by DAVID B. COE
"Do you still have the baskets?" he asked.
Brint shook his head. "She tried to buy them back from me when she found out where I was taking them." Suddenly the big man couldn't stop talking. "She offered me all the gold she had, plus what I'd just paid her."
"And you refused."
Brint looked at him. "You saw those baskets. You know how fine they were. And at that point I just wanted to get away from her as quickly as I could."
"Where are the baskets now, Brint?"
"I sold them to other merchants."
Jasha had been afraid of this. He passed a hand through his hair. "Where did you sell them?"
"Around a fire, much like this one. I met up with some other merchants and decided I didn't want anything to do with that crazy woman or her wares. So I sold them all."
"To who?"
Brint named several merchants. A few of them-Stam Corfej, Lariqenne Glyse, Grijed Semlor-Jasha knew. He tried to commit to memory those names he didn't recognize.
"And how many baskets were there in all?" Jasha asked.
"Forty-seven."
Jasha felt his mouth drop open. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him. The Mettai woman was selling her wares throughout the land; no doubt she had dozens of them. But somehow hearing this number-forty-seven!-and knowing that they were being spread across the plain, like seeds blown from a harvest flower, struck him dumb. He and his riding companions had seen the remains of two or three in the ruined sept they'd found days before. How many more villages could be ravaged that way? Would one basket do it, or did it take two or three or even four? Even if it took more-six or eight-that meant half a dozen villages might suffer the same fate as the one they had seen. And that assumed the baskets Brint had bought from the woman were the only ones still out there.
"It didn't seem like that many at the time," Brint whispered after some time.
"No. I'm sure it didn't."
Jasha had to resist an urge to climb back on his horse and return immediately to Torgan, Grinsa, and Q'Daer. Forty-seven baskets! He wanted to find them now, this night.
We can't do anything tonight, he told himself. I need to rest so that we can be moving again with first light.
"You probably don't know where the merchants who bought them were headed, do you?"
"No," Brint said. "There were several of them. They were all headed in different directions. Some were going west, others south, toward the Ofirean."
Jasha winced and closed his eyes. The Ofirean. If those baskets reached Thamia or Siraam or one of the other major settlements on the inland sea… He shuddered.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," Brint told him.
"I'm sure you didn't." Jasha stood, too weary to say more. "I'll see you in the morning."
Brint nodded.
Jasha lay down beside the fire, stretching out on the hard ground and wrapping the blanket he'd brought with him around his shoulders. But for a long time sleep wouldn't come. Whenever he closed his eyes, he began to see once more the devastation of S'Plaed's sept and the ruined settlement they'd seen south of here. So he kept them open, staring at the baleful orange glow of the embers. After a while, he heard Brint walk off to his cart. One of the other merchants mumbled something in her sleep, and an owl called from far off.
Death and ruin, the woman had warned. Yet clearly that was what she had been hoping for when she first conjured this plague of hers.
"She was mad," Jasha whispered to himself, thinking that this should make him feel better somehow.
But it didn't. And he lay awake.
Chapter 10
Long after Jasha left them, Torgan remained apart from the Qirsi. He didn't wander far-the Fal'Borna wouldn't let him-but he kept his distance, watching the sky darken, wondering if this would be his last night alive.
Let him go, Q'Daer had said, speaking of Jasha. And when he doesn't return, we can kill Torgan and be done with this folly.
He had no doubt that the Fal'Borna meant what he said, and though he didn't think that the Forelander would let Q'Daer follow through on the threat, there was always the chance that Grinsa would be powerless to stop the younger man. The larger question looming in Torgan's mind was whether or not Jasha would return. If Jasha had asked for his advice, he would have told him to ride eastward as fast as he could until he crossed into Eandi land. Yes, he'd be condemning Torgan to his death, but better one of them should get away.
Jasha didn't think that way, though. He was young. He still thought that kindness and generosity could win out over centuries of hatred and war. He truly believed that if they helped the Fal'Borna find the Mettai woman and end her plague, the white-hairs would let them go. So he'd go and speak with the merchants they'd seen, he'd find out what he could, and then he'd come back, thinking that they actually had a chance to succeed in this foolish venture.
Jasha was an idiot, and because of that Torgan would probably live to see another sunset.
Or would he? On more than one occasion the young merchant had surprised Torgan with his cunning. He'd done his part to keep them alive when they first spoke with E'Menua. And, in fact, he'd been so sly about it that at first Torgan believed Jasha had betrayed him, and he tried to strangle the younger man. Jasha had also turned conversations so as to keep Grinsa and Q'Daer at odds with each other, convinced that so long as the Forelander believed he had more in common with the two merchants, he was more likely to protect them from the Fal'Borna.
Jasha might well have come to the same conclusion that Torgan had reached: The Fal'Borna were likely to execute them no matter the outcome of their search for the Mettai witch. In which case, Torgan would never see the young merchant again.
Sitting on a boulder, staring at the clouds that scudded past, vaguely conscious of the two Qirsi nearby, Torgan pondered these possibilities, assessing the reasoning behind each, examining them for flaws as if they were goods in a marketplace. A part of him wondered at how calm he felt contemplating the possibility that he would be killed in a few hours. He knew better than to think that he had suddenly found courage. More likely this endless ordeal with the Fal'Borna had left him numb.
Or perhaps there was another explanation. Perhaps the knowledge that he wasn't entirely powerless had made him bold. Could it be that he had drawn strength from that scrap of cursed Mettai basket that he carried at the bottom of his travel sack?
He had told himself that he would use it against the Qirsi only as a last resort. Already he carried too many dead with him, and he was loath to add to that burden. Yes, the deaths he had caused in C'Bijor's Neck and S'Plaed's sept had been inadvertent, but that didn't make the wraiths hovering at his shoulder any less unsettling. If he were to use the scrap he had found in the ruined sept to expose Grinsa and Q'Daer to the witch's plague it would be murder, plain and simple.
Some murders are justified, said a voice in his head. And is it really murder if it's the only way to save yourself?
The question itself was enough to start Torgan shaking, and he thrust his hands into his pockets, though the Qirsi weren't close enough to notice.
It was the timing that made his decision so difficult. He wouldn't know until morning if his life was in imminent danger. Either Jasha would return or he wouldn't; if he didn't Q'Daer might well have his way, and Torgan would be killed. But from what he knew of the witch's pestilence, it took several hours to take effect, which meant that if Torgan waited for morning to use the basket scrap, he wouldn't be able to save himself; he'd merely be assuring that the Qirsi died several hours after killing him. Not that Torgan was above such vengeance, but it struck him as a thoroughly empty gesture. Better he should expose them to the plague tonight. Quite likely the Qirsi would be dead by morning and regardless of whether Jasha returned, Torgan would be able to escape.
By the time darkness fell and Grinsa kindled a small fire in a circle of stones, Torgan had made up his mind to kill his captors this night. He wasn't sure yet how he would do it-how close did the Qirsi need to b
e to the basket in order for the plague to take them? Would he need to put it near them somehow? Could he put it near their food, or their sleeping rolls?
Nor did his decision rest easy on his heart. The shaking that had started with his hands had spread to his entire body, so that he quaked as if from a fever, and barely trusted himself to walk. He tried to imagine himself riding away come morning, freed from his captivity, but the distance from where he was now-a coward with a daring plan and no idea as to how he might effect it-to where he hoped to be come daybreak seemed too great.
He heard a footfall nearby and looked up sharply. The Forelander stood a short distance off, the campfire at his back and his powerful frame in shadow.
"We're eating," he said, "if you want to join us."
Torgan nodded, afraid that if he spoke his voice would give him away. Grinsa stood there another moment, as if waiting for more of a response. Receiving none, he turned and walked back toward the firelight.
"Damn," Torgan muttered. At this rate he was going to raise the white-hairs' suspicions before he had the chance to do anything at all. He'd be lucky to survive the night himself.
Forcing himself up, the merchant walked after Grinsa. He thought about walking to his mount right away and retrieving the scrap of charred basket, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet, he told himself. After they've eaten, when its time for sleep. It made sense. Still, Torgan cursed his cowardice.
As he drew near the fire, he caught the aroma of roasting meat riding the light wind. At first he thought the scent came from the camp of the Eandi merchants. A moment later, though, he saw that the white-hairs had set a spit over the fire and were cooking what looked to be a rabbit. Despite his nerves, Torgan realized that he was famished.
Grinsa and Q'Daer were already eating. As Torgan stepped into the firelight, the Forelander gestured toward the fire.
"Help yourself," he said, his mouth full. "There isn't much, but we've had our share."
Q'Daer cast him an icy look but said nothing. It seemed he was less inclined than Grinsa to share the food.
Torgan took some of the meat, sat down, and began to eat.
"Looks like your friend is still with the merchants, dark-eye," Q'Daer said after a while. "At least he was the last time we checked."
Torgan was in the middle of chewing and now he paused, looking first at the Fal'Borna and then at Grinsa. "So what does that mean?" he asked, after swallowing.
"It means Jasha's doing what we asked of him," Grinsa said.
"Or," Q'Daer threw in, "it means that he and the other merchants are planning to attack."
"He wouldn't do that," Torgan said without thinking.
Grinsa nodded once. "I agree."
Q'Daer looked at Grinsa disapprovingly, but kept silent.
"So then…" Torgan hesitated, eyeing them both. "Then you're not going to… to do anything to me?"
"No," Grinsa said. "We're not."
"The other one hasn't come back yet," Q'Daer said. "We know nothing for certain."
Grinsa frowned briefly before looking at Torgan again. "He'll be back come morning, and then we'll go on with our search. I'm hoping that he'll learn something that will tell us where to go next."
Torgan said nothing. He just stared at the half-eaten leg of rabbit he held in his hand. But it was all he could do to keep from weeping. Relief, hatred, frustration: all of them warred within him.
He wanted to rail at the white-hairs-at the Fal'Borna in particular-for their threats, for making Torgan believe that he had only hours to live. Yes, he was relieved to know that they wouldn't kill him. He might even have been relieved knowing that he didn't have to kill the men tonight if he didn't want to. But that was also the source of his greatest frustration. He did want to. He wanted desperately to be free of these Qirsi, and also to exact some measure of vengeance for all to which they had subjected him for the past turn and more. He knew, though, that he wouldn't, that without the imminent threat of his execution, he would never find the nerve to kill them. In that moment, sitting before the white-hairs' fire, eating their food, acquiescing to their continued control over him, Torgan realized that he had come to loathe himself.
"Are you all right?" Grinsa asked him.
"Fine," he said, his voice thick. "I'm fine."
He took another bite, but barely managed to choke it down.
"I'm not hungry anymore," he said, forcing himself to his feet. "Either of you want this?"
Q'Daer shrugged and held out his hand.
Torgan handed it to him and then left the small circle of light cast by the fire. He walked to where his horse was tied, found his saddle and travel sack lying in a pile on the ground, and opened the sack. The piece of burned basket was at the bottom, beneath his spare clothes, a coil of rope, and a few pouches of food.
"Just take it out," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Take it out and carry it back to the fire."
But he knew that he wouldn't. He'd started shaking again, sweat running down his temples despite the cold.
After several moments, he tied the sack closed once more and grabbed his sleeping roll.
He could hear the Qirsi talking as he walked back to the fire to sleep, but they fell silent before he could make out what they'd been saying. No doubt they'd been talking about him, maybe arguing over what they should do if by some chance Jasha didn't return with the dawn. Torgan didn't care anymore. Let them execute him if that's what they wanted. If this was the life that was left to him, he didn't care. If this was the man he'd become, he wasn't worth saving. He just ignored them, spread out his sleeping roll by the fire and lay down. Before long he'd fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber.
Torgan awoke to the sound of voices. Opening his eyes to another grey, chilly dawn, he saw that Jasha had returned already and was speaking with the white-hairs. The young merchant looked genuinely excited and both Grinsa and Q'Daer were listening intently as he spoke.
He rose and stumbled over to where they were standing, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he walked.
"… With so many out there, I'm not even certain where we'd begin to look for them," Jasha was saying as Torgan approached.
"What did he say about the woman?" Grinsa asked.
"The last he saw of her, she was in the ruins of a village near N'Kiel's Span." Jasha's eyes flicked toward Torgan. "He said she was mad, that she went on and on about how the baskets would bring death and ruin."
"Doesn't sound mad to me," Q'Daer said. "They did just that."
"He thinks that she had intended them for the Y'Qatt."
The Fal'Borna frowned. "The Y'Qatt? Why would she want to kill them?"
"Who are the Y'Qatt?" Grinsa asked.
"They're idiots," Torgan said, barely glancing at the man. "White-hairs who refuse to do magic-they say your god didn't intend it. Who are you talking about?" he demanded, looking at Jasha.
"The Mettai woman."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I mean who was it who told you all this about the woman?"
"A merchant-Tordjanni from the sound of him. He said he knew you. His name was Brint HedFarren."
"HedFarren," Torgan said, whispering the name, staring at the ground, his brow creased in concentration. "HedFarren." It came to him abruptly. "Big fellow?" he asked, looking up again. "Red hair?"
"Yes, that's him."
"Why would someone want to kill these people-the Y'Qatt?" Grinsa asked
Jasha raised his eyebrows. "That's a good question. Brint had no idea, and neither do I."
Grinsa turned to Q'Daer, who merely shrugged.
"They both live in the Companion Lakes region," Torgan said. "The Mettai and the Y'Qatt, I mean. There's no history of warfare between them but there could be old rivalries that the rest of us don't know about. Or it may be that this woman and her people had a feud with them."
The others regarded him with surprise.
"What?" Torgan asked, looking at each of them, until his gaze came to rest on Jasha.<
br />
"Nothing," the younger man said. "It's a good point."
"And that surprises you?"
None of them answered, but Grinsa and Jasha shared a look and after a moment both of them began to laugh.
"You think I got to be as successful as I did without knowing a thing or two about the people of this land? I can tell you about every sovereignty, and about every clan in the white-hair lands. I know this land better than any of you."
"I'm sure you do, Torgan," Jasha said, still grinning. "You're just not always that insightful about… about the feelings of other people."
Torgan dismissed the remark with a wave. "Feelings have nothing to do with it. We're talking about the Mettai and the Y'Qatt. They're strange, all of them. Eandi sorcerers? White-hairs who refuse to do magic? It's a miracle that they never went to war. It shouldn't surprise any of us that they're the ones behind all this madness."
"Now, that sounds more like Torgan," Jasha said, drawing another laugh from Grinsa.
Torgan glared at them a moment longer before stalking off toward his horse. "Forget it," he called over his shoulder. "I try to help you people and I just get ridiculed." His horse, a mount given to him for this journey by the Fal'Borna, snorted a greeting as Torgan drew near. Torgan stroked the beast's nose, then reached into his travel sack intending to pull out a pouch of food. As he did this, though, his hand brushed the frayed, blackened osiers of the basket scrap he'd been carrying. He hesitated, looking over at Jasha and the Qirsi. The merchant was deep in conversation with Grinsa, but at that moment Q'Daer happened to look Torgan's way. Torgan froze, staring back at him, like a boy caught stealing gold from his father's purse.
Their eyes remained locked for what seemed an eternity to Torgan, until finally one of the others said something that caught the Fal'Borna's attention, making him look away.
Torgan began to breathe again. Taking hold of the food pouch he'd been after in the first place, he pulled it from the sack with a trembling hand and opened it. It was only as he was raising a piece of hard cheese to his mouth that he noticed the black smudge on his hand. It was on the heel of his palm, just below the thumb; three faint streaks of black, as if some dark bird from the Underrealm had brushed his hand with the tips of its wings.