The Horsemen's Gambit

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 be 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.

"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.

Again his gaze darted in the direction of the others, and again he found that the Fal'Borna was watching him. He put the cheese in his mouth and quickly wiped his hand on his breeches. Glancing down, he saw that the stain was still there and he wiped his hand again, harder this time. He looked hack toward his companions.

Q'Daer was walking in his direction.

Torgan took another piece of cheese and shoved it in his mouth, taking care to wipe his hand once more. At last it looked clean. He closed the food pouch, shoved it back into the sack, and closed that as well. Then he began walking in Q'Daer's direction, wanting to put some distance between his sack, with its lethal scrap of basket, and the Fal'Borna.

"What are you up to, Torgan?" Q'Daer asked as they approached each other.

"Nothing. I'm eating."

The white-hair looked past Torgan toward his horse. "What is it you're hiding over there?"

"I'm not hiding anything." He gestured at his mouth which was still full of cheese. "See? I'm eating. That's all."

For a moment he feared that the Fal'Borna wouldn't believe him, that he intended to go over and search Torgan's travel sack. Instead, after peering over Torgan's shoulder a moment longer, he looked the merchant in the eye.

"They have more questions for you," he said. "Seems there are several merchants selling those cursed baskets on the plain, and they think maybe you'll have some idea where to look for them."

"All right."

Again the Fal'Borna hesitated, his eyes narrowing briefly. After a moment, though, he led Torgan hack to the others.

"Do you know Stam Corfej, Torgan?" Jasha asked as Torgan reached them.

"Stain? Yes, of course. Good man. Aelean. Partial to pipeweed from Naqbae."

Grinsa smiled. "You truly are a merchant, aren't you?"

Torgan regarded him mildly. "You doubted it?"

"Where would he be right now?" Q'Daer asked.

He frowned. "That I'm less certain of." He removed his hat and scratched his head. "This late in the Harvest? He could be in any number of places. He might have returned to Aelea-if he planned to spend the Snows there, he'd cross the mountains before the weather turned too harsh. But he might also have headed south to the Ofirean, or west to the Horn, or into the southern sovereignties. Qosantia or Tordjanne," he added, for Grinsa's benefit. "Maybe even Naqbae."

Jasha looked troubled. "That doesn't help us much."

"Try one of the other names," Q'Daer said.

Jasha nodded once. "All right. What about Lark?"

"Lariqenne?" Torgan said, smiling. "Lovely woman, and what a singing voice. This time of year she'll probably be near the Horn, or heading toward the sea."

"And Grijed?"

Torgan frowned. "Semlor, you mean?" He shook his head. "He'd definitely he on his way south by now. He doesn't have the stomach for grey skies and cold nights."

"You don't like him," Grinsa said.

"Not much, no," Torgan admitted. "His goods are poor and he asks far too much for them. Men like him give men like me a bad reputation."

Q'Daer gave him a sour look. "I'd have thought you took care of that yourself."

Torgan ignored the comment, as did the others. Jasha named two other men, neither of whom Torgan knew.

"I'd never heard of them either," the younger man said. "They must be new to the plain."

"I agree."

"So then where should we go?" Grinsa asked. "We know of several merchants who might be headed toward the Ofirean or the Horn, and we have a crazed Mettai witch who we know is east of here."

"We go after the witch," Torgan said immediately. "That's the deal we made with E'Menua. We find the woman, he lets us live."

Grinsa looked at Q'Daer. "My conversation with the a'laq went much the same way, but knowing those baskets are out there changes everything. We'll save more lives going after the merchants. If that's what you want to do, we'll do it."

Torgan could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you mad? You're throwing away everything! Our lives! Your freedom!"

Grinsa hardly looked at him. "What do you think?" he asked the Fal'Borna.

"It's not his decision! The Fal'Borna are the enemy! Don't you get that?"

The Forelander whirled on him, stepping so close that Torgan had to back away. He hadn't realized until that moment just how big the white-hair was. "Keep quiet, Torgan! Q'Daer and I are going to make this decision, and you'll live with whatever we decide! Do I make myself clear?"

Torgan tried to hold the man's gaze, but failed. After a moment he nodded.

"You'd do this?" Q'Daer asked.

"If you think it makes sense to try. Torgan's right: We had an agreement with your a'laq, and eventually we have to find the woman. But if you think we can save lives, then that's what we should do."

The Fal'Borna was looking at Grinsa as if seeing the Forelander for the first time.

"The Horn," he finally said. "Finding the merchants on the shores of the sea would be next to impossible. It's a long coastline, and there are cities scattered throughout. But the Horn is a different matter. It's a small area, with a lot of people. The merchants will be easier to find there. And if those baskets reach S'Vralna or worse, D'Raqor, the effects would be.." He shook his head. "The dead would number in the thousands."

Grinsa's expression had turned grim, leading Torgan to believe that he, too, wanted to go after the Mettai woman. But he simply nodded. "All right, then. We'll go to the Horn."

"Damn you both," Torgan said. "You've just killed us."

Grinsa eyed him briefly before turning to Jasha. "If you're hungry you should eat now. I want to be moving before long."

"Right," the young merchant said.

Once more, Grinsa looked Torgan in the eye. "The sooner we find these merchants, the sooner we'll be heading east again, toward the Mettai woman. So I'd suggest you make peace with this decision and help us in any way you can." He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked to where his mount waited for him, leaving Torgan standing alone.

Torgan wanted to scream at the man. He wanted to pick up a rock and crush the white-hair's skull. And once more he thought of the burned osiers in his sack, and the decision he'd failed to make the previous night. He followed Jasha to where the younger man's horse stood and watched as he took out some smoked meat.

"Do you want some?" Jasha asked.

"You shouldn't have come back."

Jasha smiled and shook his head. "Right. I should have let them kill you."

"Yes, if that's what it came to, you should have let them." Torgan looked away, his eyes straying to his own mount, and to the travel sack resting beside the beast. "But it might not have come to that."

"Meaning what?"

"Nothing. Just that I can take care of myself. You might not think so, but I did pretty well for myself for a lot of years before all this foolishness began." He exhaled heavily, wondering how he had ever allowed all this to happen. He'd been the most successful merchant on the plain, perhaps in all the Southlands. He'd had enough gold to last the rest of his life, and he'd been carrying wares that could easily have doubled his fortune. Now he had nothing and spent every moment at the mercy of the Fal'Borna. And it had all happened in the span of maybe a turn, perhaps a bit more. It was enough to make his head spin. "The point is," he said, "you should have gotten away when you had the chance."

"No, Torgan. Maybe that's what you would have done, but not me." He shook his head.

"You're an idiot."

"You're welcome."

Torgan glowered at him. "Tell me about the merchants you met."

"There's not much to tell," Jasha said with a shrug. "HedFarren was reluctant to tell me anything at first, but I think in the end he realized how much was at stake, and his fear got the better of him. Actually, he reminded me of you." He said this last with his gaze lowered.

Torgan made a point of ignoring the remark. "What about the rest?"

"I didn't speak to all of them. The leader was an older man named Tegg. He was wary of me at first, but he did his best to help once he convinced himself that I didn't mean his friends any harm. And there was a woman named Ghella. She was the one who saw baskets in Lark's cart."

Torgan nodded. "I know Tegg, and Ghella, too. Tegg Lonsher, that's his name. Crusty old goat. Good enough wares, but a stubborn negotiator. I usually try to avoid doing business with him. I always liked Ghella, but she was just the opposite of Lonsher: too easy, too willing to close the deal. I always knew that I could get a good price from her, whether I was selling or buying. You don't want to do that," he said. "People always used to tell me that I was disliked, as if that was supposed to hurt my feelings or something. But the fact is, as a merchant, being liked is secondary. Chances are if you're liked it's because you're too easy. I didn't make all that gold by being friends with everyone. I did it by setting a price and sticking to it."

"Right," Jasha said.

The young merchant was merely saying it to humor him. Torgan should have been angry, but he understood. Both of them had lost their carts, their wares, and all their gold. Chances were they'd be dead before long, victims of the Fal'Borna's twisted sense of justice. And here was Torgan, dispensing advice on the finer points of trading as if they were in some Eandi marketplace. But for just that moment, thinking like a merchant again, instead of like… whatever it was he had become, he remembered what it had meant to be Torgan Plye. He felt strong and smart and wealthy, and all the other things he once had been and wasn't anymore.

"You understand," Torgan said a moment later, "that by taking us to the Horn rather than east toward N'Kiel's Span, they're condemning us. We might find Lark and Stain, but we'll never find the Mettai woman, and they'll have all the reason they need to kill us."

"We don't know that for certain."

Torgan just stared back at him, saying nothing, waiting. It didn't take the lad long.

"Maybe you're right, but I can't blame them for the choice they made. If we were in Eandi lands, and our situations were reversed, we'd do the same thing. We'd gladly let them die in order to save Eandi lives."

He couldn't argue, but that only made him angrier. "We should be able to fight them," he said. "We're just letting them do this to us. It would be one thing if we'd fought them and lost, but we haven't fought at all. We've just surrendered."

Jasha's expression hardened. "I choose to see it differently. Yes, they've threatened to execute us, but they're trying to defend their people. We don't have to think of this as a war against the Fal'Borna. We're fighting with them against this plague. We're allies in an effort to save lives."

Torgan laughed mirthlessly. "Allies? You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"And you're an ass. I imagine you always have been. I'd hoped to convince myself that there was more to you than greed and selfishness, but I was wrong." Ile took hold of his horse's reins and began to lead the animal away. "Fine then, Torgan. Fight your war. It's not one you can win, and it's certainly not one I intend to fight with you."

Torgan watched him go, his anger still building. Yes, he thought, I’ll fight any war. And I don't need your help, because I've got a weapon that even you don't know about. You don't think I can win? Just watch me.

Less than a day before, that weapon meant nothing; he'd been too weak to use it, too afraid. But now they had abandoned their search for the witch and Jasha had left him to stand alone against the white-hairs. He still trembled at the thought of killing these Qirsi, but he no longer shied from it. And that was a start.

Grinsa walked to where his sleeping roll still lay on the ground and began to gather it up. He knew that Q'Daer would have more to say about all that had just transpired, but he wasn't certain that he was ready to explain himself quite yet.

The truth was he already regretted what he had done. He had no desire to see the Fal'Borna suffer. He wanted only to find the Mettai witch, return to Cresenne and Bryntelle, and leave E'Menua's sept for good. Now he was further than ever from making that happen, and he had only himself to blame. How could he explain to Cresenne that he would be gone for another turn or perhaps longer? How could he tell her that this had been his choice, that he had volunteered to go west, after the merchants, rather than east, toward the Mettai?

And what choice did he have? The baskets were out there, and though a'laqs on the plain had managed to warn one another about the danger facing them, that hadn't saved the sept they had found a few days before. Grinsa and his companions might be the only people on the plain who even knew enough to be looking for these merchants. If they did nothing, thousands would surely die, and their wraiths would haunt Grinsa for the rest of his life; they would follow him to Bian's realm. He had to do this. He knew it with the certainty of a condemned man.

So why did he feel that he had just betrayed Cresenne and Bryntelle, the only two people in this entire land who truly mattered to him?

He carried his sleeping roll to his bay and secured it to the saddle. He sensed that Q'Daer was watching him. The Fal'Borna would no doubt start asking him questions as soon as he had the opportunity. Glancing in the man's direction, Grinsa saw that he already had his sleeping roll and was striding toward his own horse, which was grazing near Grinsa's.

Grinsa hurried to secure the saddle. Finishing just as Q'Daer reached him he nodded to the man and then led his horse away, forestalling their conversation, at least for the moment.

"I'm going to check on the Eandi," he said, looking back at Q'Daer. "We'll leave as soon as they're ready."

The Fal'Borna stared after him, a slight frown on his youthful face. "You were right about the merchant," he called. "I didn't think he'd come hack, but you were right."

Grinsa faltered in midstride, nodded without looking back, and continued walking.

He was surprised to find that the two merchants weren't together. He found Jasha standing near what was left of their fire, gazing at the ground and looking troubled. Torgan was standing by his horse still, watching the younger man from a distance.

"Are you ready to ride?" Grinsa asked.

Jasha looked up, seeming to rouse himself, as if from a slumber. "Yes."

"What about Torgan?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself."

Grinsa frowned. "What happened?"

That of all things drew a laugh from the merchant. "What do you think happened? Torgan's an ass."

Grinsa smiled. "Forgive me, Jasha, but Torgan's been an ass for a long time. What's changed?"

Jasha shook his head and stared off to the east, his smile gone, his brow furrowed. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just now starting to see how bad he is. Or maybe I've changed, and I don't tolerate it as well."

"You have to."

"What?"

"I know he's difficult," Grinsa said. "But you're the only one of us he'll talk to, and we need him if we're going to find these merchants. We need both of you. All three of us are risking a good deal by turning west instead of continuing to the east. We have to find the merchants as quickly as possible so that we can get back to hunting down this Mettai woman. So we need to work together."

Jasha didn't look pleased, but he nodded. "All right. Later, though. Please? I just need some time away from him."

Grinsa grinned and patted his shoulder. "Of course. I understand." He let his gaze slide toward Q'Daer before looking at Jasha again. "Better than you think."

The young merchant smiled.

A short while later, they were riding again, cutting northwestward across the plain. Torgan rode at the rear, as usual, with Jasha a short distance ahead of him. Grinsa led them, and Q'Daer followed just behind. Once more, Grinsa sensed that the Fal'Borna wanted to speak with him, but had hesitated to start a conversation.

For the first hour or so, that suited Grinsa. He couldn't avoid the man forever, though, and so eventually he slowed his mount, allowing Q'Daer to pull abreast of him.

"You have things you want to say to me," Grinsa said, staring straight ahead.

For a long time the young Weaver didn't answer, until finally Grinsa chanced a look at him. His expression was similar to the one Grinsa had seen on Jasha's face just a short time before. Q'Daer appeared young and puzzled and perhaps even weary. It occurred to Grinsa that as anxious as he was to rejoin his family, Q'Daer must have been just as eager to return to his home. He knew he should have realized this sooner, and he was chagrined that he hadn't.

"I'm trying to understand you," the Fal'Borna finally said. "On the one hand you fight me at every turn. You refuse to submit to the a'laq's authority. You make it clear that you don't respect Fal'Borna ways. And you make it equally clear that you wish to leave our sept as soon as you can. But then you turn around and abandon our mission-this one chance you have to win your way free of us-in order to save the lives of Fal'Borna who you haven't even met."

"Yes," Grinsa said dryly, "I've been trying to figure that out, as well."

"You're either the stupidest man I've ever met, or the most selfless."

He had to grin. "Couldn't it be both?" He glanced at Q'Daer and they shared a rare smile.

"Yes, perhaps it could. But that only confuses me more."

"It's not that hard to understand, Q'Daer. I've never hated your people, or your a'laq, or even you, despite what you might think. I just want to find a place where Cresenne and I can live and raise our daughter as we see fit. And yet, as much as I want that, I can't just let your people be killed when there's a chance that we can stop it from happening." He turned to face the man. "Doesn't that make sense? Is it really so hard to believe that I could be torn between my love of my family and my desire to save these lives?"

The Fal'Borna's eyes narrowed and he faced forward again. "You're a most unusual man, Forelander. The answer is, yes, it does make sense and yes, it is that hard to believe. In my land, clan is everything. Right now, you are the leader of a clan of three. For the moment at least, you've chosen to help my clan at the expense of your own. To a Fal'Borna-or, for that matter, a J'Balanar or a Talm'Orast or any other Southlands Qirsi-that's a strange choice to make. But it strikes me as being… noble, as well." He shook his head slowly. "I need to think about this more."

Grinsa nodded. "Of course." He started to ride ahead again, then fell back once more. "Thank you, Q'Daer."

"For what?"

"I didn't want to talk about this, but I'm glad we did."

Q'Daer started to say something, but then stopped himself, his eyes fixed on something to the north. Grinsa turned to look that way as well, and at first saw nothing.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought I saw a cart on the horizon."

They both slowed to a halt, still gazing northward. After some time Grinsa began to wonder if Q'Daer had imagined it. But then the Fal'Borna pointed.

"There." He stood in his stirrups. "They've turned. I think they're trying to avoid us."

Grinsa stood as well, and after scanning the plain for several moments finally spotted what the Fal'Borna had seen. It was little more than a dark speck in the distance and he was amazed that Q'Daer had noticed it at all, much less known what it was. But the form was definitely creeping along the horizon, angling away from them.

"A merchant?" Grinsa asked.

"Quite likely. But we should find out for certain."

Looking back at the two Eandi, Q'Daer signaled to them that they should turn to the north. And the four of them rode toward that distant dark form.