The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 20

She hadn't meant to come here. She hadn't realized where she was until she saw the bridge, and then it was too late to turn back. North. That's where she'd intended to go. There were more Y'Qatt settlements around the upper Companion Lakes -Porcupine and Bear. After leaving C'Bijor's Neck, Lici had every intention of finding them. Somehow, she hadn't.

She'd crossed the bridge before, after leaving Kirayde, and it hadn't even occurred to her to go back. She'd had a purpose then-it drove her, like a wolf snapping at the heels of rilda. Maybe passing by twice was too much to ask of anyone.

That was what she told herself, sitting in the heat of the Harvest sun, squinting against the glare, the day so bright it seemed to rob the land of color, leaving the grasses and rocks and the occasional tree looking stark and flat and dull. The old nag snorted and stomped her foot impatiently, but still Lici remained motionless atop her cart, unable to decide.

She was tired. The time had come for her to begin the long ride back to Kirayde. No one lived forever, not even Mettai witches. Perhaps that was why she was here. She'd never have another chance to see Sentaya. She didn't need the Sight to tell her that. Her days were nearly at an end. Vengeance was hers. Whatever purpose had sustained her in these last years was ebbing away now, leaving her grey, like the world around her. Colorless, lifeless. But when she closed her eyes and thought of Sentaya, the colors were vivid. She could taste the food and smell the wood smoke. And she didn't want any of it. Life that real, that sharp, was too much for her now. Grey suited her. Death, or the promise of it, had drawn her here, and though she was ready to embrace the ending that awaited her, she had no desire to step back into that brilliant living world that still existed in her mind. Yet she couldn't bring herself to turn away. She just sat, staring, waging war with forces she didn't quite understand. "I didn't mean to come here."

Saying it aloud was like asking the gods for leave to pass the village by, to turn around and find another way across the wash. It didn't help. The pull of the place was too strong, even for her.

She clicked her tongue and snapped the reins, and the old horse started forward, shaking her head as if to scold Lici for taking so long. Lici steered the cart across the bridge and, once she was on the other side, turned northward.

At least this time I got it right, she thought, and cackled at her cruel joke, at the poor girl who'd gotten it wrong so many years before. There were tears on her face by the time she reached the village, or what was left of it.

The houses stood just where she remembered them, shattered and charred, crumbling from years of neglect, green with mosses and vines. She reined the nag to a halt and sat, listening, shaded now, cooler. The sound of the wash, the smell of the pines.

And she was a child again, hurrying through her chores with Kytha and Baet, running to Sosli's house to see if her friend could play, tromping through the rain and snow to the small sanctuary on the eastern edge of the village. She remembered falling out of a tree near the wash when she was only six, and breaking her arm. For just an instant, she felt it again, her old, brittle bone aching with remembered pain. She could see the healer's knife glinting in the dim light of his home, the blood seeping from the scored back of his bony hand. She could feel his hands on her skin, as he probed the bone with deft, gentle fingers. The relief as her pain ebbed away, her wonder as she actually felt the bone knitting back together, his smile at what he saw on her face.

Broken bones, scrapes and cuts, even burns. These Mettai magic could mend. But not the pestilence.

If she followed the road it would take her past her old home. She held a vision of the house in her mind, clear and substantial. But sixteen fours had passed, and she was but a child when last she saw it. Who could say what it really looked like? Did she really want to know? Was there any point in disturbing memories that had served her for so long? Or was it already too late for such concerns?

Without truly intending to, without really thinking about it at all, she clicked at the horse again and started forward once more.

No, the girl within whimpered. Please. I don't want to see.

Lici ignored her. When had she become so cruel, so merciless?

At first she didn't recognize it. That small thing? That wreck of a house? But yes. That second one beyond it belonged to Sosli's family. Of that she was certain. So this one had to be hers.

Please. Get away from here.

She stared at the house, or at least what was left of it. The front door was gone-only a pair of rusted hinges gave any indication that it had been there at all. There were large holes in the front and side walls, and looking into the house, she could see bright spots where daylight poured through the remains of the roof. And like fragments of an old rhyme, recollections of this house in which she'd spent her earliest years came back to her. Some she welcomed, as she would warmth from a fire or the scent of her mother's newly baked bread. From others she recoiled, though, of course, she could hardly welcome some without accepting all.

She could hear the little girl sobbing now, but try as she might, Lici couldn't make out what she said. In another moment, the sound had vanished, replaced by distant cries and the moans of the ill and, finally, by the distant rumble of an approaching storm. She didn't need the girl to tell her what was coming, to warn her away from this place. She was desperate to flee, but the time for that had passed. If only she had listened before.

Her torch sputters with each gust of wind and hisses in the rain. She's crying, fear of the dark and the storm and the pestilence robbing her of whatever courage she might once have possessed. Her knees and shins ache from all the falls she's taken.

Still, she stumbles on, desperate now for any sign of a village or even a single house. Anything to relieve the relentless darkness of the wood.

It starts to rain harder Licaldi can hear the thunder growing nearer by the moment, growling like some great beast stalking her through the wood. She glances repeatedly at her torch. There can be no mistake: The flame is dying.

The path leads her up a steep incline, and several times she almost loses her footing. Just as she reaches the top, a bright flash illuminates the forest. Mere seconds later a clap of thunder makes the earth shudder

Suddenly, though, Licaldi doesn't care about the storm, or her failing torch, or her sodden clothes. Not far from the crest of the hill a faint light shines, half hidden by the trees, dimmed by the rain.

Licaldi breaks into a run, shouting for help and waving the torch over her head. A lone house? No. A village, larger than her own. Its houses look solid and comfortable, as if they have been built with a night like this one in mind. Most of the windows are shuttered, the doors closed. But as Licaldi continues to yell, making her way toward the marketplace, shutters and doors open, revealing white-haired men and women who peer out at her warily.

A Qirsi village! Gods be praised!

Lici shook her head and made herself look away from the house. Gazing toward the wash through a web of branches and tree trunks she could see the water sparkling like shattered glass. A flock of finches twittered and scolded in the branches overhead, and the trees whispered as a breath of wind brushed her skin.

She picked up the reins again and began to turn the cart, taking care to steer away from the house, so she wouldn't have to look at it again. It was far quicker to take the road through the village and the old marketplace, but Lici was eager now to be gone from this place. The last thing she needed was to drive her cart through the heart of Sentaya.

She was only halfway around when she stopped again.

The door is shut, the windows closed tight. Maybe, she thinks, they're all right after all.

But she knows better She pushes the door open. Utter darkness, save for the deep orange glow of embers that settle noisily in the hearth. The smell of sweat and vomit reach her and she gags.

"Mama?" she whispers through clenched teeth. "Papa?"

No answer

"Kytha? Baet?"

A glimmer of lightning brightens the house and Licaldi screams at what she sees. Both of her sisters are in their beds, their sleeping gowns and blankets soiled. Licaldi's father lies on the floor beside Kytha's bed, curled into a ball, as if too weak to make it back to his own bed. Kytha and Baet might well be sleeping, so peaceful do they look. But her father's eyes are still open, fixed on some spot on the ceiling.

Licaldi takes a step backward, turns away, and retches.

When her stomach is empty, and her throat is so sore she can barely draw breath, she goes to find her mother.

She knows just where to look. If Mama isn't in the house with Papa and the girls, she's by the stream, where she would have gone to get water for the others.

Licaldi staggers out of the house and makes her way down to the wash. Mama is lying on the bank of the stream, in much the same position Licaldi's father had been in. Licaldi hurries to her crying out "Mama, Mama!" like she did when she was small, even younger than Baetri. Baet, who'• dead.

Incredibly, her mother still lives, though only just.

"Licaldi?" her mother murmurs, as Licaldi kneels beside her

"Yes, Mama. Its me."

"Did you bring healers?"

Licaldi touches her mother's cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin is aflame. Lightning flares, and Licaldi catches a glimpse of her mother's- face. White as bone and though her eyes are open wide, it seems that they see nothing. It won't be long now.

"Did you, child?"

"Yes, Mama. I brought healers."

Mama smiles and closes her eyes. "Good girl," she says, the words coming out as soft as a sigh. "I knew you would."

"You there!"

Lici's eyes snapped up and she shuddered, as if released from a spell. Perhaps a hundred fourspans down the lane, an Eandi man sat atop a peddler's cart much larger than her own. He was far younger than she, with an ample gut and a full shock of red hair that poked out from beneath a leather wide-brimmed hat. The wood of his wagon was a pale, warm tan, and the beast hitched to the front was a large bay, fit and strong. This was a man of some means, a man who had done well for himself.

Grateful for the distraction, she smiled, and raised a hand in greeting. The man flicked his reins and the bay started forward. Lici drove her cart in his direction, so that in mere moments their carts were side by side. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, fine," she said. Too quick with her response, too much brightness in her voice. "I used to live here," she said a moment later. "Many years ago. I was just… remembering."

The man nodded. "You live nearby, then?"

"Not very, no. I've been abroad for some time now." She gestured vaguely back at her cart. "I've baskets that I've been trying to sell." She noted that his eyes strayed toward her cart. Perhaps, if he was headed in the right direction, she could interest him in some or all of her wares. "And you?" she asked, offhandedly.

He met her gaze again, and smiled. He had a handsome face, despite the fleshy chin and round cheeks. "I came this way hoping to find some Mettai goods, some Y'Qatt blankets, things of that sort. Things you don't often find in Tordjanne. But it's proving harder than I expected."

Mettai, Y'Qatt. This was why the gods had steered her back into Sentaya. This was why she had ignored the little girl. This was why she had chanced those memories, sharp enough to draw blood. She needed to proceed carefully, though. She couldn't seem too eager to be rid of so many fine baskets. And somehow, before he left with her wares, she needed to place the spell on them.

"Mettai and Y'Qatt," she repeated aloud. "You're rather particular, aren't you?"

He grinned again. "I can afford to be. Any merchant can show up in a Tordjanne marketplace with the same tired goods and make a decent profit. That's not good enough for me. I've made a reputation for myself by selling not only the finest goods, but also the most unusual." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You think me a braggart."

"You don't lack for confidence."

"I merely tell you what I know to be true. There are such merchants in these lands, as well. Surely you've heard of Torgan Plye."

Lici shrugged and shook her head.

"Well, take my word for it. If you want something on these plains, you go to Torgan Plye. And if you want something in Tordjanne, you come to me."

"And you are?"

He smiled and removed his hat. "Forgive me. Brint HedFarren, at your service."

"My pleasure, sir. I'm called Lici."

"The pleasure is all mine, kind lady. It seems you're new to the peddler's life. At least I assume so, since you don't know of Torgan. How did you come to be driving a cart so late in life?"

She gave him the same answer she'd given so many others: She wanted to see the land before she died, and so had taken to trading, using the gold she earned from selling her wares to pay for food.

"And you've managed to steer clear of the pestilence?"

"Thus far. It seems I've been fortunate."

He nodded, regarding her once more through narrowed eyes. "You're Mettai, aren't you, Lici?" he asked her at last.

"I am."

"And you say you're selling baskets?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I see them?"

She gestured back at her cart. "Of course."

He eyed her for another moment, before climbing off his cart and walking to the rear of hers. She heard him draw aside the cloth that hung over the back entry to the wagon, and she waited. Let him look at them. Let him realize what a treasure he'd found, and then let him fix a price in his head. Not too long-he'd notice if she waited longer than was reasonable-but long enough.

Finally, she climbed down out of her seat and walked to the back of the cart. Brint was merely standing there, holding a basket in each hand and staring at the others.

He glanced at her as she stopped beside him. "You made these yourself?"

"Yes. Dyed them by hand. No magic."

The man smiled. "That was my next question."

"It always is with merchants."

He nodded, examined the basket in his right hand. "You do fine work," he said after several moments. "Another merchant would tell me not to say that, but I think you probably know it already."

"Yes, sir."

He reached in and pushed a few baskets out of the way, exposing still more. "How many are there? Do you know?"

Lici shook her head.

"What have you sold them for?"

"Too little," she said, without thinking. He looked at her, and she added, "I'm not skilled in such matters. I weave baskets. That's where my talent lies." She straightened. "I've gotten two sovereigns for many of them, and have traded food and such for others."

"Two sovereigns is a good price."

"Is that what you'll pay?"

Brint laughed. "I didn't say that." He regarded the contents of her cart again with an appraising eye. "No, I won't pay two. But I would be willing to buy all the baskets you have left for one sovereign apiece."

"One is too low."

"If this were a marketplace, I'd agree with you. But it's not. I'm offering you the chance to sell every basket in your cart, right now, at a decent price."

"And then you'll turn around and make a fine profit on each one."

"That's my intention, yes. But I'll be transporting them, putting them out each morning and packing up those that are left each night. You'll have nothing to do but return to your home and count your gold. Surely that's worth something."

Once more, as in Runnelwick and C'Bijor's Neck, and every village in between, Lici sought to find the balance between striking a convincing bargain and ridding herself of the baskets. But she was tired, and this young merchant seemed the perfect tool for delivering her curse to the last of the Y'Qatt villages.

"Yes, it is," she said with a sigh. "It's worth quite a bit. But I labored over those baskets, and I can't let them go for quite so little. So here's my offer. One sovereign for each basket, plus ten more for the lot. Neither of us knows what that will come to per basket, but I'm sure you'll be making out well, and I'll feel that I got a bit more for all my work."

Brint appeared to consider this for several moments. "Very well," he said at last. "One for each basket and ten more for the lot." He started to climb into her wagon, but then stopped himself. "Forgive me. May I?"

"Yes, of course." But inwardly, she winced. He was in a hurry now- no doubt he wished to be moving on before nightfall. Lici had concluded, though, that the night would be her best opportunity to use her magic on the baskets. She could pretend to be going in his direction, but his cart was finer than hers, and his was the stronger horse. She'd never be able to keep pace with him.

He emerged from her cart a moment later with several baskets in his hands. "This is eight," he said, stepping to the back of his cart. "I'll leave it to you to keep count."

"Yes, all right."

He placed the baskets in his cart and was back in hers a moment later.

"So were you born in Tordjanne?" she asked, waiting for him to climb out again.

"Yes."

"And you live there still?"

"It's home, if that's what you mean. I can't really say that I live anywhere in particular." He crawled out of the cart again. "Eight more." "Do you have family?" she asked, watching him walk to his cart and place the baskets inside.

"I haven't a wife and children. Not yet at least." He pulled himself back into her cart. "I have brothers," he called to her. "Three of them. And my mother is still alive."

"All of them in Tordjanne, too?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He emerged again. "Ten this time. Do you know Tordjanne?"

"I've spoken of it with others. Merchants and the like. I have some sense of the land."

He nodded, stepping past her to get back into her cart. "Well, I grew up near Fairdale, on the river. My father was a woodcrafter and my mother made baskets." He came out again and smiled. "Though none were as fine as these. Ten more."

"And your brothers are merchants as well?"

"No."

He put the baskets in his wagon and climbed back into hers. She could hear him moving freely now. He'd be finished in another moment. The sun was low in the west, but not low enough. Not yet.

"So they're in Tordjanne still?"

"Who? My brothers?"

"Yes."

"That's right. I'm the only one who left the woodlands. The others followed my father into woodcrafting."

"What made you leave?"

He emerged one more time, laden with baskets. "Gold," he said. "This is the last of them. Eleven. So how many is that?"

Lici thought about this for just a moment, closing her eyes, as if tallying up the number in her head. "Fifty-three," she finally said.

Brint frowned. He put the baskets in his cart, then turned to face her. "I don't think that's right."

She made her face fall. "No? I'm afraid I've never been very good with numbers."

He shook his head, removed his hat, and raked a hand through his hair. "You might have mentioned that when I left it to you to count them." He exhaled heavily and began to count the baskets in his cart. Several moments later he faced her again. "I count forty-seven."

She took a step toward him, frowning in turn. "You're certain?"

"Quite," he said. "But you're welcome to count them yourself."

She walked to his cart and began to count, pretending to lose her place twice before finally turning to face him.

"Yes, you're right," she said, smiling. "I'm terribly sorry."

He smiled in return, though clearly it was forced. "That's all right. I believe I owe you fifty-seven sovereigns."

"Fifty-seven. That's right."

He hesitated, and immediately Lici knew why. Perhaps there was a way to do this without delaying him any further. Merchants commonly carried great sums of gold, and with road brigands quite common throughout the Southlands, they generally had several secret caches hidden within their carts. Clearly Brint was no exception to this. He would have to retrieve her payment from one of these, but he would be reluctant to reveal the location of even one of his caches, even to her.

"Perhaps you could leave me alone for just a moment?" he asked.

"And risk having you drive off with my baskets?" She shook her head. "I'm old, but I'm not a fool."

"No, of course not! I merely… I need to get you your gold. That's all.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I'm going to wait right here while you do."

The merchant made a sour face, but after a moment he nodded. He dropped to the ground and crawled under the cart.

Lici bent down too, placing her hands on the ground as if to brace herself. "What are you doing?"

"Getting some gold," he said impatiently. "Please, can I have a moment of privacy?"

"Yes, of course." Lici stood, and as she did, she grabbed a handful of dirt.

She quickly pulled her knife free, cut the back of her hand, and began the familiar chant, keeping her voice to the barest whisper. At the same time, she caught some blood on the flat of her blade and let it trickle into the earth she held in her hand.

Her spell was more complicated than most-just as it was more powerful than most. But still, she had long since committed the words to memory.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, magic to dust, dust to curse, curse to pestilence, pestilence to baskets, baskets to magic."

Saying this last, she threw her hands toward the opening to the merchant's cart. Dust flew from her fingers, dust that had been blood and dirt. It glittered briefly in the failing sunlight, before settling on the baskets. It coated them like light snowfall for just an instant, then vanished, as if absorbed into the osiers.

"I'm sorry?" Brint called to her. "Did you say something?"

"No, nothing." She licked her blade and sheathed it, then licked the back of her hand.

A few moments later, he crawled back out from beneath the cart, a small leather pouch in one hand, the back of his shirt and trousers stained and covered with dead leaves and twigs.

"Here you are," he said, handing the pouch to her. "Fifty-seven sovereigns. You'll want to count it I'm sure."

Lici didn't care to really, but neither did she wish to raise his suspicions. She stepped to her cart and poured the coins out onto the bare wood, making a quick count. Satisfied, she returned the coins to the pouch and faced him again.

"Thank you, sir. I hope the baskets bring you all the profit you seek." "I'm sure they will. The plains people always pay well for Mettai baskets."

Lici blinked. "The plains people? I thought you were heading toward the lakes."

"No, the plains."

"But there are no Y'Qatt on the plains."

"Well, there are a few. But I'm not sure I need to go looking for the Y'Qatt. Not anymore."

"But you said you were! You said you were looking for Y'Qatt and Mettai!"

He smiled, though he was looking at her strangely. "Well, I found a Mettai, didn't I? Those baskets are quite beautiful. I'm sure they'll fetch a good price in the septs of the Fal'Borna. And as for the Y'Qatt…" He shrugged. "We're well into the Harvest now. I need to be heading west and then south, back to Tordjanne. I don't want to be abroad when the Snows come."

"No! You don't understand! You have to find the Y'Qatt! Those baskets-" She stopped herself, grabbing handfuls of her silver hair. "The Y'Qatt will buy those baskets," she went on a moment later, trying desperately to sound reasonable. "They love Mettai baskets."

"I believe you," Brint said. "But I'm sure they'll sell on the plains, too. Or in Tordjanne."

"No! You can't sell them on the plains! Not to the Qirsi!"

The merchant took a step back, frowning once more. "Why not?"

She opened her mouth, swallowed. "I hate them," she said. It was the only thing that came to mind. "I don't want my baskets going to the white-hairs. The Y'Qatt-they're all right. But not the rest! You can't let the rest have them!"

"I'm sorry, but they're not your baskets anymore." He turned away and started toward the front of his cart.

Lici hurried after the man, grabbing him by the arm. "I want them back then!" She held out the pouch of coins to him. "Here! Your gold! I don't want it anymore! Just give me my baskets back!"

He pulled his arm loose and walked briskly to his horse. Lici followed and tried to push the pouch into his hand.

"Get away from me!" he said, shoving her away with one hand. She stumbled back, but quickly righted herself.

"I'll give you more gold! I have twenty sovereigns! You can have them, too!"

He scrambled up into his seat and took hold of the reins.

"All of it! I'll give you all my gold! Everything I have! Just don't take those baskets to the plains! I'm begging you!"

Brint didn't answer. Lici rushed forward and grabbed his leg, digging her fingers into his calf. "You can't go!"

"You're hurting me!" he shouted, kicking at her, trying to free himself from her grasp. His foot caught her in the chin, but still she held fast to him. He kicked her again, harder this time. She let go and fell to the ground, addled for the moment.

"I… I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. But you… What was I supposed to do?"

She shook her head, sobbing now. "Please!" she said. "Don't go! You're doing something terrible!"

He stared down at her, looking confused and scared. "I'm just a merchant. I sell and I buy. How much harm can come of that?"

"Death!" she said, her voice rising. "Death of thousands! And ruin! Entire villages destroyed!"

"You're mad!" He snapped the reins and his cart started forward.

Lici pulled her knife free and clawed at the ground, picking up a handful of dark earth. She cut a deep gash across the back of her hand and let the blood drip into the dirt she held. "Blood!" she shouted, raising her hand over her head. "Earth and power! Power to fire!" She lowered her hand and stared at the mud she held. That wasn't right. What were the words? She knew how to do this. She had just done it. "Earth to magic," she began again, raising her hand once more. "Magic to fire. Fire to… to that man." Her hand dropped to her side, and once more she began to cry. "Death!" she shouted after the merchant. "Death and ruin! I've seen it! You'll see it, too! Mark my word, you'll see it, too!"

But Brint didn't stop. Lici sat on the ground watching him drive his cart away from the village, her baskets in his cart, her curse following him like a storm cloud. How many would die? Who could say? It would carve through the Fal'Borna septs like a Mettai blade through flesh; it might even reach the J'Balanar. Her magic couldn't tell one Qirsi from another. It could kill any of them, all of them. All except the Y'Qatt, who lived to the north, near the lakes.

"You're a fool!" she shouted after the man, though he had turned a corner on the road and she couldn't see him anymore. "You don't know what you're doing!" Then she raised her face to the sky and screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was gone.

ventually she must have passed out, for she found herself lying sprawled on the ground some time later. The sun had set, and only a faint sheen of daylight clung to the western sky.

She sat up and looked around her. Darkness oozed from the abandoned houses and empty lanes, like blood from some ancient wound. An owl called from far off and some creature-a fox perhaps, or a wildcat- growled low and harsh from the brush beyond her old house.

"You lied to me."

She started at the voice, her heart pounding in her chest. A figure loomed beside her, dark, insubstantial.

"Mama?" she whispered.

"You told me that you brought healers."

"Is that really you?"

"You lied."

She peered at the form, trying to make out a face.

"I was scared," she finally said. "I'd gone the wrong way. I didn't know what else to do."

"You lied to me!" the voice said again, loud and shrill.

Even as Lici flinched away, she felt herself growing angry. She wasn't the little girl anymore. She was old and tired, and she had done far worse in the years since leaving Sentaya.

"Yes, I lied," she said, sitting up straighter. "It was too late for all of you. I told you what you wanted to hear."

"And now you've condemned thousands to a death as terrible as mine."

"He said he was going to the Y'Qatt! It's not my fault that he lied to me!"

"Isn't it?"

"No!" She launched herself at the dark form, trying to take it by the neck. But there was nothing. She was grappling with air, flailing about in the dirt and leaves. Lici stopped herself and sat up again, her chest heaving, tears on her face. "Mama?"

Nothing.

"I didn't mean it."

She heard whispers coming from nearby, and, forcing herself to her feet, she started toward them.

"Mama?" she called. "Papa?"

The whispers seemed to fade, as if to draw her deeper into the gloom.

She halted, refusing to play their game. "Baet? Kytha?"

Was that a giggle? Were they teasing her?

"Come here!" she said, trying to sound stern.

She heard them on her right now, closer to the house, and she hurried after them.

"Let me see you! Show yourselves!"

Now they were to her left. Not in the house, but on the far side of it. She strode toward them, tripped on something, pulled herself to her feet, and trod on. It was so dark. Lici could barely make out the houses and trees, and soon found herself walking with her arms outstretched, to keep from walking into anything. But the voices continued, gentle and elusive, coaxing her on. The lane was behind her and to the left. Or perhaps it was more directly to the left. She wasn't quite certain.

But there was laughter before her, not playful anymore. Mocking.

"Stand still! Who are you?"

No one answered, but Lici thought she heard footsteps on the dry leaves. Slightly to her right now, and still ahead, always ahead. Arms reaching, fingers splayed, eyes wide, sightless, straining in the dark, she followed.

He had long since crossed the bridge and had put nearly a league be- tween himself and the wash when he finally slowed, allowing his horse to graze on the long grasses. His hands still trembled, though not as they had before.

"Damn crazy woman."

The horse looked back at him for an instant, chewing loudly.

He had forty-seven baskets to sell. Fine ones-quite possibly the best he'd ever seen. He'd gotten them at a good price, and would probably manage to sell each at twice what they had cost him. That was what mattered. The rest was nothing more or less than the ranting of a mad witch.

Death and ruin. It was laughable. These were baskets, not blades or spears.

But they come from a Mettai.

He'd been searching for her people. Isn't that what he told her? Blood magic. It sounded strange and dangerous, and just slightly alluring. Selling Mettai goods, even things as harmless as blankets or baskets, was always profitable in Tordjanne. People there didn't quite believe in blood magic-most of them had never seen a Mettai. But they wanted the goods. They wanted to be able to point to something in their home and say, "That was made with blood magic." Here on the plains, merchants paid less for Mettai goods that they suspected had been made with magic rather than by hand. But in the Eandi sovereignties, especially those that were farther south, items made by magic often sold for more, simply because people there wanted to believe that they were buying something… well, magical.

But what was blood magic, really? Was there blood on these baskets? Is that what she was saying?

"She was mad," he said, scolding himself. "That's all."

Brint snapped the reins, forcing his horse into motion, though he sensed that the beast would gladly have eaten more.

He'd sell the baskets at his first opportunity. There were septs all around here and Qirsi villages along the wash. He wouldn't get as much for them in these lands as he would in Tordjanne, but he'd get enough. And then they'd be gone, and with them the memory of that old woman.

He absently rubbed his arm where she'd grabbed him. For an old woman, she had been uncommonly strong. Or simply desperate.

Fifty-seven sovereigns. He should have just done as she asked and given her the baskets back. Probably she was just deluded, but at this point he wanted nothing to do with her or her wares.

Brint was headed toward a bend in a narrow tributary of the Silver- water. He often met other Eandi merchants there to share what food they had, to speak of prices in the various marketplaces, to share tidings from other parts of the land, or simply to swap tales and sing songs. It was here that he first met Torgan Plye several years before. For all Brint knew, Torgan was there tonight. He never was sure who he might encounter at the bend, but usually at least a few merchants gathered there on any given night. And this evening was no different. Topping a small rise as the sun stood balanced on the horizon, he saw that there were already five carts in the bend, and as many figures seated around a small fire.

At first opportunity. He made the decision in that moment, with a clean conscience. Surely the woman was insane. That was why she said all the things she did. He would remember the crazed look in her dark eyes for as long as he lived. He'd recall the smell of her breath and the feel of her bony fingers digging into his arm and then his leg. That was why he couldn't keep these baskets for even one night. But for other merchants, men and women who hadn't encountered the old hag, they were simple baskets-beautiful, brilliantly made, and reasonably priced. He'd be doing them a favor, even if he did manage to turn some profit.

As he drew nearer to the bend and the merchants' fire, he recognized a few of the people there-a woman from Stelpana who was known simply as Lark, for her fine singing voice; another man from Tordjanne, whose name he'd forgotten, and Stam Corfej, who came from Aelea, but now spent more time in Qirsi lands than in the sovereignties. Good people all, successful merchants. They'd know the quality of the baskets, and they'd have no trouble selling them in the Fal'Borna septs that roamed these plains.

Stam turned at the sound of Brint's cart and raised a hand in greeting.

"If it isn't Young Red," the man called, removing his pipe from his mouth. "You'd better have food to share. We're a bit spare tonight."

Brint grinned. "I've plenty," he answered, halting by the other carts and climbing down out of his seat. "And wine, too."

Lark nodded. "Then you're certainly welcome."

"I've wares for you to see as well," Brint said. "Fine ones and at a good price."

"Offering bargains, are you?" Stam said skeptically, winking at the others. "And which one of us will be fortunate enough to be giving you gold?"

Brint pushed aside the cloth that covered the back of his cart and began gathering baskets in his hands.

"I imagine it will be all of you," he said. "There's plenty to go around."