The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 5

At times it seemed to Grinsa jal Arriet that the dark clouds hanging over the plain had no end, that this chill wind bending the grasses and scything through his damp clothing would never cease. The rain had stopped for the moment-a small grace that did little to raise his spirits or those of his companions. Their days were grey monotony, their nights tense and restless.

The two Eandi merchants, Torgan Plye and Jasha Ziffel, kept to themselves, speaking in quiet tones or riding silently, side by side. What little Grinsa had seen of them prior to their departure from N'Menua's sept, had convinced him that they didn't like or trust one another. But they were prisoners now, their executions certain should this mission fail. And because their captors were Qirsi, because they were alone and friendless in Fal'Borna land, they could look only to each other for fellowship.

Grinsa and the other Qirsi, a young Fal'Borna Weaver named Q'Daer, couldn't even take that much comfort. They trusted neither the Eandi nor each other. They had clashed several times before leaving the sept-Grinsa had gone so far as to strike the man the day before they began their journey-and though they had come to an accommodation that allowed them to speak civilly to one another, each remained wary of the other.

They had been riding for six days, but they had not yet encountered any Eandi merchants, much less the baskets that supposedly had spawned the outbreak of pestilence on the plain. Nor had they seen any sign of the Mettai witch who was said to have spread this evil curse across the land. The Harvest winds were blowing. The rains were upon them. Grinsa suspected that by now those Eandi merchants who usually spent the warmer turns among the Fal'Borna would be headed back to the Eandi sovereignties. With each day that passed, his hopes of finding either the Mettai woman or the traders who had her baskets faded.

The previous night, Q'Daer had given voice to similar doubts, even suggesting that they were wasting their time and should return to E'Menua's sept.

"These winds are cold for a Hunter's Moon," he had said, his square, youthful face illuminated by their small fire. "The Snows will be coming early this year, and I have no desire to be out here when they arrive. It's time we turned back."

Both merchants had looked toward Grinsa, gauging his response, fear in their dark eyes. Certain death awaited them back at the sept. Torgan, the older man, with his hulking frame and one eye, had sold cursed baskets in a Fal'Borna settlement on the Silverwater Wash, and hundreds had died. He claimed he hadn't known that the baskets posed any danger to the Qirsi, but under Fal'Borna law he was responsible for their deaths. Jasha had done nothing, but the law of the plain was merciless and unyielding. Because he traveled with Torgan, he too was held responsible.

Grinsa had argued for both men's lives and that, in large part, was why they were out here now, searching for the Mettai woman. But that wasn't the reason Grinsa replied as he did. He had far more at stake than merely his sense of justice and his desire to save the lives of two innocent Eandi. He and Cresenne wished only to leave the Fal'Borna, to find another Qirsi clan among whom they might make a new life for themselves and their daughter. N'Menua, the a'laq, had made it clear that only if Grinsa found the Mettai witch and killed her would he and his family be allowed to leave. Otherwise they would live out the rest of their days as Fal'Borna, which meant, among other things, that Grinsa would have to marry a Weaver, for though he considered Cresenne his wife, their joining was not recognized under Fal'Borna law, which required that Weavers be joined to other Weavers.

So, when Q'Daer suggested that they go back to the sept, Grinsa made it clear that he wasn't about to end their search for the Mettai so soon.

"We told the a'laq that we'd find the baskets and the woman who made them," he said, keeping his voice low. "Once we've done that, we can turn hack."

"We don't even know where to look," the young Weaver said. "She could be anywhere!"

Grinsa glanced at the man. "All the more reason to find her. Your people are in danger, Q'Daer. That should mean more to you than a cold wind and some snow."

The Weaver cast a dark look his way. "You've never been on the plain when the Snows come, have you, Forelander?"

"No," Grinsa admitted. "I haven't."

"Then you have no right to mock me."

"I'm not mocking you, Q'Daer. I'm merely telling you that we've yet to do what the a'laq asked of us. And until we do, I'm not turning back."

That effectively ended their discussion. Grinsa wasn't certain that Q'Daer accepted him as the leader of their small company. But in the short time he had spent among the Fal'Borna, he had come to understand that E'Menua did not tolerate failure. No doubt the young Weaver knew this better than any of them. Grinsa didn't know for certain that the a'laq really wanted them to succeed in this endeavor-the man seemed to care little whether the merchants lived or died-but he was intent on keeping Grinsa in his sept. Grinsa thought it possible, even likely, that Q'Daer had been instructed to do what he could to keep Grinsa from earning his freedom. Clearly though, regardless of what Q'Daer's purpose might have been, he had yet to achieve it. That had to be why he stopped arguing for an end to their search.

Grinsa shared Q'Daer's eagerness to return to the sept. He was cold and tired; he slept poorly every night and awoke each morning thinking only of Cresenne and Bryntelle, his stomach hollow and sour, his chest aching with longing for them. Occasionally, during the night, when sleep wouldn't come, he considered using his magic to reach hack to the sept and enter Cresenne's dreams, just to be with her, to hear how Bryntelle was faring, to make certain that N'Menua was honoring his promise to keep them both safe. But this was a poor substitute for actually being able to hold his daughter and kiss the woman he loved, and it robbed Cresenne of her sleep. Most nights he resisted the urge to speak with her.

He also shared Q'Daer's frustration. Every day that went by made it more likely that others would fall prey to the Mettai curse that was sweeping across the plain. And if it truly was a pestilence, all of them were at risk, including every person in E'Menua's sept.

When they broke camp this morning, Grinsa reminded the merchants of this, not bothering to mask his impatience.

"You've probably been trading on this plain for twenty years," he said to Torgan.

The Eandi, who was saddling his mount, didn't so much as glance at him. "More."

"Fine. More than twenty. Then you must have some idea of where other merchants go this time of year."

"They go where the gold is, as always."

"And where is that?"

"It depends."

The Eandi could save themselves only by helping Grinsa and Q'Daer find the Mettai woman. Failing that, their best hope lay in stalling, in keeping to the plain long enough for them to be rescued or to escape. Like Grinsa, the two merchants were prisoners of the Fal'Borna. But despite this shared circumstance, Grinsa's interests and those of the Eandi often diverged, as they did now.

His patience running thin, Grinsa used language of beasts to make Torgan's horse rear and kick out. The Eandi jumped hack, then whirled toward Grinsa, his face reddening.

"You made her do that!"

"Yes," Grinsa said mildly. "I take it I have your attention now."

For a moment, Grinsa actually thought the man would take a swing at him. Then Torgan seemed to remember the other magics Grinsa could wield against him. He frowned, his gaze wandering, but he nodded.

"Where are we most likely to find merchants this time of year?" Grinsa asked again. "Clearly they're not on the Central Plain."

"Probably the rivers," Torgan said reluctantly. "Either the wash-"

"The Silverwater, you mean?"

"Right. Either there, or the area around the Horn."

Grinsa frowned. "The Horn?"

"It's a strip of land between the Thraedes and the K'Sand," Jasha told him. "Very fertile. Lots of cities. Many merchants pass the Snows there."

"So that would be west of here?" Grinsa asked.

Jasha nodded. "And north."

"Do the Mettai trade there, too?"

The younger merchant shrugged. "Some might. The Mettai don't usually stray far from their villages. That's why those baskets were in such demand. They're hard to find, particularly ones of such high quality."

"So, the woman's not as likely to be at the Horn," Grinsa said.

Jasha appeared to consider this. "No, probably not. She'd probably stay closer to the Silverwater. It would be unlike a Mettai to journey so far into Fal'Borna land."

Discouraged, Grinsa shook his head. "Then I suppose we should just keep to the course we've been following."

"I take it we're ready now?" Q'Daer said, in a tone that indicated he'd known all along where their conversation would lead. He was already astride his dappled grey, a rilda skin pulled tight around his broad shoulders.

Grinsa didn't bother answering. He merely mounted his bay and started riding, following the same northeastern tack they'd been on for days. In a few moments, Q'Daer had caught up to him. He could hear the merchants' horses a short distance behind.

"This is folly, you know," the Fal'Borna said. "You won't find the Mettai woman, and you probably won't find any of her baskets. This is a vast land; looking for a single person, or even a handful…" He shook his head. "You haven't a chance."

"We," Grinsa said, staring straight ahead.

"What?"

"You keep saying 'you,' as if you're not a part of this. We're in this together." He looked at the man. "I don't know what E'Menua told you to do. And if your purpose is to keep me from succeeding so that I have to remain in your sept, I don't know how I'll manage to defeat you. But I will. I've faced down more formidable men than you. So you might want to consider whether you're on the wrong side of this."

Q'Daer stared at him, tight-lipped and pale.

"You want to save your people," Grinsa went on. "I know you do. I also know that you want to be rid of me. And I'm sure you want to return to the sept as soon as possible. I want all of those things as well. If we work together, we can see that all of them happen. But one way or another, we're not turning back until we've found the woman and saved these two men from execution."

Q'Daer eyed Grinsa for another moment before facing forward once more. He looked as if he might speak, but said nothing. Grinsa thought, not for the first time, that he looked terribly young and unnerved, and utterly out of his depth.

"I know that E'Menua is your a'laq," Grinsa said after a brief silence. "But I also know-"

"Enough!" Q'Daer said. "You're right. E'Menua is my a'laq. There is no `but.' There's nothing else you can say beyond that. He is my a'laq. To us, that's everything." He shook his head, looking away again. "I wouldn't expect a Forelander to understand."

"What did he tell you to do?" Grinsa demanded.

He didn't expect that the man would meet his gaze, but Q'Daer surprised him, looking him right in the eye. "Nothing. He sent me with you to help you find the woman and the baskets, and to keep watch on the Eandi."

"And to keep watch on me?"

The man grinned, though the look in his pale eyes remained hard. "There's no need to watch you. Your woman and your child are back in the Sept. You're not going anywhere."

Grinsa couldn't really argue the point. "No, I don't suppose I am. But the fact remains we both want and need the same things, at least for the most part."

"I'm Fal'Borna, Forelander," Q'Daer said, his voice tight. "You're not. The a'laq offered you the chance to be one of us, to join our sept, commit yourself to our ways. You refused. What I want and what you want can't possibly be the same."

He knew the man was wrong, but he also knew that nothing good would come of discussing the matter further right now. He held his tongue, and they rode side by side in uneasy silence.

The wind hissed in the grasses and an occasional drop of rain darkened Grinsa's riding cloak. He could see squalls to the west, faint blurs of rain hanging from that unrelentingly grey sky, and he wondered how long it would be before he and his companions were soaked again.

They stopped at midday to eat some dried meat, drink a bit of water, and rest their mounts. As always, the Eandi took their food from Q'Daer, but otherwise kept to themselves. Though they said little to one another, it almost seemed that each took comfort in knowing that the other was nearby. Grinsa and the young Weaver ate without speaking a word. The Fal'Borna refused even to look at him. Soon they were mounted and riding once more.

A light drizzle began to fall on them, coating their clothes and saddlebags with a silvery sheen, and chilling them further. Grinsa threw a hood over his head and huddled within his cloak, staring at the ground in front of him and merely trying to stay warm. He thought of Cresenne and Bryntelle and of the many friends he had left in the Forelands; he thought of his sister, Keziah, who served in a noble court in the kingdom of Eibithar. Not for the first time, he wondered if he and Cresenne had been wrong to leave their home for this strange, hard land. He felt a sudden longing for the simplicity of his old life in Bohdan's Revel, the traveling festival in which he had once done gleanings, using magic to determine the fates of the young boys and girls of each village the Revel visited. That was where he had met Cresenne.

"Look at that!" he heard Q'Daer say.

Grinsa's eyes snapped up. The Fal'Borna was a short distance ahead of him, pointing toward the northern horizon. Looking in the direction Q'Daer indicated, squinting in the soft rain, he could barely make out some odd, dark shapes.

"What is it?" he asked.

The young Weaver shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the distant forms. "I don't know." He glanced back at Grinsa and the Eandi. "Come on." He kicked his mount into a gallop.

Grinsa did the same, looking back to make certain that the merchants were following.

Even as they advanced on the dark shapes, Grinsa couldn't make them out distinctly. Ahead of him, Q'Daer drew a thin blade from his belt. "What is it?" Grinsa called.

"I still don't know."

Grinsa nodded, though the man wasn't even looking at him. A moment later, he, too, drew his dagger.

"What's going on?" Torgan called to him from behind.

"We're not certain," Grinsa told him. "You see those shapes up there?"

"Barely," came the reply. Grinsa wondered how much the man could see out of his one good eye.

"I can see them," Jasha said. "What are they?"

Before the gleaner could answer, Q'Daer reined his horse to a halt. "Damn," he whispered. His blade hand dropped to his side.

"What, Q'Daer? What is it you see?"

"You can't make it out?" the younger man said, his voice thick. He pointed to a large clump near the front of the shapes. A blackened pole jutted from it, as if it were some great, dark beast that had been felled by a huge spear. "That's a z'kal, or what's left of one."

A z'kal. It took him a moment. The word had been new to him when they reached Fal'Borna land, and he hadn't heard it used in days. Z'kals were the temporary shelters the Fal'Borna constructed from rilda skins and wooden poles. He wouldn't have recognized this blackened mass as one, but as soon as Q'Daer pointed it out to him, he knew that the young Weaver was right. He saw as well that this wasn't the only one that had been destroyed. Far from it. Knowing what to look for, he realized that the flat in front of them was filled with the remains of shelters, as well as what once had been a horse paddock.

"I don't understand," Torgan said, his brow furrowed as he stared at the scene, clearly still trying to make out what Q'Daer had seen. "What's happened here?"

Q'Daer didn't answer.

"It looks like a sept has been destroyed," Grinsa said, quietly.

"Destroyed how?"

"We don't know yet."

Q'Daer clicked his tongue and his mount started forward again, slowly this time. The rest of them followed.

As they drew nearer to the ruins of the sept, Grinsa began to see more than just shelters and the shattered wood of the paddock. There were human remains everywhere. Many of the bodies had been charred, probably by the same fires that destroyed the z'kals, and these remained largely intact. But of others, all that was left were bones and scraps of clothing. Perhaps they had died some other way; perhaps their remains had been more appealing to the crows and vultures and kites that would have descended upon such a feast. Several wild dogs still stood amid the ruins, eyeing the riders warily, their ears laid back. A few, particularly close, bared their teeth and growled.

The Fal'Borna halted and dismounted, heedless of the animals. "Q'Daer," Grinsa said, drawing the man's gaze. "Don't touch anything. It might not be safe."

The man's eyes widened slightly and he quickly glanced down at his feet, as if expecting to find that he was standing in a cluster of Mettai baskets. He looked at Grinsa again and nodded.

Grinsa dismounted and indicated to the Eandi that they should do so as well.

"What are we doing here?" Torgan asked as he stretched his back and surveyed the carnage around them.

"We're going to search the settlement," Grinsa said.

The merchant wrinkled his nose, as if disgusted. "For what?"

"For anything that might tell us what happened to these people."

"Isn't it clear?" the man said, opening his hands to indicate the ruins. "That same pestilence has been here. And this time you can't blame me for it."

"Torgan," Jasha said softly.

"What?" the older man shot back at him. "You know they'll try to. They'll say that we destroyed this sept, too, and they'll use it as an excuse to kill us right here, without waiting to go back to E'Menua."

"Nobody's looking for an excuse to kill you, Torgan," Grinsa said, though in that moment he wondered if the man was worth saving. "Even if the baskets caused this, we know you weren't responsible. But we have to know who was. You know what these baskets look like?" he asked, shifting his gaze to Jasha.

The young merchant nodded. "I'd recognize them."

"Good. See what you can find. I'll be watching you both," he warned.

"And as you already know, I can control your animals, even from a distance. So don't try to run."

Jasha nodded again. Torgan merely scowled at both his fellow merchant and Grinsa.

Grinsa left them there and followed the young Fal'Borna. Normally, he preferred to keep his distance, but he feared that Q'Daer might become so enraged by the destruction of this sept that he would seek vengeance against the merchants, simply because they were the only Eandi there.

Q'Daer gave Grinsa a puzzled look as he approached, but he said nothing.

Together, they walked past one destroyed z'kal after another, eyeing the bones and corpses, stepping over shattered bowls, broken spears, and all other manner of debris. It looked far more like the scene of a fierce battle than it did the detritus of an outbreak of pestilence.

Fractured bones lay scattered among many of the skeletons-Grinsa couldn't he certain whether they had been shattered before or after death. Dead horses lay in what had been the paddock; several living beasts grazed near them. But Grinsa saw no evidence that any people had survived.

"Even after the a'laq told us about S'Plaed's sept, I didn't believe it," Q'Daer said, his words barely carrying over the wind. "I knew he wasn't lying, but I didn't imagine it could be like this."

"Is there any chance that this wasn't the pestilence, or whatever the Mettai woman is spreading?"

Q'Daer cast a sharp look his way, narrowing his eyes. "What else could it be?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. A battle?"

"No." The man shook his head. "No, I've seen battles. They don't look like this. Nothing has ever looked like this."

Grinsa had to agree. "I'd like to find proof."

"What do you mean? What proof?"

"A basket, I suppose. Just to see one; just to be certain."

He expected that the Fal'Borna would argue, but Q'Daer merely nodded. "All right."

They continued forward, carefully stepping through the ruins, scanning the remains of the z'kals. Occasionally, Grinsa glanced back to check on the Eandi, but neither of the merchants had made any attempt to get away. Jasha seemed intent on all that he saw around him. Even from a distance, he looked pale and very young, a pained expression on his face. Torgan was harder to read. At one point he looked up and saw that Grinsa was watching him. For several moments he stared back at the gleaner with his one good eye. Then he looked away.

"How long ago do you think they died?" Q'Daer asked.

"I don't know. Nothing's smoking. There aren't many crows or vultures left here. I'd say it's been several days, at least."

"I was thinking the same thing." He nodded toward the Eandi. "They could have done this."

"I don't think so, Q'Daer. It's been at least half a turn since they could have been this far from E'Menua's sept."

"We just agreed that this happened several days ago."

"Several days, yes. But I don't think it's been half a turn."

"You don't know that. Neither of us does. You may not want to believe that these two were responsible, but it is possible."

Before Grinsa could argue the point further, he heard Jasha call out. Both he and the Fal'Borna turned to see the young merchant gesturing frantically for them to join him. They hurried toward him, slowing as they drew near.

"What is it?" Grinsa asked.

"Part of a basket." Jasha pointed at the ground a few fourspans from where he stood.

Grinsa spotted it immediately. He felt his blood run cold, and yet he also was fascinated, unable to look away as if he had just spotted a venomous snake. It sat in a pile of blackened rubble beside yet another ruined shelter. Most of it was burned to ash, and much of the rest of it was charred. But a small bit, perhaps as large as the palm of Grinsa's hand, remained unmarked. And even Grinsa, who knew nothing of basketry, could see that when whole, this basket had been beautiful. Its osiers were straight and tightly woven, and they had been dyed brilliant shades of green, gold, and blue.

"Is that her work?" Q'Daer asked. He turned to Torgan. "Does that look like one of the baskets you sold?"

"I was never here!" the merchant said. He stood a short distance off, staring sullenly at the three of them. Grinsa wasn't even certain he could see the basket from where he was.

"I haven't time for your games, dark-eye," the Fal'Borna said. "I'm asking you if this is one of the Mettai woman's baskets."

"I know just what you're doing, and I'm not going to let you!"

"What are you talking about, Torgan?" Grinsa asked.

"He wants me to answer so that he can claim I admitted it all! And I won't do it! I've never been here, and you won't get me to say otherwise!"

Grinsa raised his hands, trying to placate the man. "He's not saying you were here, Torgan."

"Yes, he was! He asked if I sold that basket!"

Q'Daer shook his head and turned to face Jasha. "You saw the baskets, too, didn't you?"

The young merchant hesitated, his eyes flicking in Torgan's direction, as if he feared how the man would respond to his answer. "Yes," he finally said. "Briefly. I only had one; I bought it from Torgan, and I sold it that same day. But I saw others."

"And this one?" Q'Daer asked.

Again he glanced Torgan's way. "It's hard to say from such a small piece, but it looks to be the right quality." He squatted down and pointed at the basket. "See how tight the weave is? How vivid the colors are? That's good work. The Mettai baskets looked like that."

Neither of the Qirsi stepped any closer to the basket, but both nodded. It began to rain lightly. Grinsa, glancing westward, saw that the sky had darkened.

"If there's one here," Jasha went on, "chances are there are more. If I see one that's still whole I may be able to give you a better answer."

"All right," Grinsa said, checking the skies again. "Look around a bit more. But I want to be moving again soon."

"It's not like I don't care," Torgan said.

All of them looked at the man.

He shifted his weight to the other foot, clearly uncomfortable under their gazes. "I mean, I didn't want any of this to happen. I'm sorry that… I'm sorry they're dead. All these people, I mean."

For several moments, none of them offered any response, until finally Grinsa decided that someone had to say something.

"We all are, Torgan."

"Right. Of course. It's just… I really had nothing to do with this. We were never here, were we, Jasha?"

Grinsa just shook his head and started to walk away. He sensed that Q'Daer was just behind him.

"What?" Torgan demanded, his voice rising. "I said I was sorry! But there's nothing we can do to help them anymore! And I'm fighting for my life!"

"Stop it, Torgan," Jasha said.

"They want us dead! You think they're trying to help us, but they're not! The Fal'Borna see this and they have to blame someone. They want to blame me; they want to blame both of us. You watch. You'll help them find those baskets and then they'll turn around and cut your throat!"

"Damn it, Torgan!" Jasha shouted.

The two Qirsi halted and turned to stare back at the men. Jasha stood just in front of the older merchant. Torgan was the bigger man by far; nearly a full head taller. But Jasha had his fists clenched, and despite their size difference Grinsa wondered if they'd come to blows.

A moment later, though, Jasha seemed to realize that Grinsa and Q'Daer were watching. He opened his hands slowly and shook his head. Then he turned away from the man.

"Just shut up, all right?" he said over his shoulder.

Torgan glowered at the man's back and opened his mouth, as if to say more. Then he appeared to think better of it.

Convinced that the two Eandi were content simply to avoid each other for a time, Grinsa turned and started walking again.

"Do you still think he's worth saving?" Q'Daer asked.

Grinsa gave a small, rueful laugh. "I don't think this is the time to ask me.

The Fal'Borna stopped and held out a hand, forcing Grinsa to halt as well. "You're wrong, Forelander. This is the perfect time to ask." He gestured in Torgan's direction. "What you just heard; that's his truest self. And I'm asking you, is that man worth saving? Is he worth leaving your family for? Is he worth this rain and wind?"

The rain started falling harder, darkening Grinsa's cloak and breeches. It almost seemed that the gods themselves were asking the question.

"He doesn't deserve to die," Grinsa said.

"Doesn't he?"

"No. He may be an ass, but he's not a murderer."

Jasha called out again and beckoned to them.

Neither of the Qirsi even looked his way.

"It seems the young merchant knows just where to find these baskets," said the Fal'Borna.

"They weren't here, Q'Daer. You heard what Torgan said."

"Yes, I heard." The young Weaver regarded Grinsa briefly, the rain soaking his long hair and running down his face. "I've heard talk about you Forelander. I know that you had Eandi friends back in your old home. That may be why you trust these men as you do. But I assure you, the dark-eyes of the Southlands are demons. They're not to be trusted. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."

He started toward Jasha before Grinsa could answer. Grinsa wasn't sure what he would have said if the Weaver had waited.

Damn them all! Torgan thought, his rage threatening to spill over into violence. In that moment he wasn't sure who he hated more: Jasha or the Qirsi.

He'd had enough of the white-hairs and their suspicions, their certainty that he was a monster. Yes, he had sold the Mettai woman's baskets, but he hadn't known what they would do. He'd tried to explain this countless times-first to E'Menua and later to these two-and still they didn't believe him. They thought him a monster and worse. Sure, he hated the Qirsi. Who among his people didn't? But that didn't mean that he would do… this. He looked around him, at the burned shelters, at the bones of the dead, and he shuddered.

And Jasha! Who was that whelp to tell him when he could speak and when he couldn't? There had been a time-could it have been only a turn before?-when Torgan had been the wealthiest, most famous merchant in all the land, and Jasha had been little more than a common peddler, trading wares of questionable value and eking out meager profits. He made as much gold in a day as Jasha made in half a turn. And now Jasha was telling him to shut up? Torgan should have throttled the little bastard when he had the chance.

This search of theirs was futile. Not that they couldn't find the Mettai woman-it seemed unlikely that they would, but he supposed that it was possible. No, the futility of it lay in the fact that all hinged on the Fal'Borna keeping their word. Even now, the Qirsi were using them, getting Jasha to search through the ruins for baskets as if he were a hound. They'd let the merchants lead them to the Mettai woman, just as they had agreed. And then they'd execute them anyway. That was the Qirsi way. Torgan had thought that maybe this white-hair from the Forelands was different, but now he knew better. They were all the same, no matter their clan, or their homeland.

The worst part of it was that poor Jasha was making it easy for them, being as trusting as a pup.

Well, Torgan had no intention of following along. He'd save Jasha if he could, but he wasn't going to risk his life for the young fool. But how to get away?

It came to him suddenly, and he felt his knees give way, so that it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He'd never done such a thing before. True, he had brought this white-hair plague to C'Bijor's Neck and S'Plaed's sept, but he hadn't done it on purpose. He'd been selling baskets, trying to make some gold, doing what all merchants do. He hadn't known that hundreds would die until it was too late to save even one of them.

But this was different. This was murder.

No, a voice said in his mind. This is war. They're holding you against your will. They intend to execute you for crimes you didn't commit. You're defending yourself.

He couldn't bring himself to move. Jasha had wandered off a ways, and was scanning the ground for more baskets. The white-hairs had walked away and were speaking in low tones, probably about him, about how much longer they would keep him alive.

The rain began to fall harder, but Torgan stood there, staring down at it: his hope, his weapon, his freedom. If only he had the courage to reach clown and take hold of it.

Jasha called out. He waved the Qirsi over to where he stood. Another basket, no doubt. Probably there were several of them here.

The white-hairs started in Jasha's direction, ignoring Torgan for the moment. This was his chance. And yet he didn't move.

It's murder.

It's the only way.

It might not even work. Who was to say how long such a thing could last? But he watched the Qirsi walk to Jasha. The young merchant bent down to look at this newest discovery. He said something that Torgan couldn't hear and he pointed. The Qirsi looked, they nodded. But they had halted two or three strides shy of Jasha, and they continued to keep their distance. They didn't squat down. They certainly didn't get close enough to touch it. They still feared the Mettai woman's magic.

And so at last, while his three companions spoke among themselves and looked at this new basket, Torgan bent down quickly and picked up the first scrap of basket they had seen. He straightened, slipping the burned osiers into his pocket. It couldn't have taken him more than a moment, a heartbeat or two, and it was done. The others didn't notice a thing.

He walked over to them, keeping his trembling hands in his pockets. Jasha looked up at him as he approached and nodded at the basket they'd found. This one was nearly whole. It had been dyed in earth tones and it had a long, curved handle. It was as fine a basket as Torgan had ever seen; it had to have been made by that Mettai witch he'd seen in the Neck.

"What do you think?" Jasha asked.

"It's her work," Torgan said. "I'm sure of it."

The Forelander looked Torgan in the eye. "Thank you." He turned to the Fal'Borna. "At least we know we're heading in the right direction."

Q'Daer didn't seem pleased, but he nodded and started back toward the horses. "Then let's get going. If I'm going to be out here in the rain, I'd rather be getting somewhere."

The rest of them followed the man, Torgan bringing up the rear. He was still shaking, even as his fingers caressed the osiers hidden within in his coat. He felt sick to his stomach, as if the woman's plague was making him ill. He had to fight an urge to throw the basket back onto the ground.

I don't have to do it, he told himself, trying to ease his nerves. Not yet; not ever, if that's what I decide. But at least now I know that I can.

This thought calmed him. By the time he reached his mount, he felt composed enough to pull his hands from his pockets and reach for the pommel of his saddle. As he climbed onto his horse, he realized that for the first time since being captured by the Fal'Borna, he had some hope of getting away.