by DAVID B. COE
Saying it aloud was like asking the gods for leave to pass the village by, to turn around and find another way across the wash. It didn't help. The pull of the place was too strong, even for her.
She clicked her tongue and snapped the reins, and the old horse started forward, shaking her head as if to scold Lici for taking so long. Lici steered the cart across the bridge and, once she was on the other side, turned northward.
At least this time I got it right, she thought, and cackled at her cruel joke, at the poor girl who'd gotten it wrong so many years before. There were tears on her face by the time she reached the village, or what was left of it.
The houses stood just where she remembered them, shattered and charred, crumbling from years of neglect, green with mosses and vines. She reined the nag to a halt and sat, listening, shaded now, cooler. The sound of the wash, the smell of the pines.
And she was a child again, hurrying through her chores with Kytha and Baet, running to Sosli's house to see if her friend could play, tromping through the rain and snow to the small sanctuary on the eastern edge of the village. She remembered falling out of a tree near the wash when she was only six, and breaking her arm. For just an instant, she felt it again, her old, brittle bone aching with remembered pain. She could see the healer's knife glinting in the dim light of his home, the blood seeping from the scored back of his bony hand. She could feel his hands on her skin, as he probed the bone with deft, gentle fingers. The relief as her pain ebbed away, her wonder as she actually felt the bone knitting back together, his smile at what he saw on her face.
Broken bones, scrapes and cuts, even burns. These Mettai magic could mend. But not the pestilence.
If she followed the road it would take her past her old home. She held a vision of the house in her mind, clear and substantial. But sixteen fours had passed, and she was but a child when last she saw it. Who could say what it really looked like? Did she really want to know? Was there any point in disturbing memories that had served her for so long? Or was it already too late for such concerns?
Without truly intending to, without really thinking about it at all, she clicked at the horse again and started forward once more.
No, the girl within whimpered. Please. I don't want to see.
Lici ignored her. When had she become so cruel, so merciless?
At first she didn't recognize it. That small thing? That wreck of a house? But yes. That second one beyond it belonged to Sosli's family. Of that she was certain. So this one had to be hers.
Please. Get away from here.
She stared at the house, or at least what was left of it. The front door was gone-only a pair of rusted hinges gave any indication that it had been there at all. There were large holes in the front and side walls, and looking into the house, she could see bright spots where daylight poured through the remains of the roof. And like fragments of an old rhyme, recollections of this house in which she'd spent her earliest years came back to her. Some she welcomed, as she would warmth from a fire or the scent of her mother's newly baked bread. From others she recoiled, though, of course, she could hardly welcome some without accepting all.
She could hear the little girl sobbing now, but try as she might, Lici couldn't make out what she said. In another moment, the sound had vanished, replaced by distant cries and the moans of the ill and, finally, by the distant rumble of an approaching storm. She didn't need the girl to tell her what was coming, to warn her away from this place. She was desperate to flee, but the time for that had passed. If only she had listened before.
Her torch sputters with each gust of wind and hisses in the rain. She's crying, fear of the dark and the storm and the pestilence robbing her of whatever courage she might once have possessed. Her knees and shins ache from all the falls she's taken.
Still, she stumbles on, desperate now for any sign of a village or even a single house. Anything to relieve the relentless darkness of the wood.
It starts to rain harder Licaldi can hear the thunder growing nearer by the moment, growling like some great beast stalking her through the wood. She glances repeatedly at her torch. There can be no mistake: The flame is dying.
The path leads her up a steep incline, and several times she almost loses her footing. Just as she reaches the top, a bright flash illuminates the forest. Mere seconds later a clap of thunder makes the earth shudder
Suddenly, though, Licaldi doesn't care about the storm, or her failing torch, or her sodden clothes. Not far from the crest of the hill a faint light shines, half hidden by the trees, dimmed by the rain.
Licaldi breaks into a run, shouting for help and waving the torch over her head. A lone house? No. A village, larger than her own. Its houses look solid and comfortable, as if they have been built with a night like this one in mind. Most of the windows are shuttered, the doors closed. But as Licaldi continues to yell, making her way toward the marketplace, shutters and doors open, revealing white-haired men and women who peer out at her warily.
A Qirsi village! Gods be praised!
Lici shook her head and made herself look away from the house. Gazing toward the wash through a web of branches and tree trunks she could see the water sparkling like shattered glass. A flock of finches twittered and scolded in the branches overhead, and the trees whispered as a breath of wind brushed her skin.
She picked up the reins again and began to turn the cart, taking care to steer away from the house, so she wouldn't have to look at it again. It was far quicker to take the road through the village and the old marketplace, but Lici was eager now to be gone from this place. The last thing she needed was to drive her cart through the heart of Sentaya.
She was only halfway around when she stopped again.
The door is shut, the windows closed tight. Maybe, she thinks, they're all right after all.
But she knows better She pushes the door open. Utter darkness, save for the deep orange glow of embers that settle noisily in the hearth. The smell of sweat and vomit reach her and she gags.
"Mama?" she whispers through clenched teeth. "Papa?"
No answer
"Kytha? Baet?"
A glimmer of lightning brightens the house and Licaldi screams at what she sees. Both of her sisters are in their beds, their sleeping gowns and blankets soiled. Licaldi's father lies on the floor beside Kytha's bed, curled into a ball, as if too weak to make it back to his own bed. Kytha and Baet might well be sleeping, so peaceful do they look. But her father's eyes are still open, fixed on some spot on the ceiling.
Licaldi takes a step backward, turns away, and retches.
When her stomach is empty, and her throat is so sore she can barely draw breath, she goes to find her mother.
She knows just where to look. If Mama isn't in the house with Papa and the girls, she's by the stream, where she would have gone to get water for the others.
Licaldi staggers out of the house and makes her way down to the wash. Mama is lying on the bank of the stream, in much the same position Licaldi's father had been in. Licaldi hurries to her crying out "Mama, Mama!" like she did when she was small, even younger than Baetri. Baet, who'• dead.
Incredibly, her mother still lives, though only just.
"Licaldi?" her mother murmurs, as Licaldi kneels beside her
"Yes, Mama. Its me."
"Did you bring healers?"
Licaldi touches her mother's cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin is aflame. Lightning flares, and Licaldi catches a glimpse of her mother's- face. White as bone and though her eyes are open wide, it seems that they see nothing. It won't be long now.
"Did you, child?"
"Yes, Mama. I brought healers."
Mama smiles and closes her eyes. "Good girl," she says, the words coming out as soft as a sigh. "I knew you would."
"You there!"
Lici's eyes snapped up and she shuddered, as if released from a spell. Perhaps a hundred fourspans down the lane, an Eandi man sat atop a peddler's cart much larger than her own. He was far you
nger than she, with an ample gut and a full shock of red hair that poked out from beneath a leather wide-brimmed hat. The wood of his wagon was a pale, warm tan, and the beast hitched to the front was a large bay, fit and strong. This was a man of some means, a man who had done well for himself.
Grateful for the distraction, she smiled, and raised a hand in greeting. The man flicked his reins and the bay started forward. Lici drove her cart in his direction, so that in mere moments their carts were side by side. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes, fine," she said. Too quick with her response, too much brightness in her voice. "I used to live here," she said a moment later. "Many years ago. I was just… remembering."
The man nodded. "You live nearby, then?"
"Not very, no. I've been abroad for some time now." She gestured vaguely back at her cart. "I've baskets that I've been trying to sell." She noted that his eyes strayed toward her cart. Perhaps, if he was headed in the right direction, she could interest him in some or all of her wares. "And you?" she asked, offhandedly.
He met her gaze again, and smiled. He had a handsome face, despite the fleshy chin and round cheeks. "I came this way hoping to find some Mettai goods, some Y'Qatt blankets, things of that sort. Things you don't often find in Tordjanne. But it's proving harder than I expected."
Mettai, Y'Qatt. This was why the gods had steered her back into Sentaya. This was why she had ignored the little girl. This was why she had chanced those memories, sharp enough to draw blood. She needed to proceed carefully, though. She couldn't seem too eager to be rid of so many fine baskets. And somehow, before he left with her wares, she needed to place the spell on them.
"Mettai and Y'Qatt," she repeated aloud. "You're rather particular, aren't you?"
He grinned again. "I can afford to be. Any merchant can show up in a Tordjanne marketplace with the same tired goods and make a decent profit. That's not good enough for me. I've made a reputation for myself by selling not only the finest goods, but also the most unusual." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You think me a braggart."
"You don't lack for confidence."
"I merely tell you what I know to be true. There are such merchants in these lands, as well. Surely you've heard of Torgan Plye."
Lici shrugged and shook her head.
"Well, take my word for it. If you want something on these plains, you go to Torgan Plye. And if you want something in Tordjanne, you come to me."
"And you are?"
He smiled and removed his hat. "Forgive me. Brint HedFarren, at your service."
"My pleasure, sir. I'm called Lici."
"The pleasure is all mine, kind lady. It seems you're new to the peddler's life. At least I assume so, since you don't know of Torgan. How did you come to be driving a cart so late in life?"
She gave him the same answer she'd given so many others: She wanted to see the land before she died, and so had taken to trading, using the gold she earned from selling her wares to pay for food.
"And you've managed to steer clear of the pestilence?"
"Thus far. It seems I've been fortunate."
He nodded, regarding her once more through narrowed eyes. "You're Mettai, aren't you, Lici?" he asked her at last.
"I am."
"And you say you're selling baskets?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I see them?"
She gestured back at her cart. "Of course."
He eyed her for another moment, before climbing off his cart and walking to the rear of hers. She heard him draw aside the cloth that hung over the back entry to the wagon, and she waited. Let him look at them. Let him realize what a treasure he'd found, and then let him fix a price in his head. Not too long-he'd notice if she waited longer than was reasonable-but long enough.
Finally, she climbed down out of her seat and walked to the back of the cart. Brint was merely standing there, holding a basket in each hand and staring at the others.
He glanced at her as she stopped beside him. "You made these yourself?"
"Yes. Dyed them by hand. No magic."
The man smiled. "That was my next question."
"It always is with merchants."
He nodded, examined the basket in his right hand. "You do fine work," he said after several moments. "Another merchant would tell me not to say that, but I think you probably know it already."
"Yes, sir."
He reached in and pushed a few baskets out of the way, exposing still more. "How many are there? Do you know?"
Lici shook her head.
"What have you sold them for?"
"Too little," she said, without thinking. He looked at her, and she added, "I'm not skilled in such matters. I weave baskets. That's where my talent lies." She straightened. "I've gotten two sovereigns for many of them, and have traded food and such for others."
"Two sovereigns is a good price."
"Is that what you'll pay?"
Brint laughed. "I didn't say that." He regarded the contents of her cart again with an appraising eye. "No, I won't pay two. But I would be willing to buy all the baskets you have left for one sovereign apiece."
"One is too low."
"If this were a marketplace, I'd agree with you. But it's not. I'm offering you the chance to sell every basket in your cart, right now, at a decent price."
"And then you'll turn around and make a fine profit on each one."
"That's my intention, yes. But I'll be transporting them, putting them out each morning and packing up those that are left each night. You'll have nothing to do but return to your home and count your gold. Surely that's worth something."
Once more, as in Runnelwick and C'Bijor's Neck, and every village in between, Lici sought to find the balance between striking a convincing bargain and ridding herself of the baskets. But she was tired, and this young merchant seemed the perfect tool for delivering her curse to the last of the Y'Qatt villages.
"Yes, it is," she said with a sigh. "It's worth quite a bit. But I labored over those baskets, and I can't let them go for quite so little. So here's my offer. One sovereign for each basket, plus ten more for the lot. Neither of us knows what that will come to per basket, but I'm sure you'll be making out well, and I'll feel that I got a bit more for all my work."
Brint appeared to consider this for several moments. "Very well," he said at last. "One for each basket and ten more for the lot." He started to climb into her wagon, but then stopped himself. "Forgive me. May I?"
"Yes, of course." But inwardly, she winced. He was in a hurry now- no doubt he wished to be moving on before nightfall. Lici had concluded, though, that the night would be her best opportunity to use her magic on the baskets. She could pretend to be going in his direction, but his cart was finer than hers, and his was the stronger horse. She'd never be able to keep pace with him.
He emerged from her cart a moment later with several baskets in his hands. "This is eight," he said, stepping to the back of his cart. "I'll leave it to you to keep count."
"Yes, all right."
He placed the baskets in his cart and was back in hers a moment later.
"So were you born in Tordjanne?" she asked, waiting for him to climb out again.
"Yes."
"And you live there still?"
"It's home, if that's what you mean. I can't really say that I live anywhere in particular." He crawled out of the cart again. "Eight more." "Do you have family?" she asked, watching him walk to his cart and place the baskets inside.
"I haven't a wife and children. Not yet at least." He pulled himself back into her cart. "I have brothers," he called to her. "Three of them. And my mother is still alive."
"All of them in Tordjanne, too?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
He emerged again. "Ten this time. Do you know Tordjanne?"
"I've spoken of it with others. Merchants and the like. I have some sense of the land."
He nodded, stepping past her to get back into her cart. "Well, I grew up near Fairdale, on the
river. My father was a woodcrafter and my mother made baskets." He came out again and smiled. "Though none were as fine as these. Ten more."
"And your brothers are merchants as well?"
"No."
He put the baskets in his wagon and climbed back into hers. She could hear him moving freely now. He'd be finished in another moment. The sun was low in the west, but not low enough. Not yet.
"So they're in Tordjanne still?"
"Who? My brothers?"
"Yes."
"That's right. I'm the only one who left the woodlands. The others followed my father into woodcrafting."
"What made you leave?"
He emerged one more time, laden with baskets. "Gold," he said. "This is the last of them. Eleven. So how many is that?"
Lici thought about this for just a moment, closing her eyes, as if tallying up the number in her head. "Fifty-three," she finally said.
Brint frowned. He put the baskets in his cart, then turned to face her. "I don't think that's right."
She made her face fall. "No? I'm afraid I've never been very good with numbers."
He shook his head, removed his hat, and raked a hand through his hair. "You might have mentioned that when I left it to you to count them." He exhaled heavily and began to count the baskets in his cart. Several moments later he faced her again. "I count forty-seven."
She took a step toward him, frowning in turn. "You're certain?"
"Quite," he said. "But you're welcome to count them yourself."
She walked to his cart and began to count, pretending to lose her place twice before finally turning to face him.
"Yes, you're right," she said, smiling. "I'm terribly sorry."
He smiled in return, though clearly it was forced. "That's all right. I believe I owe you fifty-seven sovereigns."
