to save them."

  "Who says I have that chance?"

  She smiled, though the look in her pale eyes made his chest ache. "This is you we're talking about. If you decide to try, you have a chance."

  He gave her hand a squeeze. "It's not that easy. In fact, I'm not sure it can be done. E'Menua wants to prove a point."

  "Another test?"

  "In a way. Only this time he wants me to fail. He's tired of me challenging him. I think he wants me to try this, and to return to him humbled, chastened. And Q'Daer and L'Norr just want me to go. I think they'd be happiest if I didn't come back at all." Grinsa shook his head. "I'm not sure I should give them the satisfaction."

  "But E'Menua must want this Mettai woman stopped."

  "I have the sense that he's not worried about her, or maybe he just expects that another sept will find her. No, I really think this is about him and me." He rubbed his cheek where the a'laq had struck him. "Did I mention that he hit me?"