by DAVID B. COE
His blade was out and leveled at her neck before she could draw breath. "The a'laq takes this matter most seriously, dark-eye," he said, low and menacing. "Don't toy with me. Now I'll ask you one last time, who sold you your baskets?"
She swallowed, reluctant to give Brint's name to this Qirsi, but knowing that if she defied the man again, angering her friend would be the least of her worries. "His name is Brint HedFarren."
The soldier appeared to relax somewhat at the mention of Brint's name. "And where was this?" he asked.
"East of here, on the plain."
"How long have you had them?"
"Half a turn perhaps."
"And have you stopped in other Fal'Borna septs in that time?"
"Yes, a few."
"And you've noticed nothing unusual."
Lark shook her head. "No, nothing."
He nodded and lowered his blade. "Very well." He stepped away from her cart and motioned her through the gate. "You can pass."
She frowned. "Can't you tell me what this is about?"
"Apparently some are trading baskets that carry the pestilence with them. Obviously, we don't want any of them in our city."
The pestilence? In baskets? "No," Lark said, still not quite understanding. "Of course you don't."
"Get moving there!" came a voice from behind her; one of the other merchants no doubt.
Lark flicked the reins and clicked her tongue at Ashes, her dappled grey gelding. The old horse started forward through the archway. But still Lark shook her head, her brow furrowed. How could the pestilence come from baskets, except through some dark magic? Were the Fal'Borna at war with one of the other clans? Were they fighting their own kind?
She steered Ashes through the broad stone lanes to the large marketplace in the center of the city. This late in the morning, the market teemed with peddlers and buyers alike. Her mind fixed on what she had heard from the Qirsi guard, Lark noticed immediately that few of the other peddlers had any baskets for sale. She should have been pleased. Stam or Brint or any of the others would have been. Her baskets were sure to fetch a good price and sell quickly. But as before, Lark wondered if she should just leave them in her cart for today. Perhaps people here would be afraid to buy them. They might even be offended if she displayed them with her other wares.
She found a small space between two Eandi traders. She guessed that they were from Tordjanne, or maybe the southern shores of Qosantia: both were fair-skinned, with well-groomed beards and yellow hair that they wore short. They displayed goods from every other sovereignty except Tordjanne, but this wasn't all that unusual. Tordjannis were born merchants; they made few articles themselves.
The men nodded to her as she took her place between them, spread a blanket on the ground, and began to put out her goods.
"Good day so far?" she asked the one on her left as she worked.
The man shrugged and grimaced, then gave a slight shake of his head. Looking at him again, she saw that his hair and beard weren't so much fair as white, and his face was more deeply lined than she'd first noticed.
"Not so good," he said. "It's harvest time. Everyone's selling; no one's buying."
Qosantian. Definitely. She'd know that accent anywhere. "You're from Ferenham," she said. "Or maybe Harborton."
The man grinned at that, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "Ferenham. And you're from north shores of the Ofirean. Stelpana, if I had to guess."
She smiled. "I'm Lark."
"Lark, is it? The woman who sings so well. I've heard of you." He tapped his chest. "The name's Antal Krost."
"Nice to meet you." She glanced over at the merchant on her other side, but he seemed intent on ignoring them. She cast a questioning look at Antal, who merely shrugged again, an amused grin on his face.
"What are you selling, Lark?" Antal asked, pulling out a skin and taking a small drink. He offered it to her. "Wine?"
She shook her head. "Too early for me, thanks." She gestured vaguely at her old display blanket, which was already half covered with bolts of multicolored cloth and heavier woolen blankets. "Nothing that unusual," she told him. She hesitated, but only for an instant. "I have some baskets in my cart, but I'm wondering now if I should just leave them there."
Antal raised an eyebrow. "Baskets, you say?"
Lark nodded.
He stood and walked to her cart. "Let's have a look."
She joined him at the back of her wagon, and pushed aside the cloth that covered her goods. Seeing the baskets, Antal whistled through his teeth.
"You'd be mad to leave those in the cart. They'll bring a good price, even this time of year." He glanced at her. "If you hadn't noticed, there's a hit of a shortage of good baskets in S'Vralna."
"So I heard. What's this about the pestilence?"
"I'm not certain I understand it,"- Antal said. "Seems there's been pestilence east of here, near the wash. Somehow the Fal'Borna have convinced themselves that the baskets are spreading it. They think it's some Mettai curse, and they think that our kind are using the baskets to attack the septs."
"It's no' jest any pestilence."
Lark and Antal turned to look at the other merchant, who continued to sit just as he had, staring straight ahead, as if still ignoring them.
"What do you know about it?" Antal demanded.
"Jest what I's heard. It's no' a pestilence like any other. It's a white-hair plague." He looked at them, dark eyes peering out from beneath a shock of yellow hair. He wasn't a young man, but neither was he as old as Antal. "It don' touch our kind," he went on. "Jest them. That's why they's so scared. It only kills them." He stared at them another moment. Then he faced forward, his expression unreadable. Had Lark not seen him speak, she might have thought that the words had come from someone else.
She turned back to Antal. "Those baskets are Mettai," she said in a low voice. "And I was near the wash when I got them."
Antal smiled and shook his head. "Don't let him scare you," he said, dropping his voice as well. "Mettai curses? White-hair plagues? If you ask me it's all nonsense." He nodded toward her cart. "What did you pay for them?"
"One and a half sovereigns for each."
"You'll get three for them here. Two and a half at least. And they may well be the only things you sell." He shrugged. "It's up to you of course, but if it was me, I'd have them out already."
Lark knew Antal was right. Ignoring her lingering doubts, she retrieved the baskets from her cart and placed them on the blanket, pushing aside goods of lesser quality in order to make room for them. She started by putting out eight of them, but at Antal's urging, ended up with all sixteen on display.
"That's it," the older merchant said as she laid out the last of them. "Let them be seen. No one ever bought any goods of mine that they didn't see first." He winked at her and smiled.
Even with her baskets out for all to see, it proved to be as slow a morning as Lark could remember having in any of the larger Fal'Borna cities. It seemed that the cold winds had people frightened of the coming Snows. Or maybe word of the pestilence had scared folk so much that they were refusing to buy any goods from Eandi peddlers. A few people wandered past and some lingered over her display, but none of them so much as touched any of her wares, and many of those who did pause to look at her goods stared warily at those colorful Mettai baskets.
"Maybe I should put them away," she muttered, as the midday bells echoed through the marketplace. "I think they're scaring people."
But Antal merely shook his head. "Give it time. They'll come around."
Not long after, a young Fal'Borna woman stopped in front of Lark and surveyed her offerings. Like so many of the women in the plains clan, she was short and muscular, with bronzed skin that would have been quite unusual for a daughter of any other Qirsi nation. She planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest before nodding toward the baskets.
"Where did you get those?" she demanded.
"The eastern plain," Lark said. "I bought them from another me
rchant."
"You know what's been done to our people with baskets like those?"
"I do now. I heard about it today for the first time."
"Yet you continue to display these. No doubt you hope to make a tidy profit by selling them."
"That's what we do," Antal said, drawing the woman's glare. "We're merchants."
The Fal'Borna woman twisted her mouth sourly.
"They're as fine as any baskets I've ever sold," Lark said. "You're welcome to pick one up and look at it. I'm sure you'll agree that they're beautifully made."
"I'm not certain I want to touch them at all," the woman said.
Two other Fal'Borna had stopped near Lark's blanket and were listening to their conversation.
Lark nodded, taking care to hold the woman's gaze. She wanted to keep the other two interested as well, but she knew that the woman was the key. If she could be convinced to buy, the others would follow her example. And once people in the marketplace saw that some had bought the baskets, their fears might be allayed somewhat. "I understand why you might be afraid of them," she said. "If I'd heard all that you probably have, I'd be scared, too. But the guards at your gate let me through. They asked me questions about the baskets, but they came to the conclusion that your people have nothing to fear from them. Even if you don't trust me, you must trust them, right?"
Lark sensed Antal nodding his approval.
The woman hesitated, then squatted down and reached for one of the baskets. Her hand paused over the handle, but then she took hold of it and stood. It was a deep basket, with a simple arching handle and grass osiers. It was brightly colored-reds, blues, yellows-and the coloring was as even and vivid as any Lark had ever seen. Had she the means to keep some of the baskets for herself, this would have been one of them.
"How much for this one?" the woman asked.
All of them were watching her-the other Fal'Borna, Antal, even the ill-tempered merchant on her right. Still, Lark held the woman's gaze. "Three sovereigns," she said.
The Fal'Borna frowned and shook her head. "Too much." But she didn't put the basket down. "One and a half."
Lark smiled. "No." She turned to the Fal'Borna who were standing nearby. "Can I interest you in a basket? Perhaps two?"
The first woman glanced at them, taking a small step toward Lark, as if to put herself between the merchant and the other Qirsi. "Wait, now. We're not done here. How much for this?"
"The price is three sovereigns," Lark said evenly.
The woman pressed her lips thin, looking angry. "I'll pay two and a half. Not a silver more."
Two and a half was a good price, and though she agreed with Antal that the baskets might well fetch three somewhere, they wouldn't bring that much here, not with all that had been said about Mettai baskets on this day. She made a show of mulling over the offer, but she'd made up her mind almost immediately.
"Very well," she said after a suitable pause. "Two and a half."
The Fal'Borna pulled a small coin pouch from within her wrap and counted out the money. After handing the coins to Lark, she turned and walked away, saying nothing more. Typical Fal'Borna manners.
Lark pocketed the coins and turned to the other Qirsi, who had already begun to sort through the remaining baskets. Within the next few moments she sold six more of them, all for two and a half. She also sold a blanket and two bolts of cloth. Antal sold several items as well, and for a short while it seemed like a normal day in any market. Then, just as quickly, their flurry of sales ended, and the merchants were alone again, the crowd of customers gone.
"There'll be more," Antal said, looking around, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "It's early yet."
Lark just nodded, hoping he was right.
"I was surprised you let the baskets go for so little," the man added a moment later.
She nodded, then sighed. "I know. There are others who might have held out for three."
Antal shrugged, but she could guess at what he was thinking.
"I just thought that with all these tales of the pestilence flying around, I was lucky to be selling them at all."
The man's eyebrows went up. "Well, you might be right about that. Hadn't looked at it that way."
Before either of them could say more, a second cluster of buyers came by, and many of them were drawn immediately to the baskets. This time Lark held out for three sovereigns, and though two of the Fal'Borna walked away, refusing to pay that much, three others paid the price, and two of them bought a pair each.
"Seems you were right," Lark said after they'd gone. "From now on, I'll take nothing less than three."
Antal grinned and nodded.
The rest of the day passed in much the same way. Occasional waves of buyers interrupted long periods when the merchants had little or nothing to do. It made for a long, slow day, but by the time sunset neared Lark had sold several blankets, some cloth, a bit of wine, and much of her smoked fish. Best of all, she had sold all but five of her baskets-eleven in all. And aside from the first few, she'd managed to sell each of them for three sovereigns.
"Looks like you had a good day after all," Antal commented, as he packed up his wares. "Better than I did, that's for certain."
Lark smiled. "I did pretty well," she admitted.
"Well, I'm glad for you. You moving on, or will you be here tomorrow?"
"I'm moving on," she said. "I'll sleep outside the gates tonight and head toward D'Raqor in the morning."
"More's the pity."
Lark paused over her goods, glancing at the old man. Her travels had been lonelier than usual since that night at the bend when she supped with her fellow merchants. Until today, that is.
"How 'bout if I buy you a meal before I go?"
Antal looked up at her and grinned. "I have some food with me as well. I can supply a bit of cheese, some dried breads maybe."
She shook her head. "No, I mean I'd really like to buy supper for you-in a tavern here in the city. An ale as well."
The man frowned, though he appeared interested. "You certain?"
"I had a good day, and thanks to your prodding, I got a few extra sovereigns for those baskets. Supper and an ale seems the least I can do."
Antal nodded once, smiling once more. "All right, then. You convinced me. Supper it is. Where?"
She shook her head. "I don't know the city all that well. You'll have to choose."
He laughed. "I can do that. In fact, I know just the place."
It was called simply the River House and it was tucked away on a narrow lane near the quays, at the southern end of the city. They drove their carts to a small alleyway near the river, and left them there, Antal assuring her that their wares and their horses would be safe.
"I've done this before," the man said. "Never had any problem."
The River House didn't look like much from outside, but within it was brightly lit with candles and oil lamps and the bar and tables were clean and well tended. It smelled of fresh bread and roasted fish.
"Best river bass in the city," Antal said, with a nod and a knowing look. "Trust me."
Lark had to smile. One might have thought from the way he was acting that he would be the one paying for their meals. Too late it occurred to her that Antal might have taken her invitation as something more than just a friendly gesture. She would have to tread carefully; she had no interest in a romance with the man, but neither did she wish to hurt his feelings.
As they sat at a table near the back, Antal signaled the barkeep for a pair of ales.
"So you're off to D'Raqor, eh?" Antal said, after a brief, awkward silence. "Yes. And then south to the Ofirean."
"You been there before? D'Raqor, I mean."
Lark nodded and smiled. "Many times. I've been selling in Fal'Borna lands for the better part of twenty years."
"Then I needn't tell you that the white-hairs aren't any friendlier there than they are here. In fact they might be worse."
"Yes, I-" She stopped, frowning. She could hear the g
ate bells ringing again. "Now what's that about?" she said, looking toward a small window by their table.
Antal shrugged. "Probably the twilight bells."
"No," Lark said, shaking her head. "They rang the twilight while we were driving our carts over here."
Antal frowned in turn. "You're certain?"
Lark nodded. After a moment she stood and walked to the door, thinking that she could hear… Yes. When she reached the doorway, she was certain of it. People were shouting, and the voices were coming from several directions.
"What do you suppose it is?" Antal asked, joining her at the door.
Lark shivered, feeling the hairs on her arms stand on edge. Something about this troubled her. "I don't know," she muttered.
"It's probably-"
She cast him a look, silencing him. "Listen!" she said. "Can you make out what they're saying?"
He closed his eyes, as if in concentration. Lark did the same. At first, she still could not make out what was being said. But gradually, as those who cried out moved closer to the river, certain words began to stand out among those that remained unintelligible.
"… Gates… Market… Fever… Healer… Eandi… Pestilence…"
Lark's eyes flew open. Antal was already watching her, looking pale and frightened.
"It can't be!" she whispered. Abruptly she was trembling, her stomach tight and sour.
"Those baskets-"
"No! It's not possible!" But she knew it was, had known all day, from the time the guard first alerted her to the possibility. Had she visited other septs with those baskets? he had asked her. And she had told him the truth: that she had. But she'd neglected to tell him all. "I never took them out of my cart in the other septs."
"What?" Antal demanded.
Lark hadn't even known that she was speaking the words out loud. "Nothing," she muttered, shaking her head. "I need to find the people who bought those baskets."
"It's too late for that," the old merchant said. "You need to get out of this city, before the Fal'Borna find you."
"But all those people-"
"They're dead already," he said, his words striking at her like a fist. "If this really is the pestilence, there's nothing you can do for them now, even if it did come from your baskets."