The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 18

On the seventh day of the new waxing, they came within sight of a great walled city. Its towers and battlements were made of pale stone that gleamed like hone in the late-morning sunlight, and great columns of black smoke rose from within its walls. Though Grinsa had been in the Southlands for only a few turns, and had been living among the Qirsi clans for only part of that time, he had already come to think of all Fal'Borna settlements as being like E'Menua's. Fortifications like the one in front of him belonged in the Eandi sovereignties. This city seemed to have much more in common with Yorl, along the Aelean coast, where he and Cresenne had first set foot in the Southlands, than it did with the z'kals and open paddocks of E'Menua's sept.

He had to remind himself that this city-S'Vralna, Q'Daer called it-and the lands around it had once belonged to the Eandi of Stelpana. The night before the young Weaver had been in an uncharacteristically expansive mood, and had spoken at length of the Blood Wars and the battles for control of the Central Plain.

"The Fal'Borna took it from the dark-eyes during the Blood Wars," he had said, sounding so proud that one might have thought he'd had a hand in winning the city during those battles a century and a half ago. "The Eandi once held all this land, everything west to the K'Sand. Now all of it is ours, and they hide on the far banks of the Silverwater."

The two Eandi merchants, as well as Besh and Sirj, had kept their thoughts to themselves, and before long Torgan and Jasha wandered off to sleep. Grinsa had tried to turn the conversation in a different direction, asking Besh about the history of the Mettai. But Q'Daer had interrupted, and soon after Besh and Sirj left them as well.

On this morning, though, the young Weaver kept silent, his expression grim as he eyed those clouds of smoke. Grinsa continued to gaze at the city, keeping his thoughts to himself. Even after the city came into view, the distance to the gates remained great, and it was some time before he began to notice that the walls were not as uniform as they first appeared. They had been broken in places; parts of them were blackened as if by fire; at least one of the corner towers had collapsed in on itself. It had to have been the pestilence, unless the Southlands were at war again.

"How many people live in S'Vralna," he asked, his voice low.

Q'Daer shook his head. "I don't know for certain. Three thousand perhaps. Maybe more. It's one of our bigger cities, though not as big as D'Raqor or Thamia." He raised himself up on his mount, squinting in the sun. "Damn," he muttered. He'd been chafing at their slow pace all morning, and now he glanced hack at the rest of their company. "Faster!" he shouted at them, before kicking his mount to a gallop.

Grinsa stayed with him, but he glanced back repeatedly to see that the others were following, particularly Torgan. The one-eyed merchant had been behaving strangely in recent days, even more so than usual. On the best of days Torgan was belligerent and selfish, but more recently he had retreated into a dark, brooding silence. He spoke to no one, not even Jasha, though at times he appeared to mumble to himself. Grinsa had tried to speak with the man a few times, hoping at least to find some sign of the argumentative arrogance he recalled from their earliest encounters. But the merchant said little to him, and when he did speak he was unfailingly polite, which in many ways alarmed Grinsa even more than did his silence.

At the moment, however, Grinsa was concerned more with the fate of S'Vralna and its denizens than with Torgan. The closer they drew to the city walls, the more severe the damage appeared to be. Many of the buildings within the city were made of the same white stone as the outer wall, so that closer inspection revealed breaches in many parts of the wall that had appeared whole from a distance. Vultures, crows, and kites circled over the city and occasionally great flocks of dark birds rose into the sky from within the walls, crying plaintively at whatever had driven them from their scavenging. Wild dogs prowled a short distance from the gates, eyeing the city warily.

The riders were still a good distance from the city walls when the stench reached them: the acrid smell of smoke and the sickening fetor of rotting corpses. Grinsa had feared that they would find no one alive in the city, but now he saw that there were soldiers at the gates, their weapons glittering in the sun.

"There are guards," he called to Q'Daer.

The young Weaver didn't even look at him. "I see them."

"They won't let us pass."

That drew a frown from Q'Daer, who then glanced back at the rest of their company.

"I think they will," he said after a moment. "I'm Fal'Borna; we're both Weavers. They'll be wary of the dark-eyes, but they'll let us through. And if they won't let the Eandi in, we can leave them at the gate, under their watch."

Grinsa didn't believe that it would be quite so easy, but he kept this to himself.

They slowed their mounts as they drew near the gate and then dismounted, leading their horses on foot the rest of the way. There were two men guarding the gate, both of them young. Their uniforms were stained with soot and dirt and blood, and one of them bore a dark, angry scar on his cheek that appeared to have been healed only in the last day or so.

"Who are you?" the scarred man demanded as Grinsa and Q'Daer walked toward them.

Both men had drawn their swords.

"My name is Q'Daer. I am a Weaver in the sept of E'Menua, son of E'Sedt. This is Grinsa of the Forelands. He, too, is a Weaver."

The guard looked past them to the Eandi, who had halted a short distance off. "And them?"

"Our companions," Q'Daer said. "We've been looking for merchants who are selling the cursed Mettai baskets."

The man shifted his gaze back to Q'Daer. "You're too late."

"How long ago did this happen?" Grinsa asked.

The guard eyed him briefly, but didn't answer. Eventually he faced the Fal'Borna again. "Our n'qlae, who leads us now-she instructed us to turn away strangers. She didn't say anything about answering questions."

"You're led by your n'qlae?" Q'Daer asked.

"She's… she's the only Weaver we have left."

Q'Daer exhaled through his teeth. "I would speak to her," he said. After a brief pause he added, "If I may."

The two guards exchanged a look. Finally, the scarred man nodded, and the other soldier retreated through the gate.

"What are you doing traveling with dark-eyes, Q'Daer?"

Q'Daer opened his mouth to reply, but Grinsa answered before he could speak.

"That tale is best saved for your n'qlae," he said.

The guard frowned, but he didn't argue the point. Grinsa might have been a stranger to these lands, but Q'Daer had told the guard that he was a Weaver. No doubt a soldier in a Fal'Borna army was expected to defer to Weavers at all times.

For a time none of them spoke, until Q'Daer said softly, "Here she comes."

Grinsa saw her, too, leading the young guard back through the gate. She was a small woman, with pale golden eyes, long white hair that looked windblown and matted, and deep lines around her eyes and mouth. Once, perhaps not so long ago, she might have been beautiful. Now she looked careworn and slightly mad.

"Who are you?" she demanded, walking toward them. "You're both Weavers. What do you want here?"

"We're searching for the merchants who are selling cursed Mettai baskets, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said.

"Yes, so I've been told. The merchant who sold us the baskets is dead. My husband took her life before he died."

"Who was your a'laq, N'Qlae?" Q'Daer asked. "What was his name?" She stared at him briefly, and Grinsa wondered if the young Weaver had erred in asking.

But then she said, "His name was P'Crath. I lost my daughter as well. I should be dead myself. I haven't any idea why I'm not."

"We're sorry we didn't get here sooner," Grinsa said, drawing her gaze. "But is there some way we can help you now?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Your accent is strange."

"I'm from the Forelands. I've only been in your land for a short time." She looked at the Eandi, not bothering to mask her hostility. "And them?" she asked with contempt. "What are they doing here?"

Q'Daer caught Grinsa's eye and shook his head. A warning. Under different circumstances, Grinsa would have ignored him and told the woman the truth, but not here, not on this day.

"They're merchants, N'Qlae," Grinsa said, gesturing vaguely at all four of the Eandi. "They've been helping us track those who may have been selling baskets."

"Were they selling them, too?" she demanded.

"One of them was," Q'Daer said. "But he claims he didn't understand the danger until it was too late."

"The woman said the same thing. P'Crath didn't think it mattered."

"What was her name?" came a voice from behind them.

Grinsa and Q'Daer both turned. Torgan had steered his mount a few paces closer to where they stood.

"The woman-the merchant your husband killed. What was her name?"

"I never knew," the n'qlae said, ice in her voice. "Some called her by the name of a bird."

Jasha inhaled sharply, the color draining from his cheeks.

"Lark," Torgan whispered, closing his eyes. "Lariqenne Glyse. You bastards killed Lark."

"Torgan!" Grinsa said sharply.

"Torgan Plye?" the woman said, her voice rising.

The merchant stared back at her, unflinching. "That's right."

"You've been declared an enemy of the Fal'Borna."

"So I've been told," Torgan said, his tone bitter.

"My a'laq has taken his goods and his cart, N'Qlae," Q'Daer told her quickly. "And upon our return to the sept, he's to be executed. For now, he's helping us."

Torgan's face paled, though it seemed to Grinsa that he didn't look frightened so much as enraged.

"You lament the killing of this woman you knew, dark-eye?" the n'qlae asked, still glowering at the merchant. "You think her death an injustice?"

"Yes, I do."

"Do you know how many people used to live in this city?" When Torgan didn't answer, she asked again, "Do you?"

"I have some idea," Torgan admitted. "I used to pass through here from time to time."

"There were more than four thousand," she said, her chin quivering. "Four thousand! Fewer than eight hundred survived the pestilence that your friend brought to us."

"She wouldn't have meant for it to happen," Torgan said quietly. "She wouldn't have hurt even one of you on purpose."

"I don't give a damn about what she meant to do! And neither did my husband! Three thousand of my people are dead! Someone had to pay for that! She had to pay!"

None of them spoke. Grinsa didn't so much as look at the n'qlae, and he silently begged Torgan to say nothing more. Her city had been devastated, its army no doubt destroyed, but still she held their lives in her hand. If she decided that all of them should die, there was little he and Q'Daer could do to save them. And there was no telling what she might do if she learned that Besh and Sirj were Mettai.

Which was why his heart nearly stopped beating when he heard the old man call out to her.

"My pardon, N'Qlae," he said. "But it may comfort you to know that the woman who created this curse also is dead. I… I killed her."

Q'Daer had turned his glare on the man, his blazing eyes seeming to ask, Are you mad?

But Besh kept his eyes on the n'qlae, and she took a step toward him. "What is your name?" she asked, her voice more subdued now.

"I am called Besh, N'Qlae."

"And where is your home?"

Grinsa held his breath, but Besh seemed to understand that the truth could do only so much good.

"I live to the north, in Aelea, N'Qlae."

"And you say that you killed this woman?"

"I did. She meant to kill me, and I had no choice in the matter."

She stared at him for a long time. Then, "You're Mettai, aren't you?"

"He's been named a friend of all the Fal'Borna for what he did," Grinsa told her before Besh could answer. "An a'laq to the east named him so.

What was the a'laq's name, Besh?"

The n'qlae held up a hand to silence them both. "It's all right, Forelander. I have no desire to kill him. If what he says is true, we owe him a great debt."

Grinsa exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. He had taken hold of his magic, expecting that he would need it to save Besh's life. He relaxed his hold on it now, though he didn't let down his guard entirely. The n'qlae's reassurances notwithstanding, the two soldiers had exchanged looks when they heard that Besh was Mettai, and they continued to eye him darkly now.

"You offered to help us earlier," the n'qlae said. "Was your offer sincere?"

"Of course, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "What can we do?"

"We have bodies to burn," she said. "And our city is in ruins. A few more able hands would be welcome, even if just for a few hours."

Grinsa glanced at Q'Daer, who nodded.

"Lead the way," he said, facing the woman again.

She turned and started back through the gate. Grinsa, the young Weaver, and their company followed. Besh and Sirj left their cart by the gate, after being assured by the n'qlae that it would be safe.

"How is it that a Forelander speaks for your company, Weaver?" the n'qlae asked Q'Daer, as they walked beneath the portcullises.

The young Weaver's face colored and he eyed Grinsa with obvious resentment. "He doesn't," the man said.

She nodded. "I see. Forgive me."

Emerging from the gateway into the sunlight, Grinsa faltered. Nothing he had seen from beyond the city walls could have prepared him for the amount of damage he now saw within. It seemed no building had been spared. Homes and shops lay in ruins, piles of shattered stone and wood lined the lane, the charred remains of people's lives were strewn everywhere. It appeared that some great beast had rampaged through the city streets, destroying anything and everything in sight.

The smell of rotting flesh was far stronger here than it had been outside the city, and the scavenger birds circled overhead, their shadows slipping across the roads and mounds of debris like dark, elusive wraiths. The bodies had been cleared from this lane, but Grinsa could smell the great pyres burning farther in, toward the city's marketplace.

Here and there Fal'Borna moved among the ruins, picking through the rubble for lost items, or perhaps for those dead who had yet to be found. Hearing Grinsa and the others approach, many of them looked up and watched the company pass, the expressions in their yellow eyes bleak and haunted. A great number of them appeared to be children, too young yet to have come into their power.

"So many young ones," Grinsa heard Besh say behind him.

"Yes," the n'qlae said over her shoulder. "More than half of those who survived were children, and nearly all of them lost at least one parent. Many-too many-are now orphans."

"Do you know why so many children were spared?" Grinsa asked her.

"My husband believed that the disease struck at our magic. Those who hadn't come into their power were immune. My daughter had only been wielding her magics for a few turns. If the pestilence had come to us in the Planting, rather than the Harvest, she would still be alive."

The n'qlae faced forward again, still walking, and Grinsa followed her, wanting to ask more questions, but mindful of treading on emotions that obviously remained raw.

Before they reached the marketplace, they passed a great structure of white stone that looked to be less damaged than the rest of the buildings, though perhaps only because it had been more sturdily constructed. Again, Grinsa wanted to ask what it was, but didn't want to press the n'qlae.

To his surprise, though, she gestured at the building as they walked past, and said simply, "This was our home."

Grinsa chanced a quick look at Q'Daer, who was walking beside him. The young Weaver looked much as he had the day they found the small sept that had been devastated by Lici's curse. His face was pale, and his eyes burned with fury and grief and maybe even a touch of dread, as if he were imagining what this pestilence might do if it struck at E'Menua's sept.

Past the marketplace, they turned to the west, where the destruction seemed to have been more severe and less work had been done to clean up the streets. Again, there were Fal'Borna here, young and old, many of them with cloths wrapped around their mouths and noses to protect them from the stench of the dead.

"We need help here, to find and pile the bodies," the n'qlae said. "And we also need help farther to the north."

"How long ago did all this happen?" Torgan asked, surveying the lane with obvious disgust.

"It's been more than half a turn," the n'qlae told him.

"And you're only cleaning it up now?"

"We fled the city the night… the night all this happened. My husband told us to." She turned to Grinsa and Q'Daer, eager, it seemed, to make them understand. "I had to leave him. I had to leave my daughter. I didn't-" She stopped and shook her head. For several moments she stared at the ruined buildings. "He was very wise, my husband. He told us to separate. He said we should stay apart for ten days. Only then could we risk returning to the city." She appeared to shudder. Then she shook her head, as if rousing herself from a dream. "We spent several days searching for survivors, and when we were convinced we'd found everyone, we returned here to reclaim our home."

Jasha approached Grinsa. "We shouldn't help them," he said, keeping his voice low. "At least you and Q'Daer shouldn't. You remember the village we found. There were pieces of the baskets there. Even if these people aren't carrying the disease anymore, those baskets will be. You can't go digging around in this mess. You'll kill yourselves."

"The Fal'Borna are doing it," Grinsa answered, lowering his voice as well.

Jasha hesitated. "They have no choice," he finally said.

Grinsa looked at Q'Daer, who was watching them both. "You heard what he said?"

The young Weaver nodded.

"And what do you think?"

He expected Q'Daer to dismiss the merchant's concerns and insist that they help the n'qlae and her people. But the man surprised him. "I don't know," he said. "I want to help, but he makes a good point."

"Why don't you and Jasha work together," Grinsa said. "Jasha, you do the digging. Q'Daer can clean up and carry what you've already checked through. I'll take Torgan."

"Do you trust him?" Q'Daer asked.

"I'll take the Mettai as well. I trust them."

The n'qlae had waited patiently while they spoke, but now she cleared her throat.

"Forgive us, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said. "The young merchant and I will remain here. The rest will go on with you."

"I didn't agree to that," Torgan said, sounding petulant.

Q'Daer shot him a look that should have made the man quail. "You weren't asked."

The Fal'Borna woman walked on, and Grinsa followed her with Torgan beside him and the Mettai just behind.

"What is it we're doing here?" Torgan asked, far too loudly. "And what were the three of you talking about back there?"

"We're helping these people for a short while," Grinsa whispered. "And Jasha pointed out that there might still be remnants of the baskets here, just as there were at the village we found."

The merchant's face blanched. "The Mettai baskets?" he said.

"Yes. So I need for you to go through the rubble and make certain there are none there before I handle anything."

A look of purest malice flashed in the man's eyes so suddenly and vanished again so quickly that Grinsa could easily have convinced himself it wasn't real. But he knew better. He shuddered in spite of himself.

"Sirj," he called.

Both of the Mettai men hurried forward to join them.

"Yes?" the younger man said.

"I need you to dig through the rubble for me. I can't risk finding the remnant of one of Lici's baskets."

Sirj nodded. "Of course."

"You don't trust me," Torgan said.

Grinsa shook his head. "No, I don't."

Torgan looked away for several moments. His color had returned, and he was scowling, which gave his scarred face a fearsome look. "Well, why should I be concerned for you?" he asked with quiet intensity after a few moments. "You heard what the Fal'Borna said. They're going to execute me when we get back to the sept."

"He had to say that," Grinsa whispered, eyeing the n'qlae to make certain that she hadn't heard. "You saw the way she reacted to hearing your name. Everyone here knows that you were named an enemy of the Fal'Borna, and after what's happened to them, they're probably eager for your blood themselves. Q'Daer said that to mollify her."

"I don't believe you," Torgan said. He stopped, grabbing hold of Grinsa's arm so that he had to stop, too. "You have to let me escape. You know you do. They'll kill me otherwise."

Grinsa wrenched his arm out of the man's grip. "We've been through this. I'll do what I can to keep you alive-to keep all of us alive-but you're not leaving."

A strange look came into the man's eye once more, and then was gone just as quickly. "Then maybe you're right not to trust me."

Grinsa just stared back at him, not certain what to make of his behavior.

"Here," the n'qlae said, as they stepped into yet another lane of collapsed and charred houses. A pile of bodies burned at the end of the road, feeding a great column of rank, black smoke. A few Fal'Borna worked nearby, watching the strangers with guarded expressions.

"We'll do what we can, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "We can't stay here long. We're still hoping to find other merchants who have these evil baskets among their wares. But we'll help you as long as we can."

She merely nodded and started away.

"Besh," Grinsa said, turning to the older Mettai. "I want you to watch Torgan for me. If he does anything that seems… unusual, anything at all, let me know. And if you need to use magic against him, you have my permission."

"I understand," Besh told him.

Torgan glared at each of them in turn. "Damn you all to Bian's demons."

Ignoring him, Grinsa turned to Sirj and nodded. Sirj began to dig through the rubble, pulling out broken wooden beams, half-burned blankets and pieces of furniture, and occasionally pots or pans. Grinsa sorted these things into piles, and tried to clear away some of the stone that littered the road. After only a few moments, Sirj pulled from the ruins the body of what might have been an old man. The smell was so bad that the Mettai turned away and gagged, though he managed to keep from being ill. Grinsa reached into his carry sack and pulled out an old shirt, which he tore into wide strips. He handed one to each of his companions, and they tied them around their faces. Then they went back to work.

"This is pointless," Torgan said, his voice carrying through the ruins. Several of the Fal'Borna looked up from their work.

Grinsa barely even glanced his way. "Keep quiet, Torgan."

"At least let us work, too," the merchant said. "Sitting here doing nothing… I might as well help."

"Not here," Grinsa said. "Not near me."

"Fine then. Let us go down the street." He waved a hand in Besh's direction. "Your friend here will keep an eye on me, won't you, Besh?"

Grinsa turned to the old man. "Are you willing to do that?"

Besh nodded. "Yes. I'd rather be helping, too. And I won't let him get away. I killed Lici with magic. I can kill this one, too."

Clearly he said this more for Torgan than for Grinsa. Grinsa didn't really believe the old man would kill Torgan. But the merchant scowled again and began to walk away.

"Be careful," Grinsa said, lowering his voice. "I really don't know what he's capable of doing."

"All right." Besh walked after the merchant toward the pyre.

Grinsa and Sirj returned to their grim work, and for a long time neither of them spoke other than to ask for help with a heavy object or warn each other of a splintered end of wood or a stray nail.

At midday, the bells in some of the gates rang, though not all of them. One of the Fal'Borna children working nearby explained that the other gates had been been so badly damaged that their bells didn't work anymore. Q'Daer and Jasha joined them, both of them looking weary and somber.

"We should be going soon," Q'Daer said.

Grinsa had stopped working for the moment, but Sirj did not. "They need our help," the Mettai said.

"I know they do," Q'Daer told him, his voice hard. "But it's more important that we find the other merchants and keep this from happening again."

Sirj had pulled out a long, charred piece of wood. He paused now, holding it as he stared at the young Weaver. Then he threw it on the pile of beams and nodded, exhaling heavily. "You're right."

"Where's Torgan?" Jasha asked, looking around for the other merchant.

Grinsa indicated the end of the lane with a nod. "He's down there, with Besh."

Jasha scanned the street, shading his eyes with an open hand. "Where?" Grinsa turned to look. "They were just… Damn." He started down the lane. "Come on," he called to the others. "This might take all of us."