The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  What they found as they drew near to the fire both surprised and delighted them. There must have been a dozen men and women gathered in the darkness, all of them Qirsi, all of them peddlers it seemed. Arrayed around them were carts and wagons filled with all sorts of goods. Several broad tarpaulins had been raised around the perimeter of the fire, so that every person was protected from the rain. One man had a lute in his lap and was strumming it softly, singing a song Grinsa didn't recognize. A few of the others were singing along. Others were listening. And still others were ignoring the music, carrying on conversations of their own. But all of them looked happy and warm.

  Not wishing to unnerve them with their arrival, Grinsa called out and, raising a hand above his head, summoned a small flame so that the men and women could see them and know them for Qirsi.

  "Come on, then," one of the men called. "Into the light with you. Let us see who's come."

  They rode to the edge of their circle, dismounted, and walked into the firelight.

  Grinsa started to say something, but the man cut him off.

  "Not a word!" he said. "I don't want to hear your accent. I can tell your clan just from the look of you." The stranger was tall and thin, with long limbs that gave him the look of a child's puppet. His white hair was cut short, and he had a pale, wispy beard that made his face look even longer than it was. His face was lined, and Grinsa had the sense that he was old for a Qirsi, though his bright yellow eyes were clear and his smile revealed straight, strong teeth.

  "Give up already, R'Shev," a woman shouted at him, laughing. "You haven't gotten one right in two turns."

  The man spun toward her, looking aggrieved. "That's not true." He pointed at a woman with long white hair and intricate markings around her eye that were similar to those Grinsa and Cresenne had seen on the peddler in Greysford. "I knew G'Trayna here was J'Balanar the moment I saw her."

  Everyone laughed uproariously, and the man turned back to them, narrowing his eyes as he looked first at Grinsa and then at Cresenne.

  "Difficult," he said. "Very difficult. Your clothing is odd. The mounts could be those of the Fal'Borna, but your skin is too pale." He stared at them a moment longer before nodding once. "You're H'Bel, aren't you?"

  Grinsa smiled. "I'm afraid not."

  "Must be A'Vahl then. Had to be one or the other. I thought Talm'Orast for a moment, but neither of you is fat. All the Talm'Orast have gotten fat."

  The others laughed at this as well, though Grinsa had no idea why.

  "No, I'm afraid we're not A'Vahl either." The man opened his mouth to speak again, so Grinsa held up a hand to forestall another guess. "Actually, we're not from this land at all. We're Forelanders, and we've only recently arrived here."

  This was met with stares and silence, and for a moment Grinsa feared that he and his family would be as unwelcome among these Qirsi peddlers as they had been among the Eandi. But a moment later, R'Shev grinned.

  "Well, wherever you're from, you're here now. Come and sit. You look cold and hungry."

  "We are that," Grinsa said, smiling in return. "Though we have our own food."

  "All the better then!"

  Several people shifted their positions, making room near the fire for the three of them. A skin of wine somehow found its way into Grinsa's hands and after only a moment's hesitation he drank a bit and handed it to Cresenne.

  "So, what are your names?" R'Shev asked.

  "I'm Grinsa jal Arriet, and this is Cresenne ja Terba."

  "And the little one?"

  "Bryntelle ja Grinsa."

  "She's a beauty," R'Shev said. "Just like her mother." He winked at Cresenne, drawing a smile.

  "You'll have to forgive R'Shev," said the J'Balanar woman. She looked to be older as well, the lines around her eyes blending with her markings to make her look like some strange demon in the firelight. She wore a smile, however, and her eyes flicked toward R'Shev as she spoke. "He sometimes forgets how old he is, and he starts to act like a rutting drel."

  The others laughed.

  "Unfair!" R'Shev said, shaking his head. "Unfair! Even a rutting drel tends to stay with only one ewe. I have no such scruples."

  More laughter.

  "Well, allow me to introduce this rabble," R'Shev said. He went around the circle, pointing at each person in turn, and saying their names and clans far too quickly for Grinsa to keep any of them in his mind. Turning back to Grinsa and seeing the frown on his face, the man waved his hand, as if dismissing all he'd just said. "Don't worry about it. You'll learn them eventually. Or you won't, and no one will hold it against you." He regarded the two of them briefly, his eyes narrowing. "What brings you to our circle?"

  Grinsa shrugged. "We tried to find a place in the Eandi village back along the wash. I don't even know what it's called. The inn was the Thistle Patch. In any case, the barkeep refused to let us stay there, so we rode on, and happened upon you."

  R'Shev nodded slowly. "Actually, I meant 'What brings you to the Southlands,' but we'll start with the village. It's called Bred's Landing, and I'm afraid it's all too typical of Eandi villages in Stelpana. I take it things are quite different in the Forelands."

  Grinsa had to smile. "Yes," he said. "Very different. Qirsi and Eandi don't keep themselves separate the way they do here. They live side by side in villages and cities. Eandi nobles are served by Qirsi ministers."

  "But you've had trouble with that," said the man with the lute, looking over at them even as he continued to pluck at the strings of his instrument. "Forgive me for interrupting, but we know you have. We heard about it down here."

  "Yes," Grinsa admitted, his eyes flicking toward Cresenne. "We had some trouble, but that's over now."

  "And yet you're here," R'Shev said, drawing Grinsa's gaze once more. "You left the Forelands. Why?"

  "That's a long, difficult tale," Grinsa said.

  Cresenne had been chatting with G'Trayna, while the older woman held Bryntelle on her lap. But she was looking at Grinsa now, appearing pale and wary. R'Shev seemed to notice her expression, because he smiled and patted Grinsa lightly on the shoulder.

  "Perhaps it's best saved for another time, then," he said. "You should eat something." He handed Grinsa the wineskin, which had made its way around the circle to them once more. "And have some more of this."

  "Thank you, R'Shev."

  He started to pull food from his travel sack, but the man put his hand on Grinsa's arm, stopping him.

  "Have something warm. I get the feeling you've got some distance yet to go, and that food needs to last. We've plenty here."

  "Again, my thanks."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "Not north, I hope," said the man with the lute.

  "If you want to join our conversation, D'Chul, I'd suggest you move over here. At least that way I'll know you're listening, and I won't say anything unkind about the way you play that lute of yours."

  D'Chul grinned, looking ghoulish in the dim light, and made his way over to where they were sitting. He was a younger man, also thin, though not as tall as R'Shev. He wore his hair long, and tied back from his face, which was round and so fine-featured as to look feminine.

  As he sat, Grinsa noticed that his lute was as beautiful as any instrument of its kind he'd ever seen. Its neck was inlaid with pale woods, and its rounded back was so finely smoothed that it shone in the firelight.

  "Your lute is magnificent," Grinsa said.

  "Thank you," D'Chul said, grinning again. "I made it."

  "You made it?"

  "D'Chul is M'Saaren," R'Shev said, as if that explained the man's obvious talent. "Woodland people. Their woodwork is the finest in the land."

  "The A'Vahl would argue," said the younger man.

  "Of course they would. And as usual, they'd be wrong." R'Shev glanced at Grinsa. "I'm glad you didn't turn out to be A'Vahl. As a rule, I can't stand them. Arrogant. Not nearly as skilled as they think they are. Or as smart."

  "You said you hoped we weren't headed
north," Grinsa said to the young man. "Why?"

  "There's talk of the pestilence to the north." He cocked his head to the side. "You have the pestilence up in the Forelands?"

  Grinsa nodded. His blood had run cold at the mention of it, fear for Cresenne and Bryntelle making him shudder. He'd lost Pheba, his first wife, to the pestilence. She was Eandi, and she might have survived, if only the other Qirsi in their village had been willing to heal her. But she was the Eandi wife of a Qirsi man, and the healers, seeing their marriage as an abomination, had let her die. He didn't mention this to the men sitting with him, but it did make him wonder if he'd been too quick to point out the differences between the Forelands and Southlands. Perhaps they weren't so dissimilar after all.

  "I'd hoped we wouldn't have to worry about that here," Cresenne said quietly, staring at the fire.

  Grinsa reached out and took Cresenne's hand. Her fingers were icy. "We'll be all right. We're headed south anyway. And both of us have healing magic, if it comes to that."

  "You're trying to get across the Silverwater," R'Shev said. "Into Qirsi land."

  "That's what we had in mind."

  "That's a wise course. The Fal'Borna are hard as clans go, harder than most. But you'll be a good deal safer there than in Eandi land. And," the older man added, smiling kindly at Cresenne, "you'll be far from where the pestilence has struck."

  "What about all of you?" Grinsa asked. "Where are you going next?"

  "Oh, different places. Each of us goes his own way. I tend to move back and forth between the Silverwater and Ravens Wash, visiting the towns along both. I'll probably be in Bred's Landing tomorrow. I'm heading north, as it happens, though with the pestilence up that way, I'll turn back well before I get near the Companion Lakes. Others here are going in the opposite direction. At least a few of us find each other most nights. Sometimes we're only three or four. Other times we number as many as thirty."

  "It sounds like a nice life," Cresenne said.

  "We're Qirsi peddlers trading in Eandi lands. It's the only way to stay sane."

  The wine came around again, and D'Chul began to play and sing. His voice was only ordinary, but he played wonderfully and the others sang along. Grinsa and Cresenne didn't know any of the songs, but they were happy just to listen. Bryntelle, who should have been asleep hours before, was wide awake, and seemed delighted by the music and laughter.

  Eventually, people began to wander off to sleep. Many of them had small beds in their carts, and others had fashioned crude shelters from cloth and rope and wood. R'Shev told Grinsa and Cresenne that they could place their sleeping rolls under the tarpaulins by the fire, and after some time, Cresenne did.

  Grinsa stayed up a while longer, speaking in low tones with R'Shev, learning what he could about the various clans, and the Eandi villages that lay between Bred's Landing and Fal'Borna land.

  After a time, they fell silent. But just when Grinsa was ready to bid the man good night, R'Shev surprised him.

  "You're a Weaver, aren't you, Grinsa?"

  The Eandi guard he and Cresenne encountered in Yorl had divined this as well, so Grinsa wasn't completely unprepared. He did wonder, though, why the man was asking.

  "I am."

  "Is Cresenne?"

  The guard had asked this, too.

  "No, she's not. Why?"

  "Forgive me," he said. "I don't mean to pry, but are the two of you joined, formally I mean?"

  "As it happens, we're not." There hadn't really been time for a formal joining ceremony before they left the Forelands, and in truth, neither of them had seen a need for one. In all ways that mattered, they were husband and wife, their lives bound together not only by their love, but also by Bryntelle. In the Forelands, at least, formal joinings were usually reserved for nobility. But maybe that wasn't the case here. "What is it you're getting at, R'Shev?"

  The man rubbed a hand over his narrow face. "It may not come to much. It will depend on which clan you settle with. But among some, Weavers are expected to marry other Weavers. It's a way of ensuring that more Weavers are born, and to some clans that's very important. There haven't been many wars fought among the clans in the last hundred years, but some of the rivalries remain, and, rightly or wrongly, Weavers are equated with power. The more a clan has, the better their prospects in battle with other Qirsi. And if ever the Blood Wars start up again, a clan with many Weavers will have the best chance of taking Eandi land. That's the thinking anyway."

  "But I don't belong to any clan."

  R'Shev smiled, though if anything, it made him look sad. "The clan you settle with may well see it differently." His brow furrowed. "Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. I hope I'm wrong. I hope it doesn't matter at all. But you should be prepared, just in case it does."

  "Yes, of course," Grinsa said absently.

  "I've troubled you."

  He met the man's gaze. "As you said, I should be prepared."

  R'Shev nodded. Standing, he stretched his back and began to walk off. "Good night, Grinsa."

  "Good night, R'Shev. Thank you for everything. This could have been a miserable night for us. Instead it was the best we've had in the Southlands."

  "I'm glad."

  The man walked off, leaving Grinsa to brood on what the peddler had told him. After some time, he untied his sleeping roll, placed it beside Cresenne, and lay down. She stirred. He kissed her lightly on the lips and she smiled.

  "What were you and R'Shev talking about?" she asked sleepily.

  He hesitated, but only briefly. "Nothing we need to worry about right now," he said. He kissed her again. "You should sleep."

  Chapter 12

  By the time they awoke the next morning the rain had eased, but clouds still hung low over the plain, and the air remained chill. The peddlers rose early, some of them with first light, and in mere moments had taken down the tarpaulins and packed up their carts. R'Shev apologized to Grinsa and Cresenne for waking them and taking down the shelter he'd built around the fire ring, but he, too, worked quickly and efficiently. Grinsa offered to help, but the peddler shook his head and smiled.

  "I've done this just about every morning for the past fourteen years. I'm better off working alone."

  True to his word, the man had his cloths and poles packed away in no time at all and soon was bidding them farewell.

  "I wish I was headed west," he said, taking Cresenne's hand in his own and looking from her to Grinsa. "And not only because I enjoy the company of a lovely woman."

  Cresenne smiled, though she was surprised by how sad she felt to have to leave the old peddler. She and Grinsa had known him and the other peddlers for less than a day, but already they were their friends, the only ones they had in the Southlands.

  "Thank you for everything," she said, stepping forward and kissing his cheek.

  "Well, I don't think I did anything at all. But I'd gladly do nothing again if it earned me another kiss."

  She grinned.

  He glanced at Bryntelle, who was still asleep in Cresenne's arms. "Take care of the little one," he said. "You have enough food? I can sell you some if need be. At cost," he added.

  One of the older women was walking by as he said this, and she paused. "Take him up on it, just for our sake. We've never seen the old goat sell anything at cost."

  "Get away, nag!" he said, shooing her away as she laughed.

  "I think we have enough," Grinsa said. "Thank you, though."

  R'Shev's expression sobered. "Be certain. The Eandi of Stelpana grow more hostile to our kind as one moves west. There are some villages near the wash that even I won't venture into."

  Grinsa and Cresenne exchanged a look, and after a moment she nodded.

  "All right," Grinsa said. "It probably can't hurt to have a bit extra." R'Shev nodded. "That's right."

  They bought more cheese and smoked meat from the man, and paid far less than they would have in any marketplace. After that, there was nothing to do but bid him farewell.

  "I hope we
meet again," Cresenne told him, knowing of course that they wouldn't.

  "That's kind of you, my dear, but I hope we don't. My life's on these plains, and this is no place for a family like yours."

  He climbed onto his cart, clicked his tongue at his old horse, and started rattling eastward toward Bred's Landing.

  Grinsa and Cresenne were soon ready to continue on their way as well. As it happened, D'Chul, the young lutenist, was also headed west toward Silverwater Wash. Cresenne was delighted to ride in the company of another Qirsi, and she expected that Grinsa would be as well. But for the first several hours of the day, he said little, and he appeared to be occupied with dark thoughts. He rode with his shoulders hunched, his eyes trained on the ground before him, his brow creased so that he seemed to be scowling. Cresenne wondered if he was brooding on something he'd heard the night before, or if he was concerned about what they would do if the skies opened up again, or if he simply didn't like D'Chul.

  At one point during the morning, Cresenne steered her mount next to his and reached out to take his hand. His face brightened immediately and he smiled at her.

  "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

  "Yes, of course."

  "You seem troubled."

  He shook his head. "Really, I'm fine."

  Cresenne had nodded, taking him at his word. And why shouldn't she? Usually he kept nothing from her. But when she looked at him again only a few moments later, he looked just as he had before: tense, even apprehensive, which was not like him at all. She knew how strong he was, though, and she trusted that no matter what it was that had him worried, he'd find a way to overcome it.

  For her part, she hadn't been this happy since the day they left the Forelands, more than two turns before. She liked D'Chul and she enjoyed hearing him speak of the clans and of life on the plain. He'd been born in a small settlement in the Berylline Forest along the western bank of the A'Vahl River. Listening to him speak of his home, Cresenne had to remind herself again and again that all of his neighbors, all the people who lived with him in the village, were Qirsi. She knew this to be true-she'd been in the Southlands long enough to understand that this was not at all unusual in the western half of the land-but every time she pictured the marketplace he described, or the sanctuary where he worshiped, or any other part of the village, she pictured Eandi faces as well as Qirsi, indeed, more of the former than the latter. She couldn't help herself.