The Horsemen's Gambit bots-2

by DAVID B. COE

  Tirnya lowered her gaze once more.

  Bodies; even more than there had been. But not dressed in white anymore, not neatly arrayed, not only Qirsi. Bodies everywhere. Hacked, broken, brutalized. Severed limbs, spilled innards, and so much blood. More blood than Tirnya had known existed, coursing through the streets like the Silverwater in flood, running over her feet, soaking through the leather of her boots. She took a great breath, opened her mouth to scream.

  And woke, her eyes fluttering open.

  "Gods be praised!" a voice said. Her father. That was her father who spoke.

  "Captain?"

  She peered up into the thin, tanned face of an older man. She was in her own bedroom. Her chest hurt, as did her head.

  It came back to her in a rush. The arrow. Falling back off Thirus. Thirus!

  "My horse," she said, her voice sounding thick.

  She heard her father chuckle. "That's my daughter."

  She tried to make herself sit up, but her body didn't respond.

  "Hold on there, Captain," the older man said. "You've taken a nasty fall and you had an arrow in you. You're not going anywhere for a while."

  "My men?

  "You lost two," her father said, stepping to the side of her bed and looking down at her. "Four more were wounded, but they'll be fine. Thirus is unhurt and in the stable, and the brigands you encountered are all either dead or captured. Twenty-one in all. Your men have a good deal of gold coming to them."

  Two men dead! She turned her face away, feeling tears on her cheeks. That simple motion made her stomach heave, and she almost was ill. Two men. She wondered which ones.

  "She's past the worst of it now, Marshal," the older man said. "Keep that poultice on her wound for the rest of the night; the betony will keep the bleeding to a minimum and ease the swelling, and the lavender will keep it from becoming fevered. And keep giving her that brew. Sanicle and sweet-wort. It'll keep the pain in check and help her sleep. That's what she needs most now. Rest."

  "Thank you, healer."

  Tirnya knew that voice, too.

  "Mother?" she said, looking past Jenoe.

  Her mother stood near the door, her face pale in the lamplight.

  "I'm glad you're better," she said, smiling, though she appeared to be blinking back tears. After a moment Zira looked away. "Come, healer. I'll show you out."

  The older man nodded. He glanced down at Tirnya again. "I'll come back to see you tomorrow, Captain."

  "Thank you."

  He left the chamber, followed by Tirnya's mother.

  Her window was slightly ajar, and she could see that night had fallen. "How long was I…?" Her thoughts were so scattered. What had she just been dreaming?

  "It's nearly time for the gate close," her father said. "They brought you back here several hours ago."

  "Mother was here."

  He frowned, but there was a smile on his lips. "Yes, of course. What did you expect?"

  "Do you know… what were the names of the men who died?" She didn't want to answer his question.

  "I don't know. I'm sorry."

  "I've never… I've had men wounded before, but I've never lost any."

  Her father brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, looking sad and relieved and much older than she'd ever seen him. "Think about that tomorrow. Tonight you need rest." He straightened.

  "Do you think I was wrong to search the paths?" she asked quickly, afraid he would leave her.

  Again he frowned, and shook his head. "No. It was a fine idea."

  "Oliban thought of it."

  "Then he's to be commended."

  "But if we hadn't searched there…"

  Her father shook his head. "A commander can't think that way. You lost two good men, but you did what was expected of you, and more. Every soldier knows that his next battle could be his last. I don't know the names of the men who died, and even if I did, I probably couldn't tell you much about them. But they knew the risks of what they were doing."

  She nodded, knowing he was right, knowing as well that it would still take some time before her guilt and grief went away.

  "As long as we're on the subject, though," her father went on, "I can't say that I like the idea of you leading a charge like that. You're fortunate to be alive."

  "You'd have me ride at the back of the column instead of the front?"

  "A company needs its captain. When a commander, any commander, falls in battle, it places all the men in a company at risk."

  "I see," Tirnya said. "And I take it you always ride at the back when your men charge into battle."

  "He never has that I know of." Zira walked to her bedside. "I can't tell you how to lead soldiers into a battle," she said. "But I can say that your father has never ridden at the back of a column in his entire life."

  Tirnya had to smile. "I didn't think so."

  "No more talk of soldiers or battles," Zira said. "She needs sleep."

  Her father kissed Tirnya's forehead, and then her mother did the same. Tirnya couldn't remember the last time she had done such a thing. Zira sat beside her and held the cup of the healer's brew to Tirnya's lips. Tirnya drank as much of it as she could before turning her face away. It was too heavy and too sweet.

  "No more," she said.

  Her mother nodded and stood. She took Jenoe's hand and they started toward the door.

  Tirnya closed her eyes, feeling sleepy. But as soon as she closed them, she saw the city again, the shadow of a falcon flashing across the face of a red building.

  "I dreamed of Deraqor," she said, opening her eyes once more. Her parents stopped and faced her again.

  "What?" her father said.

  "I had a dream. I was in Deraqor and I'd… I'd won the city back for our family." She could see the bodies again, and the blood. She swallowed, forcing herself past the memory of that part of her dream.

  "What made you think of Deraqor?"

  "There's been pestilence there," she said. "Not in the city itself, but on the plain. The Fal'Borna. It's… They've suffered."

  "That much I had heard." He shook his head. "That's a long way from here. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

  "No, that's not…" She wasn't certain what she was trying to say. "I'd like to see it someday. Deraqor, I mean."

  Jenoe nodded. "So would I. Good night, Tirnya."

  "Good night."

  Zira extinguished the oil lamps and they left her in the darkness.

  Again Tirnya closed her eyes, and immediately she felt herself drifting toward sleep, slipping back into the dream. She heard the falcon calling to her from a distance. She could see the walls of her city. And though she feared seeing the blood and the bodies again, still she started up that street once more.

  Chapter 9

  FAL'BORNA LAND, THE CENTRAL PLAIN, HUNTER'S MOON WANING

  The rain had stopped and for the first time in days, a few pale blue gaps had appeared in the blanket of grey that covered the sky. The wind still blew hard out of the north, and if anything the air had turned colder, but still Grinsa was thankful for any break in the somber weather they'd endured since leaving E'Menua's sept.

  Yet even warm breezes and clear skies would have done little to lift his spirits or those of his companions. It had been several days now, and Grinsa still was haunted by what he had seen in the devastated sept they found. Several times, he had awakened from nightmares in which he was dying of the pestilence, destroying the z'kal he shared with Cresenne and Bryntelle. Even awake, he had only to close his eyes and he could summon images from the sept: ruined structures, charred bodies, shattered bones stripped bare by scavengers and the elements.

  Q'Daer had said nothing to him about what they saw that day, but the young Weaver had been unusually subdued since. He made no effort to engage Grinsa in conversation. He had also stopped taunting the Eandi merchants, though, judging from the cold stares he cast their way, he seemed to hate them more than ever.

  For their part, Jasha and Torgan
had behaved differently, too. Jasha had become far more talkative, taking every opportunity to tell Grinsa and Q'Daer, if the Fal'Borna would listen, all that he could remember about the one Mettai basket he had briefly owned and then sold. Whatever reservations he had harbored about helping the Qirsi with their search for the cursed baskets and the Mettai witch who had created them seemed to have vanished. Torgan, on the other hand, had grown more reserved. Before they came across the sept he had said little to the Qirsi, but had spoken freely with Jasha. Now he kept to himself, saying little to any of them, and almost appearing to flinch when one of them spoke his name. Torgan's protestations of innocence that day, as they stood amid the devastation, had been self-serving and offensive. But Grinsa couldn't help but wonder if he and the others had driven the man into this sullen silence by responding too vehemently.

  If anything vaguely positive had come from that awful day, it was that none of them spoke anymore of returning to E'Menua's sept; not even Q'Daer. They rode each day for hours, stopping only to eat and drink, or to rest. But though they covered much ground, they didn't see any other septs, ruined or whole. The Night of Two Moons came and went, marking the beginning of the waning, and still they were no closer to finding the witch or her baskets. Grinsa's frustration grew with each day that passed and he could tell that Q'Daer's did, too.

  Today, again, they had been riding since early morning, and with twilight approaching they had nothing to show for their efforts. Or so it seemed, until Grinsa and the young Weaver topped a small rise and saw in the distance a curving stream, and, by its banks, a cluster of eight or ten peddlers' carts.

  Immediately, Q'Daer raised his hand, signaling to Jasha and Torgan, who were behind them, that they should halt. Grinsa and Q'Daer retreated back down the incline, hoping that the merchants hadn't seen them.

  "What is it?" Jasha asked.

  Grinsa waited until he and Q'Daer had ridden back to them before answering. "Merchants," he said in a low voice. "Several of them."

  Torgan, suddenly alert, looked past Grinsa toward the top of the hill. "Eandi?" Jasha asked.

  "I think so." Grinsa glanced at the Fal'Borna, who nodded.

  "We should speak to them," the younger merchant said.

  "It's not quite that easy," Grinsa said. "Q'Daer and I can't just ride into their camp. If any of them are carrying the woman's baskets, we could be infected with her pestilence. And even if they don't have any, I can't imagine they'll tell us anything." He hesitated, knowing how Q'Daer would respond to what he was about to say. "We need for you to speak with them."

  "We'll do it!"

  "Are you mad?"

  Torgan and Q'Daer said the words simultaneously, then eyed each other.

  Grinsa turned to Q'Daer. "What choice do we have? We can't go ourselves, and we can't simply pass those merchants by without finding out if they've encountered the woman or her wares."

  "They'll try to escape," Q'Daer said, shaking his head. "They'll get help from their friends, and they'll try to escape."

  Grinsa knew that the man had a point. "Then we'll send only one of them." He looked first at Torgan and then at the younger man. "We'll send Jasha."

  "No!" Torgan said.

  A harsh grin spread across the Fal'Borna's features. "You see how eager he is? He knows that this may be his best chance to get away from us."

  Torgan's face shaded to crimson and he looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  Grinsa couldn't help thinking that Q'Daer was entirely right about this. Torgan's reaction had been too immediate, too fervent. He looked at Jasha.

  "You'll go," he said. "Find out what you can and then return here. If you try to run…" Grinsa trailed off. He'd never been good with threats of this sort.

  "If I run," Jasha said, "I'll be leaving Torgan at your mercy. I'm not about to do that."

  "And what's he going to tell them?" Torgan demanded. "How's he going to explain when they ask what he's doing out here alone, without so much as a cart?"

  Silence. Grinsa and Q'Daer exchanged a look, but neither of them answered.

  "I tell them the truth," Jasha said. "At least, as much of the truth as I can. The Fal'Borna are looking for the woman and for anyone who's selling her baskets. They took my cart and told me to find her. If I don't, I lose everything."

  Torgan shook his head. "They won't believe that."

  "You have a better idea?" Jasha asked.

  They glared at each other for several moments, until Torgan turned away again, dismissing the younger man with a wave of his hand.

  "Fine. Do what you will. I don't give a damn."

  "They'll ask me to make camp with them for the night," Jasha said, looking at the Qirsi again. "It's the way of merchants out here on the plain. They'll offer me food and a place by their fire."

  Grinsa shrugged. "Tell them that you can't stay, that you have to keep moving."

  "I'm not sure they'll believe me."

  "Then convince them. We'll expect you to be back here by nightfall."

  "And have a care what you say to them," Q'Daer said. "The Forelander and I keep watch every night. If you tell them where we're camped, and they come looking for a fight, they'll die. All of them. And their deaths will be on your head."

  Jasha eyed him, and finally nodded. After a moment he looked at Grinsa again. "This isn't going to work. You know that."

  He did know it. But he knew as well that Q'Daer's warning and his own restrictions on what Jasha could and couldn't do were necessary. They couldn't just allow the young merchant to run away; they needed him, perhaps more than they needed Torgan, if for no other reason than because he was trustworthy. The irony wasn't lost on Grinsa. They were sending the one merchant they could trust not to betray them, and they were dooming him to failure by refusing to have faith in him.

  "What would you have us do?" he asked.

  Jasha looked surprised, as if he'd expected only more threats. "I'm not sure. I suppose it might help if you let me stay with them and win their trust. That's the only way I'm going to learn anything of value."

  "Do you think we're fools?" Q'Daer demanded. "Do you think we'll just let you go free?"

  "We should let him do it," Grinsa said, his eyes still on Jasha.

  "You are mad!" the Fal'Borna said. "You can't really think he'll keep his word."

  "Yes, I do. Because he knows that if he doesn't, I won't be able to keep you from killing Torgan."

  Q'Daer shook his head. "You've seen the way they are. He'd trade his life for Torgan's in a heartbeat."

  Grinsa faced the Fal'Borna. "No. You or I might, but Jasha won't."

  "So I can go?" Jasha said.

  It was getting dark. Before long it would be too late for Jasha's arrival at the merchants' camp to be believable.

  "No," Q'Daer said. "No, you can't."

  "Go ahead," Grinsa said. "We'll look for you come first light."

  "No!" the Fal'Borna said.

  Jasha flicked his horse's reins, but the animal didn't move. Language of beasts.

  "Let him go," Grinsa said.

  The young Weaver shook his head again. "I won't. I've let you have your way again and again on this journey. You want to feel like you're leading us, and I've been fine with that. But I won't let you do this."

  Grinsa reached for his magic and using language of beasts, touched the mind of Jasha's mount. He didn't scare the animal; he merely told it to walk. Immediately he felt Q'Daer try to stop the creature, but he blocked the young Weaver's magic. Q'Daer was powerful, but his magic lacked precision, and Grinsa had little trouble mastering it.

  "Damn you!" Q'Daer said.

  Grinsa felt the Fal'Borna gathering his magic for a more substantial challenge. He could only guess what the man had in mind, and the last thing he wanted was a battle of magic. Yes, he could prevail in such a contest, but it would accomplish nothing, and quite likely it would alert the merchants to their presence.

  "Don't do it, Q'Daer," he said. "I'll best you again, just as
I did with language of beasts."

  "You don't know that!"

  "Yes, I do. The fact is, you haven't let me have my way, and I haven't been leading us because of some abdication on your part. I'm leading and getting my way because, quite simply, you're not as powerful as I am. It's time you made peace with that."

  Even in the gloaming Grinsa could see Q'Daer's face darkening.

  "Fine then," the Fal'Borna said. "Let him go. And when he doesn't return, we can kill Torgan and be done with this folly. You can explain it all to the a'laq once we're back in the sept."

  With that he stalked off, his shoulder brushing past Torgan's so hard that he almost knocked the merchant to the ground.

  Jasha had halted a short distance off, and had watched their exchange. "I will come back," he said now. "You have my word on it."

  "With first light," Grinsa said.

  Jasha nodded to him and rode off toward the merchants.

  And Grinsa whispered to the gathering night, "Just learn something from them. Anything."

  Perhaps he should have been looking for some way to exploit the tensions he had just witnessed. The white-hairs were his enemy, his and Torgan's, assuming of course, that Torgan was his ally. They were prisoners of the Fal'Borna, and he should have been looking for any means of escape he could find. Torgan himself would have told him to run, even if it meant leaving Torgan to be executed by the Fal'Borna.

  Jasha smiled to himself and shook his head. Well, at the very least, he thought, that's what Torgan would have done if their positions had been reversed.

  But Jasha had seen too much to take that path. He'd been in S'Plaed's sept near the Companion Lakes when the Mettai witch's pestilence struck there. He knew what this plague did. He'd seen shaping power shatter homes and peddlers' carts and bodies. He'd stared, helpless to do more, as fire magic laid waste to houses, killing entire families. He'd looked on in horror as a healer's magic tore his own body apart from the inside. And in case he had forgotten-as if he ever could-he had also seen the ruins of the sept they'd come across just a few days ago.