The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 23

Wake up, Forelander."

Grinsa felt himself being shaken and he tried to shrug off the hand gripping his bad shoulder.

"Forelander! Grinsa! Wake up! Now!"

He opened his eyes. The sky above him was still dark. A few bright stars shone through a thin layer of clouds, which glowed with a faint pink hue from the setting moons.

It took him a moment, but he recognized the shadowy figure beside him as Q'Daer.

"What is it?" he asked, blinking his eyes, trying to force himself awake. "What's happened?"

"I've just spoken with the a'laq," the young Weaver told him. "We have to turn back. We have to return to the sept."

"Why?" Abruptly he was very much awake. "Are Cresenne and Bryntelle all right?"

"They're fine. But an Eandi army is marching this way." He appeared to glance back over his shoulder. "And it seems there are Mettai with them. War is coming to the plain."

"Demons and fire," Grinsa muttered. "E'Menua is certain of this?"

"Yes. He was contacted by another a'laq, who had heard it directly from the a'laq in Lowna, a village to the east. We don't know if the dark-eyes have crossed the Silverwater yet, but it's only a matter of time. The a'laq wants us back in the sept before the invaders reach them. And I want to be there, too."

Grinsa nodded. He still didn't think of himself as Fal'Borna, but his family was living in E'Menua's sept, and he had every intention of protecting them. "All right." He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.

"What should we do about the Mettai?" Q'Daer asked, looking back toward their cart again.

Grinsa hesitated. He trusted Besh and Sirj more than he did any of his other companions, including Q'Daer. But if there really was a war coming, and if the Mettai had allied themselves with the sovereignties, he might have to rethink that trust. Just as he was ready to fight alongside the Fal'Borna, Besh and Sirj would no doubt choose to fight with their people.

"Forelander?" the Fal'Borna said.

"I don't know, Q'Daer. Everything they've done so far tells me that we have nothing to fear from them. But if all this is true…"

"I… I didn't tell the a'laq that we were traveling with Mettai," Q'Daer told him, gazing off to the east, where the sky was beginning to lighten. "If I had, he would have insisted that I kill them, or at the very least take them as prisoners. But since I didn't…" He shrugged. "If you think it best to let them go, we can do that."

Grinsa stared at the man, not bothering to conceal his surprise. "Why did you do that?" he finally asked.

Q'Daer shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. "As you say, all that they've done to this point tells me that they're not our enemy. I thought it was… the right thing to do."

Grinsa nodded. "I believe it was."

He stood and together they woke the others. Torgan demanded to know why they had roused him so early, but Grinsa and Q'Daer refused to answer until the Mettai had joined them. Once all of them were together, the young Weaver repeated the tidings he had shared with Grinsa.

By now a faint grey light was touching their faces and brightening the sky above them, so Grinsa could see how Besh's face blanched at word that there were Mettai marching with the Eandi. Sirj merely stood beside the old man, staring at the ground, shaking his head slowly.

"So what does this mean?" Torgan demanded. "What are you going to do with us?"

"I told you," Q'Daer said. "We're going back to the sept, and you're coming with us. E'Menua wants all his Weavers with him before the dark-eye army reaches the plain."

Torgan looked at Grinsa, but the gleaner refused to meet his gaze. He knew what the merchant was thinking. He'd been begging Grinsa to let him escape almost since the moment they left the sept. Now he'd claim that with the Qirsi and Eandi going to war, E'Menua was sure to execute both him and Jasha. For his part, Grinsa thought it likely, too, at least in Torgan's case. But though he had sacrificed a good deal to keep the merchant alive all this time, he still wasn't willing to endanger his family or jeopardize his own effort to win their freedom from the Fal'Borna in order to save this man.

"It makes no sense to me," Besh finally said, his voice hardly loud enough for Grinsa to hear. He looked at Sirj. "Why would any Mettai agree to such a thing?"

"Your people are Eandi," Q'Daer said, as if that alone was enough to explain it.

Besh shook his head. "Not really. Our eyes may be dark, but in other ways we have more in common with your kind than we do with the people of Stelpana or Aelea. We wield magic, and for that reason alone we're feared, even hated."

"But you haven't been treated much better by the white-hairs," Jasha said. "Even I know that much."

"Exactly!" Besh answered, his voice rising. "Both races have wanted nothing to do with us, and so we've wanted nothing to do with you. We had nothing to do with the last of your wars and we hoped that the rest of you would just leave us alone. And now some among us have decided to fight in a new Blood War? It makes no sense! None at all!"

"The dark-eyes would have offered land, perhaps gold," Q'Daer said. "They'd pay handsomely to meet our magic with yours."

"I don't care what they offered," Besh said. "The cost is too high."

"I agree with you," Q'Daer said. "But the fact remains that your people and mine are going to war. We have to return to our sept, but you don't. You should leave here. You should return to your village. You'll be far safer there."

"Wait!" Torgan said, his one eye growing wide. "You're going to let them go, but not us?"

"They killed the woman who cursed those baskets," Q'Daer said. "And an a'laq has named them a friend of all Fal'Borna people. They've earned their freedom and then some."

"And I haven't. Is that what you're saying?"

Q'Daer regarded him briefly, his expression mild. "Yes, I suppose it is. Gather your belongings," he told both of the Eandi, "and eat something. We'll be leaving shortly."

The young Weaver walked back to his sleeping roll. After a moment Torgan and Jasha turned and walked away as well, leaving Grinsa with the two Mettai.

"It seems we'll be parting company," Grinsa said. "I'm sure you're eager to be returning to your home, but I'm sorry we won't have more time together. I've enjoyed our conversations."

"As have I, Forelander," Besh said. "Perhaps once you've left the Fal'Borna you'll come to see how the Mettai live."

"Perhaps," Grinsa said, knowing that it probably wouldn't happen. "If there's to be war it wouldn't be wise for us to cross back into Eandi land."

Besh shrugged, seeming to concede the point. "No, it probably wouldn't be." He shook his head again. "I meant what I said before: This isn't like my people. I can't imagine what would make any Mettai fight for either side."

Grinsa didn't know what to say.

"We never did find a way to defeat Lici's plague," the old man went on a moment later. He turned to Sirj. "I don't suppose there's anything to be done about that."

The younger man shook his head. "Not unless you want to risk staying in Fal'Borna land."

"Don't," Grinsa said. "I admire you both for even considering it, but the Fal'Borna aren't to be trifled with."

"No, they're not," Sirj said. "Never mind our people, I'm not even sure why the sovereignties would do this."

"Blood and bone," Besh whispered.

Sirj looked at him. "What?"

"They're attacking because of Lici, because of what her plague has done.

"You don't know that," Sirj said.

But Grinsa could hear doubt in the younger man's voice. For his part, the gleaner thought that Besh was right, though it hadn't even occurred to him to wonder about this until now.

"You know how the last of the wars ended," Besh said, his voice bleak. "The Eandi wouldn't dare attack unless they knew that the Fal'Borna had been weakened. It has to be because of this pestilence Lici conjured."

Grinsa sensed where Besh was going with this. "You still need to go back, Besh. You can't risk staying here."

"With all respect, Grinsa, it's not your place or the Fal'Borna's to tell us what we can and can't risk. I swore an oath to stop Lici from doing any more harm."

"And you did that!"

"I killed her," Besh said. "That's all. Her plague is still spreading, and now there's to be a war. Her war." He looked at Sirj. "You know I'm right, don't you? You know that we can't just leave, not now."

"I don't know that Q'Daer and I can keep you safe," Grinsa told him before Sirj could answer.

Besh frowned. "I don't recall asking you to. There's a reason why the Eandi sought an alliance with the Mettai. You've seen just a hint of what our magic can do. Believe me when I tell you that we're not to be trifled with either."

Grinsa had to smile. Besh was right: He and Sirj hadn't asked for any protection, and since another a'laq had declared them friends of the Fal'Borna, they didn't need anyone's permission to remain in the clan lands.

"Forgive me," he said. "I shouldn't have assumed that you'd need us to protect you. As your friend, I'd like you to go back to your home, where you'll be safer. But of course it's your choice to make."

Besh nodded. "Sirj and I will speak of this further. We'll let you know what we decide."

Grinsa still heard a touch of ice in the old man's voice, so he merely nodded in return and left them. One way or another, they'd be leaving soon and he wasn't ready yet.

Long before he reached his sleeping roll, however, he saw Torgan striding toward him. Grinsa knew just what the merchant was going to say and he had no desire to hear any of it. He kept walking, pretending that he hadn't noticed. After only a few moments of this, however, Torgan began calling to him. Heaving a sigh, Grinsa stopped and faced the man.

He'd been thinking about this for so long. More than once, he had thought he finally had the courage to do it. He'd gone to his carry sack fully intending to pull out the scrap of basket and take it to the white-hairs. But always something stopped him: lack of nerve, guilt, questions about whether it would even do any good.

These last, at least, had vanished in S'Vralna. The scrap of basket he carried would surely kill them. That much he now knew for certain. But the rest…

Guilt should have meant nothing to him. The Fal'Borna would kill him without hesitation; why should he feel any remorse for striking at them first? And though the Forelander had once argued for his life and for Jasha's, he had since shown himself to be much like the white-hairs of the Southlands. He seemed perfectly willing to trade Torgan's life for his freedom and that of his family. And why shouldn't he? Torgan was wise enough to know that he'd have done the same in the man's position. But then why should Torgan feel any pangs of conscience at taking the man's life in order to save his own?

That left his nerve, or rather, his lack thereof. This was not something he could overcome with logic, or by cataloging the ways in which the white-hairs had earned his enmity these past few turns. This cut to the very core of who and what he was. And for some time now Torgan had known that he was a coward. For years he had denied it to himself, citing as proof his refusal to flee Medqasse even when he knew that the coinmonger who eventually took out his eye was hunting him. Really, though, he had been more fool than hero at the time. He'd believed he could evade the man and his henchmen, and there was nothing courageous in the way he had cried and groveled, pleading for mercy when at last they caught up with him. But only recently, since that first night just outside of C'Bijor's Neck when he had watched the Y'Qatt city burn, had he known for certain.

He had long expected to die old and fat, happy and rich. Then he'd bought those damned baskets from Y'Farl in the Neck, and in a matter of days his world had crumbled. A wiser man-perhaps a braver man-would have embraced death in the face of all that had happened to him since then. He was fat still, but happy and rich were lost to him, possibly forever. And yet even now, he was terrified of dying.

He could start again, buy new wares, earn back the riches he'd lost. His desire to live reflected his belief that he could find wealth and happiness once more. That's what he told himself.

But he knew better. Fear controlled him, not hope. He didn't want to live so that he could overcome all he'd endured these past few harrowing turns. He wanted to live because the thought of dying unmanned him. It stole his breath and turned his innards to water. It wasn't so much that he wanted to live as that he simply didn't want to die.

Torgan would never accept that he was a killer. Whatever he did to get away from the Fal'Borna the white-hairs drove him to do. War was coming to the plain. An Eandi army was marching toward the Silverwater, and Torgan hoped that they would lay waste to every sept they encountered. Damn the white-hairs to the Deceiver's realm-let every last one of them burn in Bian's fires and be tortured by his demons. He hated them all, and, he knew, they hated him. If he returned to E'Menua's sept, he'd be killed, not because he had sold cursed baskets to the Y'Qatt or to Fal'Borna living in the small sept he'd visited in the north, but simply because he was Eandi. White-hairs and dark-eyes. It was simply the way of things.

He no longer had time for guilt or doubt. And knowing what was coming, understanding with the certainty of a condemned man that the remainder of his life could now be counted in days, hours, hoofbeats, he found his nerve.

"Gather your belongings," the Fal'Borna Weaver told them. "We'll be leaving shortly."

Torgan and Jasha had barely spoken in days. Up until now, the young merchant's hostility had bothered him a good deal. But this once Torgan was glad that the young merchant was nowhere near him when he reached into his sack and pulled out the scrap of burned basket. His hands were trembling violently. No doubt the color had drained from his face, leaving him ashen. It didn't matter. Jasha wasn't there to see any of it.

He'd give the white-hairs one last chance to let him go. They de-served-

"No," he said aloud. He wasn't going to lie to himself. He didn't believe that they deserved any consideration at all. But he remained too frightened of what he was about to do; he would give them this last opportunity because the only way he could do this was to convince himself that he had no other choice.

Gripping the burned osiers in his hand, he turned, searching for the two Qirsi.

He spotted the Forelander first.

We're not going to talk about this now, Torgan," Grinsa said as the merchant drew near. The man's face was so white he actually looked

Qirsi, and there was rage in his eyes. Grinsa half expected him to throw a punch, and indeed Torgan's right hand was balled in a fist, his knuckles white.

"And when do you propose that we do talk about it?" the merchant demanded. "You can't really believe that Jasha and I have any chance at all once we reach the sept."

"You have a chance so long as we're all alive and I can argue for your life. That's why we have to get out of the Horn and back to the plain. Once we're there, I'll talk to E'Menua."

"He won't listen, and you know it! He's a warrior; we're at war. He'll look at Jasha and me, and all he'll see are dark-eyes. Make us go back and you kill us."

Grinsa closed his eyes briefly and raked a hand through his hair. It was something Cresenne would have done, and he nearly laughed at himself.

"You see?" Torgan said. "You know I'm right."

How had he ended up in the middle of all this? Why hadn't he just let E'Menua have his way from the start? Yes, Torgan and Jasha would be dead by now, but maybe he, Cresenne, and Bryntelle would be away from here, living peacefully with another clan. "I don't know anything, Torgan. I'm not Fal'Borna. I'm not even from the Southlands. I'm just trying to keep myself and my family alive long enough for us to find a home."

"That's right," Torgan said, as if trying to wheedle him into buying some bauble that he didn't really want. "You're not from here. You're not like the Fal'Borna. You don't have any reason to hate Jasha or me. In fact, if it wasn't for you, we'd be dead already. You fought for our lives, at great cost to yourself. You don't want all that you've sacrificed to be for nothing. So let us go. If you allow it, Q'Daer will go along."

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know that for sure. And I don't know if I can risk letting you go. It may not be fair, but for good or bad your fate and mine are linked. If I return to the sept without you, I might never be allowed to leave. I can't risk that." He started to turn away from the man. "I'm sorry, Torgan."

"Wait!" Torgan faltered, opened his mouth, then closed it again. A drop of sweat rolled down from his temple. He raised that fisted hand, but an instant later let it drop to his side again. It almost seemed that he was holding something, though Grinsa could see nothing but a faint shadow near the base of his thumb that might have been a trick of the light or a smear of black from the previous night's fire.

"We need to get ready, Torgan," Grinsa said, after waiting several moments for the man to speak. "The sooner we're on our way, the safer we'll be."

"No, I I…" He shook his head, licked his lips. "I want to speak with Q'Daer about this. I want to hear from him that he won't let us go."

Grinsa exhaled, knowing that this was a waste of time, and knowing as well that it would only serve to anger the young Weaver. "Torgan, I promise that once we're back-"

"No!" the merchant said sharply. "I want to speak with both of you about this. I I… I don't want the two of you to… to have a chance to discuss it alone. I want to be there." He nodded, as if convincing himself of this.

Clearly there was no reasoning with the man. "Fine," Grinsa said. "Come on then."

He started toward the Fal'Borna with Torgan just behind him. After just a few steps, he heard Jasha calling to the merchant. Torgan, though, either didn't hear the younger man or chose to ignore him.

Grinsa looked back at him. "Jasha-"

"I know," the merchant said irritably. He didn't stop or look back. "Torgan!" the young merchant called again.

"Not now!" Torgan shouted over his shoulder, still not breaking stride. Q'Daer was tying his sleeping roll onto his mount when they found him. He looked up at the sound of their approach and frowned.

"What's this?" he asked.

Grinsa turned to Torgan. "You wanted to talk to him. So talk." The man licked his lips again. "You have to let us go," he said. Q'Daer's frowned deepened. "What?"

"There's a war coming. If you take us back to your sept, the a'laq will kill us. You have to let us go."

Grinsa stared at the man, his eyes narrowing. Something wasn't right. Torgan's words made sense, but all the anger had drained from his voice. He seemed distracted, as if this conversation with Q'Daer was the last thing on his mind.

"We're not letting you go anywhere, dark-eye," Q'Daer said. "You still have to answer for your crimes, and the a'laq is the only one who can decide your fate. Even if I wanted to let you go-and I don't-it's not my place to do it." He turned his attention back to the sleeping roll. "Now, go ready your horse."

For several seconds, Torgan didn't move at all. Grinsa thought he might argue more, but he said nothing. He simply stood there, his chest rising and falling with each breath, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He glanced at Grinsa, and then looked at Q'Daer once more.

"We have nothing to do with this war," Torgan said, although still he sounded strangely calm. Where was the passion he'd shown only moments before? "But we'll be victims of it. You know now that when I sold those baskets I didn't think that anything was wrong with them. You know as well that Jasha and I have done what we could to help you find them and the witch who made them."

Q'Daer turned at that. "The other merchant did. I'm not so certain about you."

"I've done everything I could!" Torgan said, his voice rising so that he finally sounded a bit more like himself. "I did my share in S'Vralna! And I've lost everything I had! I've been punished enough!"

Q'Daer regarded him sourly, as if regretting that he'd responded at all. "Like I said, it's not my place to decide your punishment. We'll see what the a'laq has to say."

"By then it will be too late! If I wind up back in your sept, I'm a dead man, regardless of what I deserve. You know I'm right about this!"

Q'Daer looked at Grinsa wearily. "I have no time for this right now. I'm going to check on the other one to see if he's ready." He started to walk in Jasha's direction. "Next time, keep this one away from me."

Grinsa eyed Torgan as the merchant watched Q'Daer walk away. "I could have told you it would go that way," he said. "Q'Daer is devoted to his a'laq. He'd never presume to go against E'Menua's wishes, and that's just what you were asking him to do."

Torgan didn't answer. He didn't even look Grinsa's way. Instead, his eyes wandered the area around him before coming to rest on Q'Daer's mount. "I haven't eaten yet," he said. "Can I get something from his travel sack?" He cast a quick look after the Fal'Borna who was out of earshot by now. "Much of it was my food to begin with," he said. "Mine and Jasha's."

Grinsa felt much as Q'Daer did at this point; he wanted nothing more to do with this man.

"Yes, fine," he said, turning to his own sleeping roll. "Get some food and then get yourself ready." He glanced over at the merchant. "No more delays. You understand?"

"Yes," Torgan said sullenly. "I understand perfectly."

He took several moments to get food from the young Weaver's bag. In fact, he was there fiddling with Q'Daer's belongings for so long that Grinsa finally turned to look to see what he was doing. But by that time Torgan was replacing the sack of food and putting a piece of dried meat in his mouth. Grinsa shook his head and turned his attention back to what he was doing. He did look up again as the merchant walked back to his horse. The man hadn't said anything more to him, or even grunted a thank-you. But he did seem to have accepted that he had no choice but to ride with them back to the sept. And from what Grinsa could see, his hands hung loosely at his side. No more fists. That was something at least.

They rode out a short time later in their usual formation: the Qirsi riding in front, the merchants behind them, and the Mettai bringing up the rear in their cart. Sirj approached Grinsa just as they were leaving to inform him that he and Besh would continue to journey with them.

"We may turn eastward in a few days," the man told him. "But for now we'll remain with you."

Grinsa told him that they'd be happy to have the Mettai with them for as long as they wished to remain, but inwardly he feared they were making a terrible mistake. He also lamented the fact that Sirj and not Besh had come to speak with him. He was afraid that he had offended the older man, and he resolved to make things right as soon as possible.

They crossed the Thraedes a short time after midday, leaving the Horn behind them, and then turned due south, continuing to follow the river. They pushed their mounts hard and covered a fair amount of ground before stopping for the night. None of them spoke much. Torgan had gone back to brooding in silence, and the Mettai kept to themselves.

They ate a small meal as darkness settled over the plain, and soon were unrolling their sleeping rolls beneath a cloudy sky that glowed faintly with moonlight. Q'Daer said something about remaining awake to speak with E'Menua. Grinsa was exhasted from having been awakened so early in the morning. He lay down and fell asleep quickly, only to wake up some time later to an odd sound. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and peered in the direction from which the sound had come, trying to make out a dark shape a short distance off.

A moment later he realized that he'd been hearing someone retch. He glanced at the young Weaver's sleeping roll, his stomach clenching itself into a hard ball. Q'Daer wasn't there.

"Q'Daer?" he called softly.

"Stay away from me!" came the reply. His voice sounded weak, strained. A moment later Grinsa heard him get sick yet again.

Grinsa stood and started toward the man.

"I told you to keep away, Forelander!" the man said, making him stop. He could see Q'Daer clearly now. He was on his hands and knees, his head hanging low, his breathing labored.

"I've got it," the Weaver said a moment later, all the anger gone from his voice. "I've got the plague."

Grinsa shivered in the darkness. "How is that possible? It's been days since we left S'Vralna. You can't have it. You're just sick."

Q'Daer shook his head. "No. I've been sick before, but I've never felt like this. I can feel the fever in me. I feel myself getting weak." He looked back at Grinsa. "The Mettai did this to me. That's why they wanted to stay with us."

This time it was Grinsa's turn to shake his head. "They wouldn't do anything of the sort."

"Then how did this happen? You said it yourself: We left S'Vralna days ago. This plague strikes in just hours."

Grinsa started to say again that he doubted it was the plague. But then it came to him. Torgan.

"I'll be back," he said, turning on his heel.

As he passed the fire circle he rekindled the flames with a thought, not even slowing his gait. He walked to where the merchants were sleeping and prodded them both with his foot.

"Get up, both of you."

Jasha grunted, turned over, his eyes barely even opening. Torgan, on the other hand, propped himself up on one arm immediately. Grinsa was certain that he hadn't even been sleeping.

"What's the matter?" the one-eyed merchant asked.

"Wake up, Jasha," Grinsa said, ignoring Torgan for the moment.

The younger man took a long shuddering breath. Then he rubbed at his eyes. "Forelander?" he said groggily.

"Yes. I want both of you to come with me."

"Why?" Torgan asked. "What's going on?"

Grinsa was certain that there was a way to do this, something he could say to put the man off for a few more moments so that he might find a way to prove that Torgan had done something to make Q'Daer ill. But he was too enraged and frightened to play games, and too addled with sleep to think clearly enough.

He said simply, "Q'Daer's sick."

"Damn!" Jasha said, instantly sounding awake. "Is it… has he got…?"

"Lici's plague?" Grinsa said for him. He started to say that he thought it was, but then reconsidered, his gaze sliding toward Torgan again. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see. On second thought, Torgan will come with me. Jasha, I want you to wake Besh and Sirj and bring them to our fire."

The young merchant scrambled to his feet. "Of course," he said, heading off toward Besh and Sirj's cart.

"Get up, Torgan," Grinsa said for a third time.

The merchant stood slowly. "What is it you want with us?"

Grinsa gave a small shrug. "I told you: Q'Daer's sick. I need help caring for him."

Torgan actually took a step back away from him. "How can we help you with that?"

"There's only the six of us," Grinsa said. He sensed the kernel of an idea forming and he followed his instincts. "We'll need everyone's help."

"Well, the Mettai-"

"Besh, Sirj, and I will have to start working on a cure. It's probably not the plague, but just in case it is…" He shrugged again.

"What about Jasha and me?"

"I'm going to send Jasha for help. You'll stay with Q'Daer. He'll need water, a compress on his head to keep his fever down. And you'll need to keep the fire burning."

"Jasha can do that! I can get help just as easily…" He trailed off seeing that Grinsa was shaking his head.

"You're determined to escape, Torgan. You've made that clear. I can't send you off anywhere." He started walking back to the fire and Q'Daer, leaving Torgan with little choice but to follow. "No, you have to be the one to care for him."

"But I can't be!" Torgan said. "The plague… his power will be out of control! You saw what happened in S'Vralna! I'll be killed!"

"We don't know that it's the plague, Torgan."

The merchant opened his mouth, but quickly clamped it shut again. Grinsa halted and grabbed the man's arm. "Or do we?"

Torgan wrenched his arm out of Grinsa's grasp. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice quavering.

"What did you do to him, Torgan?"

"I didn't do anything!"

Grinsa summoned a bright flame to the palm of his hand and held it just in front of the merchant's face. Torgan flinched, but before he could step back Grinsa took hold of the front of his shirt, wrapping his fist in the cloth.

"You're lying!" he said. "You did it this past morning, when my back was turned and you were rooting around in Q'Daer's things. Now tell me what you did!"

"Nothing! It must have been the Mettai! They're the ones with magic! It was their curse to begin with!"

Grinsa moved the flame closer to his face, so that it singed some of the man's hair. Torgan closed his eyes and turned his face away, wincing at anticipated pain.

After a moment Grinsa let the fire die out and took hold of Torgan's arm again. "Come on," he said, dragging the merchant to where he'd left the young Weaver. This time Torgan didn't fight him.

Besh, Sirj, and Jasha were already standing beside the fire, all of them looking down at the Fal'Borna who had made his way to his sleeping roll. Q'Daer lay on his side, huddled in his blanket, his legs drawn up so that he looked more like a child than a warrior. His face was bathed in sweat and he appeared to be trembling. He had his eyes open and he merely stared at the flames dancing before him.

When Grinsa and Torgan stepped into the firelight, the three who were standing looked up at them. Jasha frowned at the way Grinsa was holding on to the merchant.

"What's going on?" he asked Grinsa. "What's he done now?"

Grinsa indicated the Fal'Borna with a small nod. "I think he's responsible for what's happened to Q'Daer."

"I'm not!" Torgan said. He pointed at the Mettai. "It's them! They created this plague! They're the ones-"

Grinsa slapped his face, silencing him, and leaving a livid imprint of his hand on the merchant's cheek. "Say that again, and you'll get worse."

"You should back away, Forelander," Besh said. "If this is the plague, you can't be anywhere near the Fal'Borna."

"It is the plague," Q'Daer said, his voice even weaker than it had been before. "What else can it be?"

"Please, Grinsa," Besh said.

Grinsa stared down at Q'Daer for several moments. Finally he nodded, releasing Torgan and shoving him toward the Mettai. "Watch him," he said. "He did this. I'm sure of it." He backed away from the fire, but he didn't go far. "Jasha, I want you to search Q'Daer's carry sack."

"For what?" the young merchant asked.

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know. Anything that might explain this."

Jasha nodded and walked over to where the young Weaver's belongings were piled. But Grinsa watched Torgan, who just stared at the fire, not looking particularly concerned.

Whatever it was wouldn't be in the carry sack. And since Grinsa and Q'Daer had eaten from the sack of food, it wouldn't be in there, either. Which left…

"Damn," Grinsa muttered. "Stop looking, Jasha. It's not in there. It's wrapped up in Q'Daer's sleeping roll or his blanket."

Torgan's eyes snapped up to Grinsa's face. He looked away a moment later, but that one instant was enough to tell Grinsa that he was right.

Q'Daer twisted his head to look up at Grinsa, this simple action seeming to take a great effort. "You're sure he did this?" he asked hoarsely. "It could have been the Mettai."

"You see?" Torgan said. "He knows!"

"It wasn't the Mettai," Grinsa said, sensing that Besh and Sirj had both bristled. "Torgan was in your things this morning. He said he wanted food and I let him get something from your bag. At least that's what I thought I was letting him do. I'm sorry. This is my fault."

"Here it is."

They all turned toward Jasha, who was holding up what appeared to be a small scrap of basket. It was burned at the edges-blackened, like that shadow Grinsa had seen on Torgan's hand-and it was small enough to be hidden in the merchant's fist.

"Where did you get that?" Grinsa demanded glaring at Torgan once more.

"I told you, I didn't-"

"Don't say it, Torgan!" Grinsa leveled a rigid finger at the man. "I swear I'll snap your neck if you do! Besh and Sirj wouldn't do something like this. But if they had, they'd have used magic. They'd have no need to use a piece of one of those baskets. Now, where'd you get it?"

Torgan said nothing.

"It's from that village we found," Jasha said, examining the scrap in the firelight. "I remember seeing this one."

"Is that true?" Grinsa asked.

Torgan had the look of a cornered animal. His eyes flicked back and forth between Jasha and Grinsa, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he wanted to speak but feared what would happen if he did.

"I can compel you to answer," Grinsa said. "I have magic-mind-bending it's called-it will make you tell the truth."

"Don't do it that way," Q'Daer said, closing his eyes. "Use shaping. Break his fingers one at a time. Break his ribs."

Grinsa nodded. "All right."

"No!" Torgan said. He licked his lips. "It's true. That's where it came from. That village. I knew you were going to kill me eventually. This was the only chance I had."

"You bloody idiot," Jasha said, shaking his head, a look of disgust on his face. "You're a dead man for sure. And good riddance to you."

"We can punish him later," Besh said, turning to Grinsa. "And whatever you decide in that regard will be fine with us. But what are we going to do to save your friend?"

Grinsa gazed at the Fal'Borna. He seemed to be fading by the moment. And Grinsa knew that it was only a matter of time before he lost control of his magic. Once that began to happen, they'd have little hope of keeping the man alive.

"You and Sirj need to find some way to combat this curse of Lici's. No one here blames you for any of this, but the magic that created it was Mettai, and so the answer is going to lie in your powers, not mine."

Besh nodded. "Very well. You'll stay away from him?"

Grinsa nodded. He didn't feel at all sick. He'd been fortunate beyond measure; he had no intention of endangering himself by getting too close to Q'Daer. "Yes, I'll stay as far away as I am now. But even from this distance, I can use my healing magic on him. It may be that I can cure him, or at least keep him from getting worse."