The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 19

They were cutting southwestward, because that was really their only choice. Torgan would have given a good deal of gold to get to

Stelpana and the safety of Eandi land. But the Fal'Borna and the Y'Qatt had settlements all along the Silverwater, and he would have had to venture dangerously close to them in order to find a bridge across the wash. He also sensed that the Qirsi were watching the riverbank, knowing that the Eandi lands beyond its banks offered Torgan his best chance of escape. He knew enough of Qirsi magic and the power of Weavers to understand that their communication could be as instantaneous as thought. Torgan's only hope at this point lay to the west, and a small hope it was. He had the rivers to cross: the Thraedes and the K'Sand. And even if he managed to get across those, he'd still have to face the J'Balanar. There had been bad blood between the two Qirsi clans for centuries, but always, when faced with a common Eandi enemy, they had put aside their disputes and fought as allies. If the Fal'Borna were hunting him, and had alerted the other clans to what they believed him to have done, he was a dead man.

Jasha was with him still, his cart rattling alongside Torgan's own. The two men said little to one another, which was just how Torgan wanted it. In fact, he would have preferred that the young merchant simply leave him, abandon him to his fate, no matter what it might be. But Jasha remained convinced that they had to find the Mettai woman who had sold those cursed baskets to Y'Farl in C'Bijor's Neck, and though Torgan had tried to convince him of the futility of this search, the lad refused to be dissuaded. That was the other reason they were still in Fal'Borna land. Jasha wouldn't let them leave, and perhaps in some small way his arguments were beginning to sway Torgan. It was foolishness, he knew. And yet, how could he allow her to do to another village what she had done to the Neck, what he had helped her do to S'Plaed's sept?

Finding her wasn't worth his life, which was why they continued to head south and west, away from where they were most likely to find her. But given the chance to hand the woman over to the Fal'Borna he would have done so gladly, and not merely because it might well keep the Qirsi from killing him.

When they happened upon a sept, the two merchants kept their distance, at least long enough to find someplace where Torgan could wait, out of view, while Jasha returned to the settlement to trade his wares and, more to the point, to search for the Mettai woman. So far they had been fortunate-they had spotted the septs before they themselves had been seen. Their luck couldn't hold forever.

Torgan wondered at how quickly his life had been transformed. Only days ago, it seemed, he had been crossing the northern plains, smug in his certainty that no other merchant in the Southlands could be as comfortable as he. He could walk away from any sale; he didn't have to hurry from settlement to settlement as others did. He was known throughout the land for the quality of his goods. His was a life of ease. He would have laughed out loud had the irony not tasted so bitter. Ease? He could hardly sleep at night. Every sound in the darkness set his heart racing like a Naqbae stallion. A hundred times each day he thought he saw Fal'Borna riders in the shimmering heat, or heard war cries in the plaintive calls of a circling hawk. Yes, he was known and recognized. How many merchants of his size and race were missing their left eye? The Fal'Borna would know him-all the Qirsi would. It would make killing him that much easier. Never before had he known such fear, even in the days leading up to the loss of his eye, when he knew he was being hunted by the coinmonger's cutthroats.

"I see smoke ahead."

Torgan reined his horse to a halt, scanning the horizon. There, due south. He wouldn't have spotted the thin ribbons of smoke had he not been searching for them. The lad had keen eyes.

Jasha halted as well, stood up in the seat atop his cart, and looked around, no doubt searching for somewhere Torgan could hide while he investigated the sept. After a moment he frowned.

"There isn't much here," he said.

"Then we'll skirt the sept and continue on our way."

The young merchant's frown deepened. "What if she's there?"

"She's not, Jasha! She's probably forty leagues from here!"

Jasha continued to survey the plain, as if he might will a hollow or copse to form in that moment.

"Look," Torgan said, "she's an old woman. She can't have come this far as quickly as we have. If you're determined to find her, you should head north again. I can't, obviously. I need to get out of Fal'Borna land. But you're right to want to stop her."

Jasha regarded him coolly. "You've been trying to rid yourself of my company for days now, Torgan. What makes you think I'm going to leave you now if I haven't already?"

"Why do you stay?" Torgan demanded, flinging his arms wide. "If you think this woman is responsible-"

Comprehension struck him dumb, and for several moments he just stared at the young merchant. "You don't think it was her, do you?" he finally said, his voice low. "You probably don't even believe that she exists. You've thought it was me all along. You're not trying to find that woman; you're just unwilling to let me out of your sight."

Jasha pressed his lips thin and said nothing.

"What is it you really do when you go into these villages?" "Just what I tell you I do," the lad said. "I look for the woman."

"On the off chance that I was telling the truth?" he asked, acid in his voice.

"Put yourself in my place for a moment, Torgan. Would you have believed the story you told me? Or would you have come to the same conclusion I did, the same one the Fal'Borna have come to?"

Torgan glared at him a moment longer, then looked away and rubbed a hand over his face. Jasha was right. Of course he was telling the truth about the Mettai woman, but the tale sounded far-fetched even to him. Why should anyone else believe it?

"She's real," he said weakly. "I don't care that you don't believe me. She's real, and she's the one who did this, not me."

"In the time we've been together," Jasha said, choosing his words carefully, "I've seen nothing to suggest that you wanted to harm the Fal'Borna, or even that you have the ability to."

"But you also haven't seen anything to convince you that the woman exists."

The young merchant shrugged, conceding the point.

"So you intend to keep following me?"

"I'd think that you'd want me to," Jasha said, the hint of a smile on his youthful face. "If for no other reason than because I usually spot the septs well before you do."

Torgan gave him a sour look. "Come along then. We're going around this one."

He snapped his reins and Trili started forward. After only a few seconds, however, he realized that Jasha wasn't following. He turned to look at the merchant and saw that he was staring southward, his face ashen in the bright sunlight. He swiveled in his seat, following the direction of Jasha's gaze. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

From this distance it appeared to be no more than a cloud of dust, a wisp of brown against the golden grasses and blue sky. It could have been kicked up by a sudden gust of wind, or a small herd of rilda. But even without Jasha's keen sight, even without asking the lad what he saw, Torgan knew that it was neither the breeze nor the wild beasts.

Riders. Fal'Borna riders.

"Have they seen us yet?" he managed to ask, his mouth abruptly so dry he could barely make himself understood.

"I don't think so."

Torgan looked around, much as Jasha had done moments before, and with much the same result. There was nowhere to hide out here. He snapped the reins again, fiercely this time, and he yelled at Trili to run. To the beast's credit, she leaped forward, straining against the harness, yanking the wagon into motion. Torgan was nearly thrown to the ground, and the cart shuddered and bounced mercilessly as they rushed over the grasses and rocky soil. But at least for a few precious moments he could fool himself into believing that they were getting away.

Then Jasha shouted to him to stop. At first Torgan ignored him, but within moments the lad had caught up to him with his cart.

"Torgan, stop!" he said again. "This is folly! We can't outrun Fal'Borna riders!"

"We can try!" he shot back, though he knew Jasha was right.

"If they see you running, they'll kill you! You know they will! Your one chance is to confront them, convince them that you've done nothing wrong!"

"I've been with you for days and I haven't managed that! How am I supposed to convince the white-hairs?"

"I don't know!"

Strangely, it was this candid answer that reached Torgan and made him slow his horse.

"I don't know," the lad said a second time, slowing as well. "But you can't escape them, and if they see you making the attempt, they'll never believe anything you say."

"So you're saying I should just surrender to them."

"What choice do you really have?"

"They'll kill me."

"Chances are they'll kill both of us."

Torgan hadn't even considered the idea that Jasha might be in danger, too. But of course he was. "Do you really believe that?"

"I'm an Eandi merchant riding with another Eandi whom they consider an enemy. I'd be surprised if they didn't."

"Then why don't you run? Your horse is faster than mine." He glanced to the south again. The dust cloud had grown, and he could make out a lengthy column of riders headed in their general direction. He couldn't tell if the Fal'Borna had spotted them yet. "You can unhitch her from your cart. You might be able to outrun them. It's me they want." He'd never been one for heroism, and he wasn't quite certain why he was choosing this moment to start. Jasha had been nothing but a bother since they started traveling together, and knowing now that the lad thought him a liar and murderer, Torgan should have damned him to whatever doom the Qirsi had in mind for them.

He couldn't do it, though. He'd had nothing to do with Y'Farl's death or the tragedy that befell the people of the Neck, and whatever harm he'd brought to S'Plaed's sept had been unintentional. Still, he'd been carrying the weight of those deaths for days now. Perhaps one more shouldn't have bothered him, but it did.

"Maybe we have time to hitch your wagon to the back of mine. The Fal'Borna need never know that we were together."

Jasha actually smiled, looking older and wiser than Torgan had seen him. "They'd know, Torgan. They can track a single rilda over rock and water. They can track me on this plain. No," he said, shaking his head and facing south again. "We'll face them together. It's really all we can do."

So they sat atop their carts, watching the horsemen approach, noting the slight shift in their direction as they finally spotted the two merchants. Torgan had never been any braver than he was heroic, and as he waited for the Fal'Borna to reach him, he felt himself succumbing to a debilitating fear. He grew sweaty, his hands trembled, and his teeth chattered as if they were in the midst of the Snows rather than the Harvest. His innards turned to water, so that long before the Qirsi got there, he had to climb off of his cart, walk behind it, and relieve himself. Even after he was back on his wagon again, the stink clung to him, hanging in the air around them. Jasha, who could not help but notice, was kind enough not to say anything.

The Fal'Borna continued their advance. Torgan could make out their white hair now, tied back in tails that streamed behind them like battle flags.

"I'd be grateful if you didn't tell them that you think I've been lying," he said. "If they choose not to believe that the woman is real, so be it. But they don't need any prodding from you in that regard."

Jasha smirked, his eyes never leaving that approaching column. "I won't say a thing."

"They may ask you."

"I'll tell them that I never saw the woman, but I did see her baskets. Will that do?"

Torgan exhaled heavily. "Probably not, but perhaps it won't make matters any worse."

As the Qirsi drew nearer, Torgan thought he recognized one of the leaders. He couldn't remember the man's name, but that was far less important than his sept, and the merchant racked his brain trying to attach an a'laq's name to the face before him.

"There are so many of them!" Jasha muttered. "Eight fours at least. Maybe ten. Do you think they sent out that many for us?"

Torgan concentrated on that face, saying nothing. He was so close to remembering.

"Torgan?"

He raised a hand, to keep the lad from saying more. It was right there, at the edge of his memory…

"E'Menua!" he whispered at last.

"What?"

Torgan closed his eyes. "Demons and fire," he said. "It's E'Menua's sept."

"Who's E'Menua?" Jasha asked.

He just shook his head.

"Talk to me, Torgan. They're getting close."

Any hope he might have had left was gone now. He could hardly bring himself to speak. "E'Menua is the a'laq of a large sept that often keeps to the central plains. I should have known these riders were his."

"You've had dealings with him before?"

"Some, none that was particularly unpleasant. But he has little affection for any Eandi, be they warriors or merchants, and he's said to be a fearsome warlord." Torgan looked at the lad. "You should have run when you had the chance."

Before Jasha could respond, one of the warriors just behind the two lead riders hurled a spear toward them so that it rose in a high arc and then plunged to earth, stabbing into the ground just in front of them, exactly between the two carts. Torgan's horse reared, as did Jasha's, and both merchants fought to control their beasts.

"Damn them!" Torgan muttered. This was part of what made the Fal'Borna so dangerous. They were as skilled with weapons as any Eandi army, and yet they also wielded Qirsi magic. They were said to be fearless in battle, and merciless as well. Torgan could only assume that he had but moments left to live.

The riders came to a halt just a few fourspans from where Torgan and Jasha waited for them, stirring the dust, so that a dun haze drifted over the merchants.

"Both of you, throw down your blades!" one of the leaders said, hefting a spear of his own.

The merchants exchanged puzzled looks. Forty Fal'Borna warriors were worried about their daggers?

"Our blades?" Jasha said.

"You heard me! Throw them down now, or we'll kill you both!" There could be no mistaking the man's tone: He meant what he said. Torgan glanced at his companion again and shrugged. He pulled his old dagger from his belt and tossed it on the ground by his cart. Jasha did the same.

One of the Fal'Borna ran forward and retrieved the blades. "Now, down off your cart, Torgan Plye!"

He wanted to ask what would happen to his wares, his cart, and his horse, but he was familiar enough with the Fal'Borna to know already. His beast would be well cared for; his possessions were forfeit. Slowly, he climbed down off the wagon and stood before the Qirsi, his feet planted, his arms hanging at his side. He should have been terrified, but a strange calm had come over him. He had feared that he might weep, or that his legs wouldn't support him and he'd wind up groveling in the dirt. He did neither.

"Who are you?" the Fal'Borna asked Jasha.

"My name is Jasha Ziffel. I'm a merchant. I come from Tordjanne."

"What business do you have with Torgan?"

Jasha shrugged. "He's my friend."

"Have a care, Eandi. Do you know what it means to declare yourself friend to one the Fal'Borna have named an enemy?"

"Yes," Jasha said. "I know."

The Qirsi eyed him briefly, looking impressed. At last he nodded. "Very well. Off your cart, then."

Jasha climbed down and stood beside Torgan.

"That was foolish," Torgan said under his breath, as several of the Fal'Borna dismounted and began to search the carts.

"It was the truth," Jasha whispered back.

"No, it wasn't. We're not friends, Jasha. You think…" He stopped, casting a furtive look at the Fal'Borna leaders, who, at least for the moment, were ignoring them. "You think the worst of me," he went on, dropping his voice even further. "You're with me precisely because we're not friends. You don't trust me enough to leave me. That's some friendship."

"Do you have others?"

"What?"

"Other friends. Do you have any?"

Torgan opened his mouth, closed it again. After some time, he shook his head.

"Then, I'd suggest you accept my offer of friendship and keep your mouth shut."

"Be silent!" one of the leaders said, glaring at them.

Torgan could hear them rummaging through his wares, and none too gently.

"If you tell me what you're looking for, I might be able to tell you," he said. "And that way you won't have to destroy my goods."

One of the leaders, the one Torgan had recognized from afar, walked over and stood just in front of him. He was a full head shorter than Torgan, but the look in his eyes could have brought snow on the hottest day of the Growing season.

"Do you know why we've been hunting you, Torgan Plye?" he asked, his voice a match for those pale eyes.

Torgan held the man's gaze for as long as he could-no more than a heartbeat or two-before looking away. "I have some idea," he whispered.

"Then you should understand that I'm eager for your blood. All of us are. We're just waiting for you to give us an excuse to spill it. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded, not daring to speak.

The man stood before him a moment longer, then grinned coldly and spun away. Only then did Torgan begin to breathe again.

The Fal'Borna searched the two carts for what seemed an eternity. After some time, it occurred to the merchant to wonder if the Qirsi knew about the baskets, if they were, in fact, searching for some indication that he had encountered the Mettai woman. He didn't ask, seeing danger in the question regardless of what they knew. He remained silent, staring at the ground, waiting to die. At last, when it seemed that every item Torgan carried with him must have been broken or dented or ruined in some way, the warriors walked back to their leaders and announced that they had found nothing of significance. Torgan would have laughed aloud had he not been certain that the Qirsi would kill him where he stood.

"So, what now?" Jasha asked.

"Now, they kill us, you fool!" Torgan whispered.

But Jasha was looking at the two Fal'Borna leaders, who were approaching them.

"Now, we're going to take you back to our sept, where you'll face the judgment of our a'laq."

"You're not going to kill us?" Torgan said, without thinking.

"Not yet, Torgan Plye," the Fal'Borna said. "Not yet." He started to walk away. "The two of you will ride with us," he called to them over his shoulder. "Our warriors will see to it that your carts reach the sept."

Torgan felt someone push him from behind and glancing back, found himself face to face with a young Fal'Borna warrior.

"You're to follow the Weaver," the young man told him, his voice flat.

Torgan nodded and started walking slowly after the leader. Jasha did the same.

"We should be dead by now," the old merchant said quietly. Jasha glanced at him. "Are you complaining?"

"Of course not," Torgan said, scowling at him. "I just don't understand. You heard the leader. They think I killed all those people in S'Plaed's sept. To the Fal'Borna, that's more than enough to justify a summary execution."

"Maybe they're scared," Jasha whispered.

"Scared? You mean of me?"

"Of the pestilence. Of whatever killed the Y'Qatt. They may yet kill us, Torgan. But they're going to want to understand all of this first. That's our one hope."

It made sense, and after a moment Torgan nodded. "Then, should I tell them what I know, or would I be better off keeping it to myself?"

Jasha just shrugged. "I don't know. But choose well. Our lives are most certainly at stake."

The sun had begun to set and a bank of clouds rolling in from the west had cast a grey pall over the day when the riders finally returned. Cresenne was still working and Bryntelle remained with the other children, leaving Grinsa with little to occupy his day. He'd been in the sept for only a short time, but already he had grown bored with the leisurely life afforded him because he was a Weaver. Not knowing what else to do, and unwilling simply to sit outside the a'laq's shelter, he had wandered off, following the stream that wound past the settlement.

He hadn't gone far, though, and was already on his way back to the sept, when he heard the beginnings of the commotion raised by the war party's return. He hurried on to the middle of the settlement, where he found Q'Daer and L'Norr already speaking with E'Menua. Two Eandi men sat on mounts behind them, eyed closely by several warriors, who also remained on their horses.

One of the men was young-he couldn't have been much past his twentieth year. He had yellow hair that he wore closely shorn, and a youthful freckled face. He remained watchful, but he didn't appear particularly fearful, not like the other man.

He was older than his companion, and larger as well, broad in the shoulders and thick in his middle. As a younger man he might have been formidable, but now he merely looked ponderous. He'd lost one of his eyes years before; the scars on his face were old, brown and weathered like the rest of his skin. His one good eye, which was as dark as the ocean on a stormy day, darted about as if he wasn't certain where to look and feared everything on which his gaze lingered. Based on all he had heard earlier in the day, Grinsa guessed that this older man was Torgan Plye.

When E'Menua spotted Grinsa, he gestured for him to join their discussion. Grinsa walked to where they were standing.

"Where have you been, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, sounding annoyed. "We've been waiting for you."

"You are a Weaver in this sept. I expect you to join us in discussions of matters of such great weight."

Grinsa wasn't certain what to say. A moment before he'd been lamenting his lack of responsibilities. Now it seemed that he had some, and had been shirking them. A quip leaped to mind, but he kept it to himself.

"My apologies then, A'Laq. How may I serve the sept?"

E'Menua stared at him briefly, as if wondering whether Grinsa was goading him again.

"As you can see," he said after a moment, "we've found Torgan Plye, of whom you heard us speak earlier. Q'Daer and L'Norr searched his cart and found nothing unusual. And as of yet, none of their riders have fallen ill. We intend to question them now, before putting them to death."

Both of the Eandi paled.

"You've already decided to execute them?" Grinsa asked.

"Yes, of course. They're enemies of the Fal'Borna."

"But you don't know if they did anything wrong!"

The warriors gaped at him. Q'Daer and L'Norr eyed him coldly. Even the merchants, who had barely taken notice of him until now, were staring at Grinsa as if he had challenged the a'laq to a knife fight. But it was E'Menua's expression that told the gleaner just how seriously he had erred. His large eyes burned like coals in a fire, his cheeks had shaded to crimson, and his sharp chin quivered, as if it was all he could do to keep from striking Grinsa down where he stood.

"In my z'kal!" he said through clenched teeth. "Now!"

Grinsa didn't dare argue. He merely turned and started toward the a'laq's shelter.

"Bring them!" he heard E'Menua say. Grinsa didn't look back to see who the a'laq had spoken to, but he assumed E'Menua had given the order to the other two Weavers.

Reaching the a'laq's shelter, he stepped inside, then turned to face the entryway and waited. He didn't have to stand there for long.

E'Menua threw aside the flap of rilda hide that covered the entrance, stepped into the shelter, and struck Grinsa across the cheek with the back of his hand. Grinsa had expected him to do something of the sort, and he made no effort to block the blow. He staggered back, nearly stepping in the fire, but he managed to stay on his feet.

"If you ever speak to me in such a way again, I'll kill you! I am a'laq of this sept and you will show me the respect I am due! How dare you question me in front of my people like that!"

His cheek still throbbing, Grinsa said nothing. Best, he thought, to let the a'laq vent his anger.

"You may be new here, Forelander. You may feel that you're not one of us, that you intend to leave Fal'Borna land at the first opportunity. I don't give a damn! You will address me properly, or you'll be dealt with just the way a mutinous Fal'Borna would be. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, A'Laq. It wasn't my intention to give offense."

To his credit, E'Menua appeared to accept Grinsa's apology. "What exactly was your intention?" he asked, sounding calmer.

"I'm not really certain," Grinsa admitted. "It just seems to me that

you may not be justified in executing those men."

"They have been declared enemies of the Fal'Borna, Forelander. They-"

"A'Laq?" came a voice from outside.

"Wait out there!" E'Menua called. He looked at Grinsa again. "Once someone is named an enemy of our people, his fate is decided. It's something you'd do well to keep in mind. I have no choice in the matter. These men have to die."

"Even if they've done nothing wrong."

"Torgan brought the pestilence to S'Plaed's sept."

"So S'Plaed claims," Grinsa said. "But what if he's mistaken? What if we can prove that the merchant did nothing wrong? Is Fal'Borna justice so unyielding that it would condemn an innocent man?"

"Why do you argue so? What is Torgan to you?"

It was a fair question, one that he'd been asking himself since he first began arguing for the man's life earlier that day. "The merchant means nothing to me. But I had a friend in the Forelands, a man who committed no crime, a man who'd be dead now if Eandi justice worked as Fal'Borna justice does."

E'Menua bristled. "Are you trying to provoke me? Do you wish to see just how far I'll go in punishing you?"

"No, A'Laq. I only want to see justice done."

"The Tesserate has declared that this man and any who help him are to die. You would defy them?"

"Of course not," Grinsa said. "But why did the Tesserate decide this?" "Because S'Plaed has told them that Torgan attacked his sept with the pestilence."

"And if you were to learn that this wasn't true, wouldn't you be bound to tell the Tesserate?"

"I'd be pitting myself against S'Plaed."

"Is that worse than allowing an innocent man to die?"

"You judge us," the a'laq said darkly. "You have no right." "I'm not judging you. I'm trying to understand you."

E'Menua regarded him for some time before finally giving a small shake of his head. "You are a most difficult man, Forelander. The truth is I don't know how to answer your question. Openly opposing the a'laq of another sept, even one that has been weakened as S'Plaed's has, can be dangerous. And it may do little good. The Tesserate may not listen to me-S'Plaed has a good deal of support in Thamia. So do I, but in this matter I'd be taking the part of an Eandi."

"A'Laq?" came the voice from outside again.

"Just a moment!"

"I ask only that you keep an open mind, A'Laq," Grinsa said. "I don't wish to see any man-Eandi or Qirsi-executed without cause, and I can't imagine you do, either."

"An open mind," E'Menua repeated, looking skeptical.

Grinsa nodded.

"Very well." He looked past Grinsa to the entryway and called for the others to enter.

Q'Daer and L'Norr stepped into the shelter, each of them guiding one of the merchants by the arm. The Weavers glanced briefly at the a'laq, but then stared at Grinsa. The shelter was dimly lit, but he felt certain that the welt on his cheek showed clearly, even in this poor light. No doubt both men would delight in seeing it.

E'Menua sat at his usual spot, and gestured for Grinsa and the other Fal'Borna to do the same.

Torgan began to sit as well, but Q'Daer stopped him.

"You stand, Eandi. Both of you," he added, looking at the other merchant.

"Tell us what you did to S'Plaed's sept," the a'laq demanded. Torgan hesitated, licking his lips and looking so unnerved that

Grinsa found himself wondering if perhaps the merchant was responsible for the deaths there after all.

"I did nothing," the man said at last, his voice quavering.

"You're lying."

"No! I've done nothing wrong! I went to the Sept, I sold some wares, and I left! That's all! I swear it!"

"Why did you leave so quickly then? S'Plaed says that you were in a great rush to be away from his sept. It seems you knew some great calamity was about to befall them."

"No, it wasn't that! I had just learned…" He stopped, licked his lips again. "I had just heard… some bad tidings. I wanted to be away from there, away from everyone. That's all."

The a'laq glanced at Grinsa and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, You see? I told you he was guilty.

"Do you think we're fools, Torgan?" E'Menua asked, facing the Eandi again. "Do you think we can't tell when a dark-eye is lying to us?" "No, of course not. But I swear to you-"

"He is lying."

Everyone turned to stare at the other merchant.

Torgan looked like he'd just been slapped. "Jasha!"

"He did do something to S'Plaed's sept, and what's more, he knows exactly what happened at C'Bijor's Neck."

Torgan launched himself at the younger man. "You treacherous little bastard!" He knocked Jasha to the ground and was on him immediately, his hands around the man's throat. "This was your plan all along! You want to destroy me!"

Q'Daer and L'Norr tried to pull Torgan off the young merchant, but Torgan was far bigger than both of them, and apparently as strong as he was large. Jasha's eyes were wide, and his face was turning bright red. He clawed at Torgan's hands, but to no avail. Just as Grinsa began to fear for the young merchant's life, he heard a sharp snapping sound. Torgan let out a howl of pain, rolled off of Jasha, and clutched at his right arm.

"I can just as easily break your neck, Torgan," E'Menua said calmly. "So can every other Weaver in this z'kal. Don't make us kill you."

"You're going to kill me no matter what I do," he said, bitterly. He nodded toward Jasha, who still lay on the floor, his chest heaving. "All thanks to this snake!"

"You have to tell them now, Torgan," the younger man said, still gasping. "That's why I did it."

The old merchant looked away. "I don't know what he's talking about."

Jasha lifted himself onto one elbow. "Your only hope is to tell them everything. Believe it or not, I may have saved your life."

"Shut your mouth, whelp! My only consolation is knowing that they'll kill you, too."

"Tell them, Torgan."

The merchant clamped his mouth shut and pressed his lips thin.

"Do you know what mind-bending magic is?" Grinsa asked. Instantly, he wondered if he'd stepped in where he shouldn't have. But when he chanced a look at the a'laq, he saw that E'Menua was nodding.

"You're not Fal'Borna," Torgan said, as if seeing Grinsa for the first time.

"Answer the question," the a'laq commanded.

Torgan exhaled. "Mind-bending. Yes, I have some idea what it can do."

"In that case," Grinsa said, "I shouldn't have to tell you that we can make you tell us. You can refuse us all you like, but in the end, we'll find out all that we need to. The question is, do you want one of us using his magic on your mind?"

For a long time, Torgan just sat there, cradling his maimed arm, shaking his head. "Damn you all," he finally muttered. "Damn every white-hair in the Southlands."

"What did you do to S'Plaed's sept?" the a'laq asked again. "Nothing."

E'Menua closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Torgan-"

"Nothing that I meant to do," the merchant said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"What does that mean?"

"Start with C'Bijor's Neck," Jasha said.

Torgan glared at him, and for a moment Grinsa thought that he might attack him again. But then the merchant nodded.

"What's all this talk about C'Bijor's Neck?" the a'laq asked. "That's an Y'Qatt settlement. They're not Fal'Borna."

"No," Torgan said. "But that's where I first encountered the Mettai woman."

E'Menua blinked once. It almost seemed that until that moment, he hadn't actually believed this talk of Mettai magic. "Go on."

"She was selling baskets. The most beautiful baskets I've ever seen. Perfect weaving, colors that take your breath away. She could have gotten… well, she could have gotten anything for them. Instead, she sold them for far too little, and seemed pleased with the bargain she struck.

"I convinced the man she sold them to-a man named Y'Farl-I convinced him that he'd paid too much for them, and he sold them to me. I left the village soon after, and steered my cart westward intending to find septs where I could sell the baskets, and the rest of what I carried. But that night…" He trailed off; swallowed and shook his head. "That's when the pestilence struck, though I didn't know it at the time. It looked like… like a battle, like the village was under attack. There was fire everywhere-Qirsi fire. And smoke, and shattered houses. I didn't know what had happened. I thought maybe it was marauders. At the time, it didn't occur to me that it could be the pestilence."

He shrugged. "So I moved on, fearful of remaining near the Neck. Eventually I found S'Plaed's sept. That's where I learned of what really happened in C'Bijor's Neck. I just wanted to get away. I still hadn't considered the possibility that the Mettai woman and her baskets might have something to do with all of this. I just knew that Y'Farl was dead, and that I had missed dying myself by mere hours. So I sold the baskets at a low price and left. That night, the same thing happened to the sept. The fire again, and the rest of it. That's when I started to wonder about the woman and those baskets of hers."

He looked at E'Menua, and then at the two Weavers. Finally, his gaze came to rest on Grinsa. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't even know what I'd done until after-until I watched the sept burn."

For several moments, all of them were silent. Grinsa could hear children laughing outside. A horse whinnied, and the wind moaned in the wood holding up the shelter.

Eventually E'Menua stirred, as if shaking himself awake. "Tell us about the woman."

"No, Torgan," Jasha said. "Don't tell them anything more. Not yet." The merchant frowned. "What?"

But Jasha was already eyeing the a'laq. "What are you going to do to him? You've heard his tale. You know now that he didn't intend any harm. He bought some baskets and then sold them again. He's a merchant. It's what he does. You can't punish him for that."

"He killed half of S'Plaed's sept," E'Menua said, his voice hardening. "Now it seems that he had a hand in killing the people of C'Bijor's Neck, as well. What he's told us changes nothing."

Grinsa opened his mouth to argue, but quickly stopped himself. Instead he faced E'Menua. "May I have a word, A'Laq?"

But the a'laq shook his head. "No. Not about this. He will tell u5 what he knows of the woman, and then he'll be put to death. He is ar enemy of the Fal'Borna."

"And what of me?" Jasha asked.

"You're to be executed as well. You've ridden with him and protected him, all the while knowing what he's done. You deserve to die as much as he does."

"Dead we're of no use to you," Jasha said. "But if you spare our lives, we can help you find the woman."

The a'laq stared back at him, stony-faced. "We found you. Another sept can find the woman."

Q'Daer and L'Norr exchanged looks.

"Forgive me, A'Laq," Q'Daer said, looking as if he expected E'Menua to strike him at any moment. "But other septs might not know her. We can bring glory to your sept. Every Weaver in the Tesserate will know of you and of your warriors."

"I've spoken on the matter." His eyes flicked in Grinsa's direction. It was only for a moment, but that was enough. "These men are to die."

Suddenly, Grinsa understood. "You're doing this to punish me, not them," he said.

E'Menua glowered at him. After a moment, he waved a hand at the young Weavers. "Leave us. Take the Eandi and go. But not far. I'm not done with them yet."

They glanced at Grinsa, but Q'Daer and L'Norr did as they were told. A moment later Grinsa and E'Menua were alone once more.

"Do you want to hit me again?" the gleaner asked.

"I should."

"Then do. But don't kill those men. You know as well as I that they don't deserve execution."

The a'laq shook his head. "You have much to learn about Fal'Borna ways, Forelander." He passed a hand over his brow. "Torgan brought the pestilence to S'Plaed's sept, and for that S'Plaed has demanded vengeance. That's within his rights as a'laq."

"Even if it wasn't Torgan's intention to hurt anyone?"

"Yes, even so."

Grinsa shook his head in turn. "That's just wrong."

"You have no right to judge us." The a'laq said this quietly, without any of the anger he had shown earlier. "The Fal'Borna have lived this way for centuries. We don't need strangers from the Northlands coming here and instructing us in their notions of justice."

He was right. Grinsa could see that. The Fal'Borna lived in a hard land, one that would sometimes require hard laws. They had survived centuries of warfare, and no doubt that too had bred a certain kind of justice. Who was he to challenge traditions a thousand years in the making?

"You make a good point, A'Laq. Forgive me."

E'Menua narrowed his eyes. "I haven't known you long, Grinsa, but I understand you well enough to know that this isn't your final word on the matter."

Grinsa smiled. "No, it's not. S'Plaed may be justified in demanding vengeance, but don't you and the other a'laqs have a right to protect your people?"

"Meaning?"

"That Mettai woman is still out there. Until she's been found, no Fal'Borna is safe. And since none of you knows who she is or what she looks like, you still need the merchants."

"You're arguing as the Eandi do."

"Occasionally even dark-eyes make sense," Grinsa said with a shrug. E'Menua laughed. "Now you sound like a Fal'Borna."

"Does that mean you'll spare their lives?"

"It means," the a'laq said slowly, seeming to make his decision in that moment, "that I'll delay their executions until the woman is found. I'll even have Q'Daer heal the dark-eye's arm."

"That seems just, A'Laq. Thank you."

E'Menua had grown serious again. "Don't thank me, Forelander. Not yet. The woman is the only proof we have that Torgan and his friend are telling us the truth. If the woman is found and executed by another sept, then these men will have done nothing to prove their innocence or earn my mercy. They have to find her, which means someone from this sept has to go with them."

It took Grinsa a moment. He didn't think of himself as being from any sept, but clearly E'Menua did.

"You'd let us go?"

"Only you."

"I can't leave Cresenne and Bryntelle."

The a'laq shrugged, as if the matter were of no importance to him. "You plead for their lives. You ask me to go against Fal'Borna law. Fine then. If you truly want them spared, you must do this."

Grinsa remained stock-still, not knowing what to say.

"You'll want to think about this, perhaps speak of this matter with your… your wife. I'll expect an answer in the morning."

He could barely hear E'Menua for the roaring in his ears. If you truly want them spared… At last, he nodded, stood, and stepped outside. The sky was darkening and a strong wind blew out of the west, carrying the scent of rain. The two Weavers stood just before him, glaring at him but saying nothing. Grinsa tried to step around them, but Q'Daer moved to block his way.

"Not so fast, Forelander," the young Weaver said.

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't have time for this right now." He tried to walk past again, but Q'Daer put out a hand to stop him.

"That's too bad. It's time you started showing the a'laq and our sept the respect we're due. The a'laq has chosen to let you live, despite the way you speak to him, so I can't kill you, much as I'd like to. But I can show you what happens to strangers who challenge the authority of the Fal'Borna."

Grinsa eyed the man briefly, and then glanced at L'Norr. The other Weaver stood just beside his friend, but though he wore a hard expression, he wouldn't meet Grinsa's gaze. It seemed this was Q'Daer's fight.

Facing the first man once more, Grinsa shook his head. "You're not going to show me anything, Q'Daer. You haven't the magic and you haven't the strength." He was certain of the former, less so of the latter, but he didn't let the younger man see that. "And as I said, I won't waste time on this foolishness right now."

Q'Daer's face reddened and his hand strayed to the blade on his belt. "I should kill you where you stand!"

In the Forelands he simply would have walked away. That would have been the smart thing to do. But this was a different land, ruled by a different set of customs. And though new to the Southlands, Grinsa had already learned a great deal about Fal'Borna ways. He had the welt on his cheek to prove it.

He reached for his magic and broke the man's blade before Q'Daer could pull it free. The young Weaver's eyes widened at the muffled chiming sound of the shattered steel.

"You bastard!"

Before he could say more, Grinsa hit him, backhanded, just as the a'laq had struck him. Q'Daer staggered back a step as Grinsa had, but he didn't fall. That was fine. Grinsa didn't wish to humiliate the man; he just wanted to put him in his place.

Before Q'Daer could throw a punch of his own, Grinsa stepped past him. "I serve the a'laq, not you," he said evenly, eyeing the man over his shoulder. "And I don't take lessons from ignorant whelps. Next time I'll break more than your blade."

The two merchants were standing nearby, their eyes wide at what they had just seen. But now, as he stared at Grinsa, Torgan's expression changed, shock giving way to desperation.

"Did you save us?" he called as Grinsa walked away, still cradling his shattered arm. "Will he spare our lives?"

Grinsa glanced back at him, but he said nothing and he kept walking. When he reached his shelter, he could still hear Torgan shouting after him.