by DAVID B. COE
Riders. Fal'Borna riders.
"Have they seen us yet?" he managed to ask, his mouth abruptly so dry he could barely make himself understood.
"I don't think so."
Torgan looked around, much as Jasha had done moments before, and with much the same result. There was nowhere to hide out here. He snapped the reins again, fiercely this time, and he yelled at Trili to run. To the beast's credit, she leaped forward, straining against the harness, yanking the wagon into motion. Torgan was nearly thrown to the ground, and the cart shuddered and bounced mercilessly as they rushed over the grasses and rocky soil. But at least for a few precious moments he could fool himself into believing that they were getting away.
Then Jasha shouted to him to stop. At first Torgan ignored him, but within moments the lad had caught up to him with his cart.
"Torgan, stop!" he said again. "This is folly! We can't outrun Fal'Borna riders!"
"We can try!" he shot back, though he knew Jasha was right.
"If they see you running, they'll kill you! You know they will! Your one chance is to confront them, convince them that you've done nothing wrong!"
"I've been with you for days and I haven't managed that! How am I supposed to convince the white-hairs?"
"I don't know!"
Strangely, it was this candid answer that reached Torgan and made him slow his horse.
"I don't know," the lad said a second time, slowing as well. "But you can't escape them, and if they see you making the attempt, they'll never believe anything you say."
"So you're saying I should just surrender to them."
"What choice do you really have?"
"They'll kill me."
"Chances are they'll kill both of us."
Torgan hadn't even considered the idea that Jasha might be in danger, too. But of course he was. "Do you really believe that?"
"I'm an Eandi merchant riding with another Eandi whom they consider an enemy. I'd be surprised if they didn't."
"Then why don't you run? Your horse is faster than mine." He glanced to the south again. The dust cloud had grown, and he could make out a lengthy column of riders headed in their general direction. He couldn't tell if the Fal'Borna had spotted them yet. "You can unhitch her from your cart. You might be able to outrun them. It's me they want." He'd never been one for heroism, and he wasn't quite certain why he was choosing this moment to start. Jasha had been nothing but a bother since they started traveling together, and knowing now that the lad thought him a liar and murderer, Torgan should have damned him to whatever doom the Qirsi had in mind for them.
He couldn't do it, though. He'd had nothing to do with Y'Farl's death or the tragedy that befell the people of the Neck, and whatever harm he'd brought to S'Plaed's sept had been unintentional. Still, he'd been carrying the weight of those deaths for days now. Perhaps one more shouldn't have bothered him, but it did.
"Maybe we have time to hitch your wagon to the back of mine. The Fal'Borna need never know that we were together."
Jasha actually smiled, looking older and wiser than Torgan had seen him. "They'd know, Torgan. They can track a single rilda over rock and water. They can track me on this plain. No," he said, shaking his head and facing south again. "We'll face them together. It's really all we can do."
So they sat atop their carts, watching the horsemen approach, noting the slight shift in their direction as they finally spotted the two merchants. Torgan had never been any braver than he was heroic, and as he waited for the Fal'Borna to reach him, he felt himself succumbing to a debilitating fear. He grew sweaty, his hands trembled, and his teeth chattered as if they were in the midst of the Snows rather than the Harvest. His innards turned to water, so that long before the Qirsi got there, he had to climb off of his cart, walk behind it, and relieve himself. Even after he was back on his wagon again, the stink clung to him, hanging in the air around them. Jasha, who could not help but notice, was kind enough not to say anything.
The Fal'Borna continued their advance. Torgan could make out their white hair now, tied back in tails that streamed behind them like battle flags.
"I'd be grateful if you didn't tell them that you think I've been lying," he said. "If they choose not to believe that the woman is real, so be it. But they don't need any prodding from you in that regard."
Jasha smirked, his eyes never leaving that approaching column. "I won't say a thing."
"They may ask you."
"I'll tell them that I never saw the woman, but I did see her baskets. Will that do?"
Torgan exhaled heavily. "Probably not, but perhaps it won't make matters any worse."
As the Qirsi drew nearer, Torgan thought he recognized one of the leaders. He couldn't remember the man's name, but that was far less important than his sept, and the merchant racked his brain trying to attach an a'laq's name to the face before him.
"There are so many of them!" Jasha muttered. "Eight fours at least. Maybe ten. Do you think they sent out that many for us?"
Torgan concentrated on that face, saying nothing. He was so close to remembering.
"Torgan?"
He raised a hand, to keep the lad from saying more. It was right there, at the edge of his memory…
"E'Menua!" he whispered at last.
"What?"
Torgan closed his eyes. "Demons and fire," he said. "It's E'Menua's sept."
"Who's E'Menua?" Jasha asked.
He just shook his head.
"Talk to me, Torgan. They're getting close."
Any hope he might have had left was gone now. He could hardly bring himself to speak. "E'Menua is the a'laq of a large sept that often keeps to the central plains. I should have known these riders were his."
"You've had dealings with him before?"
"Some, none that was particularly unpleasant. But he has little affection for any Eandi, be they warriors or merchants, and he's said to be a fearsome warlord." Torgan looked at the lad. "You should have run when you had the chance."
Before Jasha could respond, one of the warriors just behind the two lead riders hurled a spear toward them so that it rose in a high arc and then plunged to earth, stabbing into the ground just in front of them, exactly between the two carts. Torgan's horse reared, as did Jasha's, and both merchants fought to control their beasts.
"Damn them!" Torgan muttered. This was part of what made the Fal'Borna so dangerous. They were as skilled with weapons as any Eandi army, and yet they also wielded Qirsi magic. They were said to be fearless in battle, and merciless as well. Torgan could only assume that he had but moments left to live.
The riders came to a halt just a few fourspans from where Torgan and Jasha waited for them, stirring the dust, so that a dun haze drifted over the merchants.
"Both of you, throw down your blades!" one of the leaders said, hefting a spear of his own.
The merchants exchanged puzzled looks. Forty Fal'Borna warriors were worried about their daggers?
"Our blades?" Jasha said.
"You heard me! Throw them down now, or we'll kill you both!" There could be no mistaking the man's tone: He meant what he said. Torgan glanced at his companion again and shrugged. He pulled his old dagger from his belt and tossed it on the ground by his cart. Jasha did the same.
One of the Fal'Borna ran forward and retrieved the blades. "Now, down off your cart, Torgan Plye!"
He wanted to ask what would happen to his wares, his cart, and his horse, but he was familiar enough with the Fal'Borna to know already. His beast would be well cared for; his possessions were forfeit. Slowly, he climbed down off the wagon and stood before the Qirsi, his feet planted, his arms hanging at his side. He should have been terrified, but a strange calm had come over him. He had feared that he might weep, or that his legs wouldn't support him and he'd wind up groveling in the dirt. He did neither.
"Who are you?" the Fal'Borna asked Jasha.
"My name is Jasha Ziffel. I'm a merchant. I come from Tordjanne."
"What business do you have with
Torgan?"
Jasha shrugged. "He's my friend."
"Have a care, Eandi. Do you know what it means to declare yourself friend to one the Fal'Borna have named an enemy?"
"Yes," Jasha said. "I know."
The Qirsi eyed him briefly, looking impressed. At last he nodded. "Very well. Off your cart, then."
Jasha climbed down and stood beside Torgan.
"That was foolish," Torgan said under his breath, as several of the Fal'Borna dismounted and began to search the carts.
"It was the truth," Jasha whispered back.
"No, it wasn't. We're not friends, Jasha. You think…" He stopped, casting a furtive look at the Fal'Borna leaders, who, at least for the moment, were ignoring them. "You think the worst of me," he went on, dropping his voice even further. "You're with me precisely because we're not friends. You don't trust me enough to leave me. That's some friendship."
"Do you have others?"
"What?"
"Other friends. Do you have any?"
Torgan opened his mouth, closed it again. After some time, he shook his head.
"Then, I'd suggest you accept my offer of friendship and keep your mouth shut."
"Be silent!" one of the leaders said, glaring at them.
Torgan could hear them rummaging through his wares, and none too gently.
"If you tell me what you're looking for, I might be able to tell you," he said. "And that way you won't have to destroy my goods."
One of the leaders, the one Torgan had recognized from afar, walked over and stood just in front of him. He was a full head shorter than Torgan, but the look in his eyes could have brought snow on the hottest day of the Growing season.
"Do you know why we've been hunting you, Torgan Plye?" he asked, his voice a match for those pale eyes.
Torgan held the man's gaze for as long as he could-no more than a heartbeat or two-before looking away. "I have some idea," he whispered.
"Then you should understand that I'm eager for your blood. All of us are. We're just waiting for you to give us an excuse to spill it. Do I make myself clear?"
He nodded, not daring to speak.
The man stood before him a moment longer, then grinned coldly and spun away. Only then did Torgan begin to breathe again.
The Fal'Borna searched the two carts for what seemed an eternity. After some time, it occurred to the merchant to wonder if the Qirsi knew about the baskets, if they were, in fact, searching for some indication that he had encountered the Mettai woman. He didn't ask, seeing danger in the question regardless of what they knew. He remained silent, staring at the ground, waiting to die. At last, when it seemed that every item Torgan carried with him must have been broken or dented or ruined in some way, the warriors walked back to their leaders and announced that they had found nothing of significance. Torgan would have laughed aloud had he not been certain that the Qirsi would kill him where he stood.
"So, what now?" Jasha asked.
"Now, they kill us, you fool!" Torgan whispered.
But Jasha was looking at the two Fal'Borna leaders, who were approaching them.
"Now, we're going to take you back to our sept, where you'll face the judgment of our a'laq."
"You're not going to kill us?" Torgan said, without thinking.
"Not yet, Torgan Plye," the Fal'Borna said. "Not yet." He started to walk away. "The two of you will ride with us," he called to them over his shoulder. "Our warriors will see to it that your carts reach the sept."
Torgan felt someone push him from behind and glancing back, found himself face to face with a young Fal'Borna warrior.
"You're to follow the Weaver," the young man told him, his voice flat.
Torgan nodded and started walking slowly after the leader. Jasha did the same.
"We should be dead by now," the old merchant said quietly. Jasha glanced at him. "Are you complaining?"
"Of course not," Torgan said, scowling at him. "I just don't understand. You heard the leader. They think I killed all those people in S'Plaed's sept. To the Fal'Borna, that's more than enough to justify a summary execution."
"Maybe they're scared," Jasha whispered.
"Scared? You mean of me?"
"Of the pestilence. Of whatever killed the Y'Qatt. They may yet kill us, Torgan. But they're going to want to understand all of this first. That's our one hope."
It made sense, and after a moment Torgan nodded. "Then, should I tell them what I know, or would I be better off keeping it to myself?"
Jasha just shrugged. "I don't know. But choose well. Our lives are most certainly at stake."
The sun had begun to set and a bank of clouds rolling in from the west had cast a grey pall over the day when the riders finally returned. Cresenne was still working and Bryntelle remained with the other children, leaving Grinsa with little to occupy his day. He'd been in the sept for only a short time, but already he had grown bored with the leisurely life afforded him because he was a Weaver. Not knowing what else to do, and unwilling simply to sit outside the a'laq's shelter, he had wandered off, following the stream that wound past the settlement.
He hadn't gone far, though, and was already on his way back to the sept, when he heard the beginnings of the commotion raised by the war party's return. He hurried on to the middle of the settlement, where he found Q'Daer and L'Norr already speaking with E'Menua. Two Eandi men sat on mounts behind them, eyed closely by several warriors, who also remained on their horses.
One of the men was young-he couldn't have been much past his twentieth year. He had yellow hair that he wore closely shorn, and a youthful freckled face. He remained watchful, but he didn't appear particularly fearful, not like the other man.
He was older than his companion, and larger as well, broad in the shoulders and thick in his middle. As a younger man he might have been formidable, but now he merely looked ponderous. He'd lost one of his eyes years before; the scars on his face were old, brown and weathered like the rest of his skin. His one good eye, which was as dark as the ocean on a stormy day, darted about as if he wasn't certain where to look and feared everything on which his gaze lingered. Based on all he had heard earlier in the day, Grinsa guessed that this older man was Torgan Plye.
When E'Menua spotted Grinsa, he gestured for him to join their discussion. Grinsa walked to where they were standing.
"Where have you been, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, sounding annoyed. "We've been waiting for you."
"You are a Weaver in this sept. I expect you to join us in discussions of matters of such great weight."
Grinsa wasn't certain what to say. A moment before he'd been lamenting his lack of responsibilities. Now it seemed that he had some, and had been shirking them. A quip leaped to mind, but he kept it to himself.
"My apologies then, A'Laq. How may I serve the sept?"
E'Menua stared at him briefly, as if wondering whether Grinsa was goading him again.
"As you can see," he said after a moment, "we've found Torgan Plye, of whom you heard us speak earlier. Q'Daer and L'Norr searched his cart and found nothing unusual. And as of yet, none of their riders have fallen ill. We intend to question them now, before putting them to death."
Both of the Eandi paled.
"You've already decided to execute them?" Grinsa asked.
"Yes, of course. They're enemies of the Fal'Borna."
"But you don't know if they did anything wrong!"
The warriors gaped at him. Q'Daer and L'Norr eyed him coldly. Even the merchants, who had barely taken notice of him until now, were staring at Grinsa as if he had challenged the a'laq to a knife fight. But it was E'Menua's expression that told the gleaner just how seriously he had erred. His large eyes burned like coals in a fire, his cheeks had shaded to crimson, and his sharp chin quivered, as if it was all he could do to keep from striking Grinsa down where he stood.
"In my z'kal!" he said through clenched teeth. "Now!"
Grinsa didn't dare argue. He merely turned and started toward the a'laq's shelter.
"Bring them!" he heard E'Menua say. Grinsa didn't look back to see who the a'laq had spoken to, but he assumed E'Menua had given the order to the other two Weavers.
Reaching the a'laq's shelter, he stepped inside, then turned to face the entryway and waited. He didn't have to stand there for long.
E'Menua threw aside the flap of rilda hide that covered the entrance, stepped into the shelter, and struck Grinsa across the cheek with the back of his hand. Grinsa had expected him to do something of the sort, and he made no effort to block the blow. He staggered back, nearly stepping in the fire, but he managed to stay on his feet.
"If you ever speak to me in such a way again, I'll kill you! I am a'laq of this sept and you will show me the respect I am due! How dare you question me in front of my people like that!"
His cheek still throbbing, Grinsa said nothing. Best, he thought, to let the a'laq vent his anger.
"You may be new here, Forelander. You may feel that you're not one of us, that you intend to leave Fal'Borna land at the first opportunity. I don't give a damn! You will address me properly, or you'll be dealt with just the way a mutinous Fal'Borna would be. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, A'Laq. It wasn't my intention to give offense."
To his credit, E'Menua appeared to accept Grinsa's apology. "What exactly was your intention?" he asked, sounding calmer.
"I'm not really certain," Grinsa admitted. "It just seems to me that
you may not be justified in executing those men."
"They have been declared enemies of the Fal'Borna, Forelander. They-"
"A'Laq?" came a voice from outside.
"Wait out there!" E'Menua called. He looked at Grinsa again. "Once someone is named an enemy of our people, his fate is decided. It's something you'd do well to keep in mind. I have no choice in the matter. These men have to die."
"Even if they've done nothing wrong."
"Torgan brought the pestilence to S'Plaed's sept."
"So S'Plaed claims," Grinsa said. "But what if he's mistaken? What if we can prove that the merchant did nothing wrong? Is Fal'Borna justice so unyielding that it would condemn an innocent man?"
"Why do you argue so? What is Torgan to you?"
