The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 19

Besh didn't relish the idea of keeping watch on the one-eyed merchant, but with Grinsa and the others, including Sirj, busy helping with the bodies and the wreckage, he could hardly refuse. As he followed the Eandi to the end of the lane, he scanned the ground surreptitiously. With stone and dust and debris scattered everywhere, it wouldn't be easy for him to grab a handful of earth. He'd spoken bravely of using magic to control the merchant if the need arose, but if he couldn't find dirt, he wouldn't be able to do anything at all.

Torgan walked a few paces ahead of him, his head down and his shoulders hunched. He seemed to be muttering to himself, no doubt still put out by Besh's threats. The old man barely recognized himself. Only a season before he'd been in his home village of Kirayde, playing with his grandchildren and tending his garden. Now, for the second time in less than half a turn, he'd threatened someone's life. The last time he'd done it, he'd made good on his threat. Would it come to that again? Was he a killer now?

Look what you've done to me, Lici. Look what I've become.

"Is it magic that does it?" Torgan asked suddenly, his voice so low that Besh wasn't certain he'd heard him correctly.

"What?" Besh said, walking quickly to catch up with the man.

"It's like you're one of them now. You act like the Fal'Borna and like that Forelander. You said you'd kill me if you had to."

"I was only-"

"I know what you were doing. And I'm asking you if it's the magic that makes all of you like that. You have power over people, is that it? You're stronger than the rest of us, because you can conjure and the rest of us can't. Is that what makes you threaten and bully?"

Besh would have laughed had Torgan not sounded so earnest and so hurt. He had never thought of himself as a bully; he still didn't. But here was this great brute of a man-Torgan was a full head taller than Besh and he probably weighed half again as much-claiming that Besh had browbeaten him.

"Have you ever used your size to intimidate others?" Besh asked him. "Perhaps to get your way in a negotiation?"

Torgan glanced his way, though only for an instant. "Maybe. I don't know."

"We use what weapons we have," Besh said. "I'm not a big man, Torgan. And I'm probably older than you are by four fours, perhaps more. But I wield powerful magic. That's my strength. I'd be mad not to use it, wouldn't I?"

The merchant shrugged. "I suppose."

Reaching the end of the lane, they found three young Fal'Borna men digging through the rubble. All of them bore cuts and scrapes on their arms, and one of them had a nasty burn on the side of his face that he must have gotten the night the pestilence struck. It had healed somewhat, as if treated by magic. But it looked as if it still hurt, and Besh thought it likely that the man would bear the scar for the rest of his life. The three men stopped working as Besh and Torgan approached.

Off to the side, the pyre smoldered, its dark smoke still staining the sky overhead.

"We've come to help if we can," Besh said. The men stared back at him, saying nothing.

"We can do whatever you need us to do. We can dig. We can pile the things you find."

"We're searching for the dead," one of the men said, his voice flat.

"We can search as well. Or we can place the bodies you find on the pyre. As I say, we've come to help."

"We don't want you touching them," said the burned man. Torgan bristled. "Well, then-"

Besh laid a hand on the merchant's arm, silencing him.

"I understand," Besh said. "If I was in your position, and two Eandi men came offering help, I'd probably send them away, too. But we're here, and you've a grim, difficult task to complete. So perhaps we can help in some other way."

The third Fal'Borna looked at the other two, a question in his bright yellow eyes. After several moments, the scarred man shrugged.

"Fine then," he said. "You can dig over there. Call us if you find anything. Or anyone."

"We will, of course," Besh said. He started toward the ruins the man had indicated.

Torgan was close behind him. "Ungrateful bastards," he whispered. "We should have just left them to do it alone."

Besh said nothing, and soon they were fighting their way through the massive pile of shattered stone and twisted wooden beams. Almost as soon as they began to pull away some of the rubble, Besh caught the foul scent of rotting flesh. There was at least one body beneath the wreckage.

"Damn," he muttered.

"I smell it, too," Torgan said. "We should tell them."

"Not yet," Besh said. "We'll clear away what we can, but we'll honor their wishes. When it comes time to pull out the dead, we'll call them."

They continued to move away the wood and stone, saying little. Torgan, not surprisingly, was a poor worker. He rested often, pausing after every scrap of wood and every chunk of rock, and even when he did work, he did so slowly, as if refusing to exert himself. Besh kept these thoughts to himself. He didn't expect Torgan would take criticism well.

The stench from the rubble grew steadily worse as they worked. The scrap of cloth that Besh had wrapped around his face helped a bit, but his eyes were watering, and he felt ill. It took all his will to keep working, particularly with Torgan doing so much less than his share of the labor.

So it was that Torgan's whispered words caught him completely by surprise.

"This can't be good," the merchant said.

Looking up, Besh saw the two soldiers from the gate approaching from the far side of the pyre. It almost seemed to Besh that they had taken a route that would keep them away from Grinsa and the others.

"Mettai!" the scarred soldier called. He had a predatory grin on his face, as did his companion.

The three Fal'Borna looked up at that, and then turned toward Torgan and Besh.

"That's right," the soldier said, looking at the other Qirsi. "That one, the old man. He's Mettai. Didn't they tell you?"

"Mettai?" asked the young Fal'Borna with the scar. "You're Mettai?" Besh was bent over, and he straightened now, though not before he took a handful of dirt from the lane. There was a good deal of dust from the stone walls mixed in, but he thought that he could conjure with it, provided he could get his knife out. None of the Fal'Borna appeared to notice what he had done. "Yes," Besh said. "I'm Mettai. I'm also the person who killed the woman responsible for the pestilence."

The young Fal'Borna's eyes widened. "You killed her?"

"He's Mettai!" the soldier said, drawing the man's gaze. "Never mind the rest of it. Our people are under attack, and his people are the enemy."

"Your n'qlae didn't see it that way," Besh said.

The soldier shook his head. "No, but the a'laq would have. She's not our leader, not really."

"And you are?" Besh asked. "I've been declared a friend of all Fal'Borna by an a'laq on the plain. You would put yourself above that man as well?"

"Keep quiet, Mettai!" the man said. He looked down the lane back toward where Grinsa and Sirj were working. Then he pulled his sword free and waved it at a small alley off the lane. "In there. Now." He pointed his blade at Torgan. "You, too, dark-eye."

The alley appeared to be cluttered with broken stone, but it was open enough for a small group of men; a perfect place for the soldier to kill them both. But Besh noticed that the Fal'Borna was relying on his weapon, rather than on his power, and he wondered what magics the man wielded. He was tempted to pull his knife free right away, but quickly thought better of it. His best hope was to catch the Fal'Borna unaware.

He started walking slowly toward the alley. Torgan fell in step beside him.

The guard and his companion followed. "The three of you stay out here," the soldier said. "Watch for their friends."

"What are you going to do to him?" the young Fal'Borna asked.

The soldier looked at him, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer. "This is war," he finally said. "And like I told you, these men are our enemies."

"Aren't you going to do something?" Torgan asked, his voice low. "You can do magic, right?"

"Yes, I can. Get directly behind me as we walk into the alley."

"What?" Torgan asked. "Why?"

"I need my knife. If you can block me from view for a moment, I can get it free without anyone noticing."

Torgan nodded. "All right."

"Once I have it out, you'll need to get out of my way so that I can throw my conjuring at him. I'll tell you when."

"Right."

They neared the mouth of the alleyway, and Torgan fell in step behind Besh.

"Now," Torgan whispered.

Besh pulled his knife from its sheath on his belt, quickly cut the back of his hand, and gathered the blood on the flat of the blade, no small feat while walking over the wreckage of the buildings.

"After the third element in the spell, you need to get down," Besh said. "What? The third what?"

Besh didn't wait; Torgan would just have to figure it out. "Blood to earth," he said. "Life to power, power to thought." He spun around. Torgan's eyes widened and he dropped to the ground.

Too late, the Fal'Borna soldier realized the danger.

"Earth to fire!" Besh shouted. And as he said this, he threw the blood and earth at the man. Instantly, the clump of dirt changed to a ball of flame that soared toward the Fal'Borna's chest. The soldier lunged down and to the side, avoiding the attack, but his companion was not so fortunate. The fire crashed into his shoulder, the force of it knocking him to the ground.

Besh stooped quickly to grab another fistful of dirt, but before he could do anything more, the Fal'Borna's magic hit him. It was also fire, and Besh had no warning at all. Suddenly his shirt was burning, searing his arms and chest. He fell over and writhed on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames, though it was difficult to do with the debris all around him. By the time he'd managed to put the fire out, the soldier was standing over him, the tip of his sword hovering over Besh's heart. Torgan merely sat where he was, doing nothing, seemingly afraid of alerting the man to the fact that he was there. But the merchant's clothing bore burn marks as well, mostly on his left arm and shoulder. Apparently the fire magic had been directed at both of them.

"Mettai scum!" the Fal'Borna said to Besh, still menacing the old man with his blade. "Drop that knife."

Besh took a breath and said, "No," as bravely as he could, knowing what the man would do, hoping that the blow wouldn't be enough to sever his arm.

Just as Besh had expected, the soldier slashed at his forearm. Besh cried out in pain and grabbed at the wound with his other hand, which already held a fresh handful of dirt.

"I told you to drop the blade!" the soldier said.

Besh did as the man commanded, but already he was speaking the spell under his breath. He'd used this one on Lici during their first encounter and it had distracted her without killing her, which was just what Besh hoped it would do now. "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, earth to swarm."

He flung the dirt at the soldier, and as it flew from his hand it became a cloud of yellow and black hornets. Beset by the insects, the soldier dropped his sword to swat at them. He backed away, then turned and ran, the hornets following him.

"That was remarkable!" Torgan said, staring at Besh as if the old man had transformed himself into a god. "I'd heard people speak of Mettai magic, but I'd never seen anyone actually do it until now. Very impressive."

"Thank you," Besh said, still clutching his injured arm.

The merchant climbed to his feet, and helped Besh up. But the old man hadn't been standing for more than a heartbeat when pain exploded in his right leg and he collapsed to the ground again, crying out as he fell. Only after he had fallen did he realize that he'd heard the bone in his leg snap.

"I'll do the same to you, dark-eye," came a voice. "Back down on the ground. Now!"

Looking up through a haze of agony, Besh saw the other soldier approaching, the one he had burned with his fire spell, the one who, it seemed, possessed shaping magic.

Besh reached for another handful of dirt.

"Stop, Mettai! Unless you want that arm shattered, too!"

He'd been willing to risk a cut from the other man's sword. But whatever this soldier had done to his leg hurt nearly as much as what Lici had done to his hand. He stopped moving.

The soldier grinned. "That's right. Your magic might be able to do us some harm, but it's nothing compared with the power of a Qirsi." He walked to where Besh lay sprawled on the ground and kicked his injured leg. The wave of anguish that broke over Besh in that moment almost made him pass out.

"How should I kill you, Mettai? I'll give you the choice. Magic or steel?"

"Just make it quick," Besh said, staring at the ground, trying to keep from being ill.

The soldier placed the tip of his sword under Besh's chin and forced the man to look up at him. "I don't think so."

This was another way his life had changed in the last few turns, Besh thought. Not only was he threatening to kill people, but others always seemed to be looking for reasons to hurt him, to make him suffer. I'll make you a deal, he said within his mind, speaking now to the gods. Stop the torture and I'll stop the threats.

With a flick of his sword, the soldier cut his cheek, this newest pain making Besh gasp. So much for prayers, he thought.

"Who says I need to choose?" the man said. "Magic and steel will do nicely."

Besh expected at any moment to have another bone explode within him, and so at the next snapping sound he winced and shuddered. An instant later, though, he realized that this sound had been different. There'd been a metallic ring to it. Opening his eyes, he saw that the soldier still stood over him. The man's sword, however, lay in fragments at his feet, and all the soldier held in his hand was the hilt of his weapon.

"Get away from him!"

The soldier spun. Besh looked toward the entrance to the alley. There stood Grinsa, Q'Daer, Sirj, and Jasha. It was the Forelander who had spoken.

For several seconds it seemed that nothing happened and no one spoke. Then the Fal'Borna roared in frustration, and Besh understood that something had indeed been happening, but it had been beyond his comprehension.

"That's right," Grinsa said. "I'm a Weaver. You won't be using any more magic against that man. And if you don't get away from him now, I'll shatter every bone in your body."

"He's Mettai!" the man shouted, grief and rage mingled in his voice. He held up his hands, gesturing at the ruins around them. "His kind did all this to us! Don't you understand that?"

"The woman who did this may have been Mettai, but that doesn't make her his kind. Now one last time, get away from him. Or I swear I'll kill you."

The man stared down at Besh for a moment, as if contemplating whether it was worth dying if he could take Besh with him. In the end, he seemed to decide that it wasn't. He started forward toward Grinsa and the others.

Grinsa said something to Q'Daer before hurrying past the man to kneel at Besh's side. Sirj was just behind him.

"What did he do to you?" Grinsa asked. "The cuts. It looks like you've been burned, too. Your chest and arms? What else?" Before Besh could answer the man said, "Your leg. He broke your leg, didn't he?"

Besh nodded.

Without another word, Grinsa laid his hands gently on Besh's shattered leg and closed his eyes. For a moment there was a cooling sensation, as if cold water were moving over his skin. Then the pain came back, hot and intense, and Besh inhaled sharply through his teeth. And then it began to diminish, slowly at first, but more quickly with each passing moment, until at last all that remained was a dull ache.

A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on Grinsa's brow, but when he finished with Besh's leg he turned his attention to the burns on Besh's torso and arms. Eventually Besh's burns stopped hurting, and Grinsa moved his hands to the cut on the old man's arm. Finally, he healed the cut on Besh's face and sat back on his heels.

"There," he said, sounding weary.

Besh smiled. "Thank you."

Grinsa stood. "You're welcome. You probably want to rest," he said. "Really you should. But you can't. We're not going to kill this soldier, and so it won't be long before he returns with enough of his friends to make more trouble for us."

"I understand," Besh said. "And I've already sent one of his friends off. He has some hornets to get rid of, but once he does, I imagine he'll he looking for us, too."

"Hornets?" Grinsa said. "I'll look forward to hearing about that." He held out a hand to Besh.

The old man took hold of it and pulled himself up. The pain in his leg increased some once he was standing and he didn't think he'd be able to walk without support from Sirj. But he felt so much better than he had a few moments before that he didn't complain.

"Come on, Torgan," Grinsa said.

The merchant got up slowly. "What about me?" he demanded, gesturing at his burnt arm. "I need healing, too."

"And you'll be healed," Grinsa said. "Later. But for now you can walk, and we need to get going."

Before Torgan could argue the matter, a cry went out from far off. "What's that?" the merchant said, sounding frightened. "They're coming for us, aren't they?"

Grinsa frowned, looking back at Q'Daer. "I don't think-"

More cries went up. A strange sound overhead drew the gazes of all of them.

"What was that?" Jasha asked.

"Fire magic," Grinsa said.

"Why-?"

Grinsa spun toward Q'Daer. "It's another outbreak! We have to get out of here, now!"

"What do you mean 'another outbreak'?" the soldier asked.

"The pestilence has returned to your city," the Forelander said. "Go! Your people need you."

"You see?" the man said, pointing at Besh. "You see what he did? You claim he's different, but he brought the pestilence to our city again!"

"No, he didn't!" Grinsa said. "Most likely, someone came across the remains of one of the cursed baskets. That would have been enough to bring the illness back again. Besh had nothing to do with it. Now, go! Quickly!"

The soldier hesitated for just a moment, his eyes straying toward Besh. Then he turned and ran.

"This way!" Grinsa said, following the man toward the end of the alley.

The others fell in behind him, walking as quickly as they could, but clearly mindful of not leaving Besh and Sirj behind. Once clear of the alley, they paused long enough to help Besh onto one of the horses, so that he wouldn't have to walk. Then they retraced the route the n'qlae had taken through the city. Besh knew that there had to be a quicker way to the gate. That was the only way to explain the sudden appearance of the soldiers. But he didn't know the way, and he didn't want to become lost and lead them deeper into the city.

Before they reached the gate, they found their way blocked by the n'qlae and a small party of Fal'Borna soldiers. The woman looked pale and frightened, her eyes even wider than they had appeared when they first met her.

Now that they had been forced to stop walking, Besh could hear more cries echoing through the ruins. Behind them, great clouds of dark smoke billowed into the sky. Besh thought he could hear stone and wood breaking. He couldn't even begin to imagine what another full outbreak of Lici's plague would do to the city.

"Are you responsible for this?" the n'qlae demanded. She pointed at Besh and Sirj. "Did they do it?"

"No, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "They've done nothing but protect themselves from the attacks of your men."

She looked at the Mettai again, seeming to notice for the first time the marks of Besh's face, the blood and burns on his shirt. "Then how did this happen?" she asked, looking once more at Grinsa and Q'Daer.

"We think some of your people must have come across the remains of the baskets while they were digging through the rubble."

The woman appeared stricken. "After all this time, they could still sicken us?"

"It would seem so," Grinsa told her. "We know nothing for certain. But that makes the most sense."

She shook her head. "P'Crath said that we should come back here after ten days. He wouldn't have told us to return if he'd thought we would get sick."

More screams reached them, more rending of wood and stone. The company's horses reared suddenly, including the one Besh was riding. He grabbed hold of the beast's mane, barely managing to keep himself from being thrown.

"It's coming closer, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said. "You and your men should get away from here while you can."

"That's what you're doing. You're running away."

There was a challenge in the words, and for a moment none of them answered. At last Grinsa nodded. "Yes, we are. I'm sorry for your city, N'Qlae. But I won't die here. I have a family on the plain, and I have every intention of seeing them again."

"We could keep you here."

Besh felt his blood turn cold.

Grinsa, though, merely shook his head. "You don't want to do that. You have no cause to want us dead. Q'Daer's right. Your only concern now should be getting yourself and as many of your people as possible away from here."

"No," the woman said. "I fled once. I won't do it again. It seems this is the fate of S'Vralna and her people. We are to perish here."

"That doesn't have to be true," Grinsa said, pleading with her. "Your city can still have a future. You might have to start over again. You might have to raze what remains of the city and rebuild it. But you don't all have to die here!"

The woman shook her head. "You're a stranger to the Southlands. You know nothing of the Fal'Borna. I wouldn't expect you to understand." She turned to Q'Daer. "But you do, don't you? You know that this is what I have to do."

"Yes, N'Qlae," the Fal'Borna said. "I understand."

She nodded, the ghost of a smile touching her thin, lined face. "You can go," she said. "May the gods keep you safe."

Grinsa bowed to her, as did Q'Daer. A moment later the others did as well.

"Thank you, N'Qlae," Grinsa said.

They hurried past her, the sounds of suffering and death and rampant magic at their backs. Once clear of the gates, Besh dismounted and joined Sirj on their cart, while the others took to their horses and started westward, away from the city and toward the banks of the Thraedes. They didn't speak, though all of them took turns glancing back over their shoulders at the walled city, where dark smoke belched into the sky. Occasionally Besh caught sight of a spear of fire soaring above the city, but he saw no people, and as they put more distance between themselves and S'Vralna, he heard no more cries.

They rode for a long time without stopping, until Grinsa finally raised a hand to call a halt. They were near a small rill, probably a tributary to the river, and they allowed the horses to drink and graze for some time. Besh found a small rock to sit on near the stream, and Sirj soon joined him there. The younger man said little other than to offer Besh some food, which he refused. In fact, the old man noticed that none of them ate. Not even Torgan.

Grinsa approached the one-eyed merchant. "I can heal you now, if you'd like."

"Yeah. Yeah, all right," Torgan said.

Grinsa had him sit on the grass, and then the Forelander knelt beside him and placed his hands on the merchant's shoulder. After some time, Grinsa moved his hands down Torgan's arm. Eventually, he sat back, much as he had when he finished with Besh, and nodded once to the Eandi.

"Thank you," Besh heard Torgan say.

It sounded grudging and Grinsa responded with a thin smile before standing and walking away. He started toward his horse but then turned and came to where Besh and Sirj were sitting.

"How are you feeling?" the Forelander asked as he drew near.

"Tired," Besh said. "And sore. But I'm far better than I was before you healed me."

"I would hope so."

Besh grinned. "Does it make you tired to heal so many wounds in such a short time?"

"A bit," Grinsa said. "I'm a Weaver, so I tire less quickly than other Qirsi. But it's a strain."

"I would think so." He hesitated. Then, "Thank you. You saved my life before."

Grinsa shrugged. "You would have done the same for me."

Besh held his gaze. "Yes, I would have. And I will, if the need arises."

The Forelander smiled, a genuine, open smile, free of the cares that usually seemed to weigh on the man. It was a good smile, and it made Besh wonder what Grinsa was like when he was untroubled and with his family.

A moment later it was gone and the Forelander looked up at the sky, seeming to gauge the position of the sun.

"We should be moving again soon," he said. "I'm not proud to say this, but I want to put another league or two between us and S'Vralna."

"Of course," Besh said. "We're ready whenever you are."

"Thank you," Grinsa said before walking away.

"He's a good man," Sirj murmured as they watched him leave.

"He is," Besh said. He turned to his daughter's husband. "I know you're eager to go home, to see Elica and your children again. I am, too. But I don't want to leave the plain until we're certain that Grinsa and his family will be safe."

Sirj looked at him, his wild dark hair stirring in the cool wind. He nodded. "Yes, all right. We owe him that much, don't we?"

Besh smiled and put his hand on Sirj's shoulder, something he probably had never done before. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, mostly because Besh had been slow to accept that Sirj was worthy of marrying his daughter. Earlier, during their search for Lici, he finally realized that he'd been a fool to doubt him, and to doubt Elica for that matter. He should have been able to say as much, to tell Sirj that he, like Grinsa, was also a good man. In that moment, though, this simple gesture seemed enough.

He probably should have been grateful. Yes, he'd had to wait, but the Forelander had healed him eventually. And it seemed the white-hair had done an adequate job.

Riding once more, Torgan moved his shoulder and looked at the skin on his lower arm. His shoulder felt much better, and though the skin was still discolored, it wasn't tender anymore.

No doubt the others in the company expected him to be thankful that Grinsa had healed him. Besh couldn't have walked with his injuries; Torgan could. They'd needed to get away from the city as quickly as possible. Torgan knew all this, and he told himself these things again and again.

But still, he'd had to wait. He'd had to endure his pain for a long time, far longer than Besh. The only injuries that kept Besh from being able to leave the city had been the broken bone in his leg and the deep gash on his arm. Yet Grinsa had healed all of his wounds right away.

It shouldn't have bothered him; that's what Jasha would say. But it did.

To be more precise, it pointed to something that disturbed him a great deal: None in this company seemed to care whether he lived or died. Grinsa did what he could to keep Torgan alive for the time being, probably because he thought that the merchant might still help them in some way with their search for the rest of the cursed baskets. But he could tell the man didn't like him. And the rest of them spoke with unnerving frequency of killing him. Grinsa might swear that the young Fal'Borna Weaver had just been trying to mollify the n'qlae when he said that Torgan was to be executed. Torgan wasn't so certain.

The Mettai promised to kill Torgan if he tried to escape, and Grinsa and Q'Daer had said similar things in the past. Jasha seemed to have reached some sort of accommodation with the Qirsi, and Torgan could tell that Grinsa liked the Mettai. Torgan alone remained a prisoner among a company of free men.

More than ever, he now believed that his only hope for survival was to escape before they returned to E'Menua's sept. And more than ever he knew that he would have to find a way to flee on his own, without help from any of the other Eandi.

So be it.

S'Vralna had been a waking nightmare. He hoped never to see or hear or smell such horrors again. But their brief time there had also shown him beyond any doubt that the scrap of basket he still carried in the bottom of his travel sack remained a potent weapon. If the baskets in S'Vralna could bring on a second outbreak of the Mettai woman's plague, so could his. If the Qirsi riding a few paces in front of him refused to rule out killing him, he would continue to guard his secret so that he might strike back at them. He would be a fool to do less.

And Torgan Plye had never been a fool.