The Horsemen's Gambit bots-2

by DAVID B. COE

  "Yes. My wife and our daughter made the journey with me."

  "How old is your daughter?"

  "Not even a year."

  Besh's eyes widened. "She must be strong to have traveled so far at such a tender age."

  "Yes, she is, like her mother."

  Besh nodded approvingly before gesturing for Grinsa to continue.

  Grinsa began to tell the Mettai about all that had befallen him and his family since their arrival in the Southlands, starting with their trek across the Eandi sovereignties. He described how they had come to be living among the Fal'Borna, explaining as best he could the bargain he had struck with E'Menua in order to save the lives of the Eandi merchants. At first he was reluctant to reveal all of this to men he barely knew, but as he continued to talk the words came easier. He sensed that Besh and Sirj merely wished to understand what he was doing out here on the plain, riding with Q'Daer and the merchants, and he felt relieved to be telling his tale to people who had no cause to judge him or doubt his word.

  For a long time after he finished speaking, neither Besh nor Sirj said anything. He could tell, though, what they were thinking, and so he wasn't surprised when Besh finally gave voice to his thoughts.

  "You've risked a great deal for men you barely know."

  "I suppose," Grinsa said, shrugging. "From what I've heard of the Mettai, you're not well thought of by either the Eandi or the Qirsi. And yet the two of you have left your home and family in order to save strangers from the curse of a madwoman."

  Besh grinned. "Only a fool would choose to justify himself by likening his actions to those of a bigger fool."

  Grinsa laughed. "Well said." His smile faded slowly. "The Fal'Borna thought me foolish as well. Maybe I was. Torgan and Jasha meant nothing to me at the time, and I've since come to question whether Torgan was worth saving. But back in the Forelands I met a man who was falsely accused of a crime, and if I hadn't helped him prove his innocence he would have been executed and our land would have suffered greatly for the loss. I don't know if either of the merchants will someday justify whatever sacrifice I've made. But, like the rest of us, they deserve the chance to prove their worth."

  "I don't pretend to know much about your land," Besh said. "But I can't imagine that many men there think as you do. Is that why you left?"

  "No," Grinsa said. "We left for a number of reasons, and some aren't mine to tell. But I'm a Weaver, and in the Forelands my kind are feared. By law Weavers and their families are supposed to be put to death. I fought in a war on behalf of the Eandi courts and because of this, my king, rather than following the law of the land, allowed us to leave."

  "Another noble man," Besh said. "I wish I'd had the chance to see the Forelands when I was younger. It sounds like an extraordinary place."

  Sirj hadn't said much since Grinsa's arrival, but now he looked at the gleaner, his brow creased. "Before, when you were telling us about your bargain with the a'laq, you said that he expected you to find Lici and kill her yourself, or perhaps return her to his sept. By killing her ourselves, we've… we've made matters more difficult for you."

  Grinsa shrugged again, conceding the point. "I don't get the feeling that you had much choice." He nodded toward Besh. "You were hurt, your hand especially."

  "How can you know that?" Sirj asked.

  "I sense a residue of the magic used to heal him. I thought I could feel only Qirsi magic, but apparently Mettai magic isn't all that different."

  "Sirj healed some of my wounds," Besh said, "but the Fal'Borna healed me as well. That might be what you're sensing."

  "Perhaps. But you acted out of necessity. I can hardly blame you for killing a woman we ourselves were hunting."

  "And now you're hunting these merchants who have Lici's baskets." Grinsa nodded, looking grave. "Yes."

  "Do you think you can find them?" Besh asked, sounding doubtful himself.

  "I don't know," Grinsa said. "Probably not." It was a more honest answer then he would have given the others in his company, but already he found himself trusting these men. "But I'm not even certain how much difference it will make if we can."

  "I don't understand," Sirj said, frowning deeply. "I thought finding those baskets was the most important thing left for us to do."

  Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. "It probably is, though that isn't saying much. The point is, even if we find some of the baskets, we don't know what to do with them. I suppose we can try burning them, but we can't be certain even that will be safe." He eyed both men closely. "What we really need is a way to defeat the plague."

  "We don't know how to do that," Besh told him. "I'm not even certain that Lici did."

  "Did you ask her?"

  The Mettai nodded. "Yes, I did."

  Grinsa nodded knowingly. "And she refused to help you."

  "Worse," Besh said. "She said there was no way to undo her curse. 'It can't be undone,' she told me. And then she said, 'There's no spell you could make that would defeat it.' "

  "She could have been lying to you," Grinsa said.

  "She had no reason to lie. It was the day I killed her, and at the time she thought that she had me fully under her control." Besh shook his head. "I think she was trying to break my spirit, but I also think she was using the truth to do so."

  " 'There's no spell you could make… ' " Grinsa repeated. "It seems an odd way to say it, don't you think?"

  "I don't follow," Besh said.

  "She said it can't be undone, and that there was no spell you could make that would stop it. So Mettai magic alone can't do it. But what if there's another way, one that uses Qirsi magic as well?"

  Besh nodded. "I've thought of that, though it never occurred to me that Lici might be hinting at the possibility. But even if there is a way, I have no idea where to begin. Do you?"

  Grinsa actually laughed. "Not at all. A turn or two ago I didn't even know that your people still existed. Beyond knowing that you need blood to conjure, I have no idea how your magic works."

  "You make us sound like ghouls," Sirj said. "We can't conjure with just any blood. It has to be our own. And we don't need much. Just enough to mix with earth."

  Grinsa held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I meant no offense."

  "It's not blood magic," Sirj went on, as if he hadn't heard. "That's what others call it, Qirsi and Eandi alike. It's earth magic; that's what they should call it. 'Blood magic' makes it sound… evil."

  Besh laid a hand on Sirj's arm. The younger man glanced at him and then looked away, his lips pressed thin.

  "It's not easy being a Mettai in the Southlands," Besh said quietly.

  "You may find this hard to believe, but that's something we have in common. Being a Qirsi in the Forelands can be trying at times as well, and being a Weaver is worst of all."

  "So you told us. It must be a great relief for you to be here in the Southlands." Besh said this with a wry smile on his wizened face.

  "Given the chance, would you give up being Mettai in order to be accepted by the Qirsi or the Eandi?"

  "No," Besh said quickly. "I'm proud of my ancestry. Sirj is, too. As you say, this is something we have in common."

  "Can you explain to me how your magic works?"

  Besh shrugged. "There's not much to it, really." He held up his hand so that the back of it faced Grinsa. Even in the soft glow of the moons, Grinsa could see dozens of thin white scars, stark against the old man's brown skin.

  "I cut myself here, blend my blood with a handful of dirt and…" He trailed off. "Actually it's probably easiest just to show you."

  He drew his knife from its sheath and pulled the blade across the back of his hand. Grinsa noticed that he didn't wince at all, as if he felt no pain. "Does that hurt you?" he asked.

  Besh smiled, though he didn't take his eyes off his hand. "A bit. I hardly notice it anymore." His looked up for just an instant, his gaze meeting Grinsa's. "I've been doing this for a long time."

  Blood had welled from the wound and now
Besh caught it deftly on the flat of his knife. Balancing it there, he reached down with his cut hand, picked up a handful of earth, and tipped his blade so that the blood poured into the same hand, making a small dark pool in the soil. An instant later, the blood and dirt swirled together as if stirred by some unseen force.

  Besh glanced at Sirj. "What should I do?"

  The younger man shrugged.

  "Blood to earth," Besh said in a low voice. "Life to power, power to thought, earth to fox." As he finished the incantation, he opened his hand with a quick motion, so that the ball of dark mud flew from his fingers. Before it hit the ground it took the form of a fox, which landed nimbly in an alert crouch and stared up at Grinsa, its eyes shining with moonlight.

  Grinsa stared back at it for several moments, afraid even to breathe. At last he chanced a question. "Is it r-"

  The animal bolted at the sound of his voice, bounding into the grasses and vanishing from view.

  "Is it real?" Besh said. "Is that what you were going to ask?"

  Grinsa gazed after the creature, shaking his head. "That's the most remarkable thing I've ever seen!" He faced Besh again. "You created a living creature out of nothing!"

  "No," Besh said. "That's not what I did at all. I created a living creature out of life-my blood, Elined's earth."

  Grinsa eyed him briefly, then nodded. It made sense when he put it that way.

  "That litany you recited; must you do that each time you conjure?"

  "Yes," Besh said. "I've met some Mettai who recite the words in near silence, but they're necessary for the magic to work." He licked the blood from the back of his hand, and then licked the blade clean before returning it to its sheath. Seeing that Grinsa was watching him he said, "A Mettai never wastes blood. What we don't use, we return to our bodies."

  Grinsa nodded again. That made sense, too. Q'Daer had said much the same thing to him the day he and Cresenne first arrived in E'Menua's sept. A Fal'Borna wastes nothing. Laws of survival in a hard land. He looked off into the grasses again, hoping for another glimpse of Besh's fox.

  "Qirsi magic can't do anything like that," he said.

  Besh smiled once more. "No, I don't suppose it can."

  "That's how she was able to do it."

  The old man's smile faded. "Lici, you mean."

  Grinsa nodded. "Qirsi magic couldn't have done that, either. Don't get me wrong," he was quick to add. "My people are capable of doing terrible things with their powers, but a Qirsi couldn't have conjured a plague as she did, any more than one of us could have created that fox."

  "Had you asked me a year ago," Besh said, "I wouldn't have thought a Mettai could do such a thing either. Lici surprised us all."

  "You and she fought before she died, is that right?" Grinsa asked. Besh's mouth twitched slightly. "Yes."

  "How does that work?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Grinsa took a breath, wishing immediately that he hadn't asked the question. He was curious, and he thought perhaps that if he learned enough about Mettai magic, he might think of a way to counter the witch's plague. But he didn't see a way to explain what he meant without revealing more of his own past than he would have liked.

  "I did battle with another Weaver," he explained. "Both of us commanded armies of Qirsi." He didn't mention that he and his allies had been hopelessly outnumbered or that in the end his victory was bought by the sacrifice of another. "When I fought him, I sensed what magic he was using and countered it by drawing on the same magic. If he attacked with shaping power, I defended our ranks with shaping. If he sent fire at us, I sent fire back at him." He shook his head. "But I don't see how a Mettai could fight the same way."

  "We don't. When I fought Lici, I just had to guess what spell she intended to cast at me, and then respond accordingly. Sometimes I guessed correctly, sometimes I didn't. And in the end, I had no defense against her attacks except to kill her."

  Sirj was watching him, as if he hadn't heard the entire tale of Besh's fight with Lici. For his part, Besh looked more uncomfortable than he had at any point in their conversation.

  "In any case," the man said, staring at the ground. "That's how it happened for me. I think Mettai magic isn't intended for combat."

  Grinsa smiled, drawing a curious look from Besh.

  "Forgive me," Grinsa said. "But many of us in the Forelands have long said the same thing about Qirsi magic."

  "But throughout the history of the Southlands-"

  "I know." Grinsa shrugged. "Perhaps we're all inclined to understate the extent of our powers. Or maybe this just proves that anything can be made into a weapon if we're desperate enough."

  They fell silent for several moments, the two Mettai looking thoughtful, Grinsa watching them. He had assumed for so long that he would find no allies in this land, that his struggle to defeat the curse and win freedom for himself and his family was his alone. Meeting these two men, he was no longer so certain of this. But he was also wary of trusting them too quickly. He sensed how eager he was to claim them as friends, and he feared that he was being rash.

  Grinsa stood, intending to return to the fire where Q'Daer and the Eandi merchants were sleeping.

  "Thank you for speaking with me," he said.

  Besh smiled, though it looked forced. "Of course."

  Grinsa started to leave, but the old man called him back.

  "The older merchant-I've forgotten his name."

  "Torgan. Torgan Plye."

  "Yes," Besh said, "Torgan. He told us that he and the younger Eandi were your prisoners."

  "They're not my prisoners. But they are prisoners of the Fal'Borna."

  The man nodded once. "I see. He made it sound as though we were making ourselves prisoners by agreeing to journey with you."

  "You told me yourself that a Fal'Borna a'laq had named you a friend of the clan. You have nothing to fear from Q'Daer. He's a difficult man, and he has little use for Torgan. But he'll honor a declaration of friendship from another a'laq, no matter how small the sept he leads."

  "So you don't believe that we've placed ourselves in peril."

  "No," Grinsa told him. "I don't." He hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn't like the idea of having to trust all to instinct, but he felt certain that he had nothing to fear from Besh or Sirj. "And I make you this promise," he went on a moment later. "If Q'Daer or any other Fal'Borna threatens either of you without cause, I'll do everything in my power to protect you." He grinned. "Though given what I've seen of the magic you wield, I can't imagine you'd really need my help."

  This time Besh's smile appeared genuine. "And I make you this oath in return, Grinsa of the Forelands. If we can do anything to stop Lici's plague from spreading and help you and your family win your freedom, we'll do it."

  Grinsa inclined his head, acknowledging the offer. "Thank you for that."

  He turned and started back toward the dim light of the fire, feeling happier than he had at any time since the company left E'Menua's sept. It wasn't just that he now had allies in his fight for freedom, though certainly that gave him more hope than he'd had in what seemed like ages. He also felt that he'd found a friend in Besh.

  It was late, and he was deeply weary. But it had been too long since last he spoke with Cresenne. So before lying down to rest, he walked a short distance from the camp, sat down among the grasses, which shone faintly with the pink and white glow of the moons, and reached with his mind southward to where his beloved slept.

  Chapter 17

  F'MENUA'S SEPT, THE CENTRAL PLAIN

  For several days after she spoke with E'Menua, Cresenne refused to go to L'Norr's z'kal at mealtime. She knew that the young Weaver would be expecting her, that E'Menua would have wasted no time in making arrangements for the man to feed her and Bryntelle. She knew as well that her refusal to go was pointless. She didn't manage to find any new sources of food in the intervening days, nor did she magically inure herself to hunger and its effects.

  It was pride that kept her a
way. She didn't want to feel like a beggar again, as she had the night she ate with F'Solya and I'Joled, and she certainly didn't want to be made to feel like a whore. So she kept to her z'kal, carefully rationing what few scraps of food remained from the journey she and Grinsa had made across the sovereignties. She nursed Bryntelle as she usually did, but by the end of the third day, she realized from her daughter's cries that she was no longer making enough milk to satisfy her.

  That was what finally broke her. Starving herself was one thing; starving Bryntelle was another entirely.

  On the fourth evening, after leaving the tanning circle, she went not to her z'kal, but to that of L'Norr, which was located near the center of the sept, not far from E'Menua and D'Pera's shelter. She slowed as she drew near L'Norr's home, trying desperately to think of any other way she might survive without having to do this. But her stomach hurt, and her mind felt dull, and Bryntelle was crying again, having fussed for much of the day. Cresenne glanced around and realized that several people were watching her, no doubt wondering what she was doing so far from her own z'kal. They would see her knock on the outside of the young Weaver's shelter, and they would assume the worst, but there was little she could do about that. For all she knew, that too had been part of E'Menua's plan: anything to drive a wedge between her and Grinsa. Maybe he hoped that if Cresenne grew unhappy enough she would simply take Bryntelle and leave the sept.

  Several days ago, this thought would have been enough to send her back to her own z'kal without a bite to eat. It was a measure of how wretched she had become that she straightened, stepped forward, and, heedless of the stares, tapped on the flap that covered the entrance to the shelter.

  For a moment her knock was greeted only by silence, and Cresenne wondered if L'Norr was elsewhere.

  Then she heard a voice call out quietly, "Enter."

  She hesitated before pushing the flap aside and stepping into the z'kal. It was dark within, and like all the z'kals she had been in, it smelled like sweat and smoke and food. Her stomach rumbled loudly.

  L'Norr sat on the far side of a small fire, stirring a pot of stew. He glanced up at her, but then quickly looked away.