The Horsemen's Gambit bots-2

by DAVID B. COE

  "With all respect, Grinsa, it's not your place or the Fal'Borna's to tell us what we can and can't risk. I swore an oath to stop Lici from doing any more harm."

  "And you did that!"

  "I killed her," Besh said. "That's all. Her plague is still spreading, and now there's to be a war. Her war." He looked at Sirj. "You know I'm right, don't you? You know that we can't just leave, not now."

  "I don't know that Q'Daer and I can keep you safe," Grinsa told him before Sirj could answer.

  Besh frowned. "I don't recall asking you to. There's a reason why the Eandi sought an alliance with the Mettai. You've seen just a hint of what our magic can do. Believe me when I tell you that we're not to be trifled with either."

  Grinsa had to smile. Besh was right: He and Sirj hadn't asked for any protection, and since another a'laq had declared them friends of the Fal'Borna, they didn't need anyone's permission to remain in the clan lands.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I shouldn't have assumed that you'd need us to protect you. As your friend, I'd like you to go back to your home, where you'll be safer. But of course it's your choice to make."

  Besh nodded. "Sirj and I will speak of this further. We'll let you know what we decide."

  Grinsa still heard a touch of ice in the old man's voice, so he merely nodded in return and left them. One way or another, they'd be leaving soon and he wasn't ready yet.

  Long before he reached his sleeping roll, however, he saw Torgan striding toward him. Grinsa knew just what the merchant was going to say and he had no desire to hear any of it. He kept walking, pretending that he hadn't noticed. After only a few moments of this, however, Torgan began calling to him. Heaving a sigh, Grinsa stopped and faced the man.

  He'd been thinking about this for so long. More than once, he had thought he finally had the courage to do it. He'd gone to his carry sack fully intending to pull out the scrap of basket and take it to the white-hairs. But always something stopped him: lack of nerve, guilt, questions about whether it would even do any good.

  These last, at least, had vanished in S'Vralna. The scrap of basket he carried would surely kill them. That much he now knew for certain. But the rest…

  Guilt should have meant nothing to him. The Fal'Borna would kill him without hesitation; why should he feel any remorse for striking at them first? And though the Forelander had once argued for his life and for Jasha's, he had since shown himself to be much like the white-hairs of the Southlands. He seemed perfectly willing to trade Torgan's life for his freedom and that of his family. And why shouldn't he? Torgan was wise enough to know that he'd have done the same in the man's position. But then why should Torgan feel any pangs of conscience at taking the man's life in order to save his own?

  That left his nerve, or rather, his lack thereof. This was not something he could overcome with logic, or by cataloging the ways in which the white-hairs had earned his enmity these past few turns. This cut to the very core of who and what he was. And for some time now Torgan had known that he was a coward. For years he had denied it to himself, citing as proof his refusal to flee Medqasse even when he knew that the coinmonger who eventually took out his eye was hunting him. Really, though, he had been more fool than hero at the time. He'd believed he could evade the man and his henchmen, and there was nothing courageous in the way he had cried and groveled, pleading for mercy when at last they caught up with him. But only recently, since that first night just outside of C'Bijor's Neck when he had watched the Y'Qatt city burn, had he known for certain.

  He had long expected to die old and fat, happy and rich. Then he'd bought those damned baskets from Y'Farl in the Neck, and in a matter of days his world had crumbled. A wiser man-perhaps a braver man-would have embraced death in the face of all that had happened to him since then. He was fat still, but happy and rich were lost to him, possibly forever. And yet even now, he was terrified of dying.

  He could start again, buy new wares, earn back the riches he'd lost. His desire to live reflected his belief that he could find wealth and happiness once more. That's what he told himself.

  But he knew better. Fear controlled him, not hope. He didn't want to live so that he could overcome all he'd endured these past few harrowing turns. He wanted to live because the thought of dying unmanned him. It stole his breath and turned his innards to water. It wasn't so much that he wanted to live as that he simply didn't want to die.

  Torgan would never accept that he was a killer. Whatever he did to get away from the Fal'Borna the white-hairs drove him to do. War was coming to the plain. An Eandi army was marching toward the Silverwater, and Torgan hoped that they would lay waste to every sept they encountered. Damn the white-hairs to the Deceiver's realm-let every last one of them burn in Bian's fires and be tortured by his demons. He hated them all, and, he knew, they hated him. If he returned to E'Menua's sept, he'd be killed, not because he had sold cursed baskets to the Y'Qatt or to Fal'Borna living in the small sept he'd visited in the north, but simply because he was Eandi. White-hairs and dark-eyes. It was simply the way of things.

  He no longer had time for guilt or doubt. And knowing what was coming, understanding with the certainty of a condemned man that the remainder of his life could now be counted in days, hours, hoofbeats, he found his nerve.

  "Gather your belongings," the Fal'Borna Weaver told them. "We'll be leaving shortly."

  Torgan and Jasha had barely spoken in days. Up until now, the young merchant's hostility had bothered him a good deal. But this once Torgan was glad that the young merchant was nowhere near him when he reached into his sack and pulled out the scrap of burned basket. His hands were trembling violently. No doubt the color had drained from his face, leaving him ashen. It didn't matter. Jasha wasn't there to see any of it.

  He'd give the white-hairs one last chance to let him go. They de-served-

  "No," he said aloud. He wasn't going to lie to himself. He didn't believe that they deserved any consideration at all. But he remained too frightened of what he was about to do; he would give them this last opportunity because the only way he could do this was to convince himself that he had no other choice.

  Gripping the burned osiers in his hand, he turned, searching for the two Qirsi.

  He spotted the Forelander first.

  We're not going to talk about this now, Torgan," Grinsa said as the merchant drew near. The man's face was so white he actually looked

  Qirsi, and there was rage in his eyes. Grinsa half expected him to throw a punch, and indeed Torgan's right hand was balled in a fist, his knuckles white.

  "And when do you propose that we do talk about it?" the merchant demanded. "You can't really believe that Jasha and I have any chance at all once we reach the sept."

  "You have a chance so long as we're all alive and I can argue for your life. That's why we have to get out of the Horn and back to the plain. Once we're there, I'll talk to E'Menua."

  "He won't listen, and you know it! He's a warrior; we're at war. He'll look at Jasha and me, and all he'll see are dark-eyes. Make us go back and you kill us."

  Grinsa closed his eyes briefly and raked a hand through his hair. It was something Cresenne would have done, and he nearly laughed at himself.

  "You see?" Torgan said. "You know I'm right."

  How had he ended up in the middle of all this? Why hadn't he just let E'Menua have his way from the start? Yes, Torgan and Jasha would be dead by now, but maybe he, Cresenne, and Bryntelle would be away from here, living peacefully with another clan. "I don't know anything, Torgan. I'm not Fal'Borna. I'm not even from the Southlands. I'm just trying to keep myself and my family alive long enough for us to find a home."

  "That's right," Torgan said, as if trying to wheedle him into buying some bauble that he didn't really want. "You're not from here. You're not like the Fal'Borna. You don't have any reason to hate Jasha or me. In fact, if it wasn't for you, we'd be dead already. You fought for our lives, at great cost to yourself. You don't want all that you've sacrificed to be for nothin
g. So let us go. If you allow it, Q'Daer will go along."

  Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know that for sure. And I don't know if I can risk letting you go. It may not be fair, but for good or bad your fate and mine are linked. If I return to the sept without you, I might never be allowed to leave. I can't risk that." He started to turn away from the man. "I'm sorry, Torgan."

  "Wait!" Torgan faltered, opened his mouth, then closed it again. A drop of sweat rolled down from his temple. He raised that fisted hand, but an instant later let it drop to his side again. It almost seemed that he was holding something, though Grinsa could see nothing but a faint shadow near the base of his thumb that might have been a trick of the light or a smear of black from the previous night's fire.

  "We need to get ready, Torgan," Grinsa said, after waiting several moments for the man to speak. "The sooner we're on our way, the safer we'll be."

  "No, I I…" He shook his head, licked his lips. "I want to speak with Q'Daer about this. I want to hear from him that he won't let us go."

  Grinsa exhaled, knowing that this was a waste of time, and knowing as well that it would only serve to anger the young Weaver. "Torgan, I promise that once we're back-"

  "No!" the merchant said sharply. "I want to speak with both of you about this. I I… I don't want the two of you to… to have a chance to discuss it alone. I want to be there." He nodded, as if convincing himself of this.

  Clearly there was no reasoning with the man. "Fine," Grinsa said. "Come on then."

  He started toward the Fal'Borna with Torgan just behind him. After just a few steps, he heard Jasha calling to the merchant. Torgan, though, either didn't hear the younger man or chose to ignore him.

  Grinsa looked back at him. "Jasha-"

  "I know," the merchant said irritably. He didn't stop or look back. "Torgan!" the young merchant called again.

  "Not now!" Torgan shouted over his shoulder, still not breaking stride. Q'Daer was tying his sleeping roll onto his mount when they found him. He looked up at the sound of their approach and frowned.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  Grinsa turned to Torgan. "You wanted to talk to him. So talk." The man licked his lips again. "You have to let us go," he said. Q'Daer's frowned deepened. "What?"

  "There's a war coming. If you take us back to your sept, the a'laq will kill us. You have to let us go."

  Grinsa stared at the man, his eyes narrowing. Something wasn't right. Torgan's words made sense, but all the anger had drained from his voice. He seemed distracted, as if this conversation with Q'Daer was the last thing on his mind.

  "We're not letting you go anywhere, dark-eye," Q'Daer said. "You still have to answer for your crimes, and the a'laq is the only one who can decide your fate. Even if I wanted to let you go-and I don't-it's not my place to do it." He turned his attention back to the sleeping roll. "Now, go ready your horse."

  For several seconds, Torgan didn't move at all. Grinsa thought he might argue more, but he said nothing. He simply stood there, his chest rising and falling with each breath, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He glanced at Grinsa, and then looked at Q'Daer once more.

  "We have nothing to do with this war," Torgan said, although still he sounded strangely calm. Where was the passion he'd shown only moments before? "But we'll be victims of it. You know now that when I sold those baskets I didn't think that anything was wrong with them. You know as well that Jasha and I have done what we could to help you find them and the witch who made them."

  Q'Daer turned at that. "The other merchant did. I'm not so certain about you."

  "I've done everything I could!" Torgan said, his voice rising so that he finally sounded a bit more like himself. "I did my share in S'Vralna! And I've lost everything I had! I've been punished enough!"

  Q'Daer regarded him sourly, as if regretting that he'd responded at all. "Like I said, it's not my place to decide your punishment. We'll see what the a'laq has to say."

  "By then it will be too late! If I wind up back in your sept, I'm a dead man, regardless of what I deserve. You know I'm right about this!"

  Q'Daer looked at Grinsa wearily. "I have no time for this right now. I'm going to check on the other one to see if he's ready." He started to walk in Jasha's direction. "Next time, keep this one away from me."

  Grinsa eyed Torgan as the merchant watched Q'Daer walk away. "I could have told you it would go that way," he said. "Q'Daer is devoted to his a'laq. He'd never presume to go against E'Menua's wishes, and that's just what you were asking him to do."

  Torgan didn't answer. He didn't even look Grinsa's way. Instead, his eyes wandered the area around him before coming to rest on Q'Daer's mount. "I haven't eaten yet," he said. "Can I get something from his travel sack?" He cast a quick look after the Fal'Borna who was out of earshot by now. "Much of it was my food to begin with," he said. "Mine and Jasha's."

  Grinsa felt much as Q'Daer did at this point; he wanted nothing more to do with this man.

  "Yes, fine," he said, turning to his own sleeping roll. "Get some food and then get yourself ready." He glanced over at the merchant. "No more delays. You understand?"

  "Yes," Torgan said sullenly. "I understand perfectly."

  He took several moments to get food from the young Weaver's bag. In fact, he was there fiddling with Q'Daer's belongings for so long that Grinsa finally turned to look to see what he was doing. But by that time Torgan was replacing the sack of food and putting a piece of dried meat in his mouth. Grinsa shook his head and turned his attention back to what he was doing. He did look up again as the merchant walked back to his horse. The man hadn't said anything more to him, or even grunted a thank-you. But he did seem to have accepted that he had no choice but to ride with them back to the sept. And from what Grinsa could see, his hands hung loosely at his side. No more fists. That was something at least.

  They rode out a short time later in their usual formation: the Qirsi riding in front, the merchants behind them, and the Mettai bringing up the rear in their cart. Sirj approached Grinsa just as they were leaving to inform him that he and Besh would continue to journey with them.

  "We may turn eastward in a few days," the man told him. "But for now we'll remain with you."

  Grinsa told him that they'd be happy to have the Mettai with them for as long as they wished to remain, but inwardly he feared they were making a terrible mistake. He also lamented the fact that Sirj and not Besh had come to speak with him. He was afraid that he had offended the older man, and he resolved to make things right as soon as possible.

  They crossed the Thraedes a short time after midday, leaving the Horn behind them, and then turned due south, continuing to follow the river. They pushed their mounts hard and covered a fair amount of ground before stopping for the night. None of them spoke much. Torgan had gone back to brooding in silence, and the Mettai kept to themselves.

  They ate a small meal as darkness settled over the plain, and soon were unrolling their sleeping rolls beneath a cloudy sky that glowed faintly with moonlight. Q'Daer said something about remaining awake to speak with E'Menua. Grinsa was exhasted from having been awakened so early in the morning. He lay down and fell asleep quickly, only to wake up some time later to an odd sound. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and peered in the direction from which the sound had come, trying to make out a dark shape a short distance off.

  A moment later he realized that he'd been hearing someone retch. He glanced at the young Weaver's sleeping roll, his stomach clenching itself into a hard ball. Q'Daer wasn't there.

  "Q'Daer?" he called softly.

  "Stay away from me!" came the reply. His voice sounded weak, strained. A moment later Grinsa heard him get sick yet again.

  Grinsa stood and started toward the man.

  "I told you to keep away, Forelander!" the man said, making him stop. He could see Q'Daer clearly now. He was on his hands and knees, his head hanging low, his breathing labored.

  "I've got it," the Weaver said a moment later
, all the anger gone from his voice. "I've got the plague."

  Grinsa shivered in the darkness. "How is that possible? It's been days since we left S'Vralna. You can't have it. You're just sick."

  Q'Daer shook his head. "No. I've been sick before, but I've never felt like this. I can feel the fever in me. I feel myself getting weak." He looked back at Grinsa. "The Mettai did this to me. That's why they wanted to stay with us."

  This time it was Grinsa's turn to shake his head. "They wouldn't do anything of the sort."

  "Then how did this happen? You said it yourself: We left S'Vralna days ago. This plague strikes in just hours."

  Grinsa started to say again that he doubted it was the plague. But then it came to him. Torgan.

  "I'll be back," he said, turning on his heel.

  As he passed the fire circle he rekindled the flames with a thought, not even slowing his gait. He walked to where the merchants were sleeping and prodded them both with his foot.

  "Get up, both of you."

  Jasha grunted, turned over, his eyes barely even opening. Torgan, on the other hand, propped himself up on one arm immediately. Grinsa was certain that he hadn't even been sleeping.

  "What's the matter?" the one-eyed merchant asked.

  "Wake up, Jasha," Grinsa said, ignoring Torgan for the moment.

  The younger man took a long shuddering breath. Then he rubbed at his eyes. "Forelander?" he said groggily.

  "Yes. I want both of you to come with me."

  "Why?" Torgan asked. "What's going on?"

  Grinsa was certain that there was a way to do this, something he could say to put the man off for a few more moments so that he might find a way to prove that Torgan had done something to make Q'Daer ill. But he was too enraged and frightened to play games, and too addled with sleep to think clearly enough.

  He said simply, "Q'Daer's sick."

  "Damn!" Jasha said, instantly sounding awake. "Is it… has he got…?"

  "Lici's plague?" Grinsa said for him. He started to say that he thought it was, but then reconsidered, his gaze sliding toward Torgan again. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see. On second thought, Torgan will come with me. Jasha, I want you to wake Besh and Sirj and bring them to our fire."