The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  The merchants dropped back a few paces, falling silent once more. A short time later, though, the older merchant pulled abreast of Grinsa, eyeing him closely.

  "Who are you?" the man asked.

  "My name's Grinsa jal Arriet."

  Torgan shook his head. "That's not a Fal'Borna name. I'm not even sure it's a Southlands name."

  "It's not."

  "It's true, then. What they said about you in the sept. You're from the Forelands?"

  Grinsa glanced at him. After a moment he nodded.

  "How did you come to be living with E'Menua's sept?"

  "Just lucky, I suppose."

  "They don't like you much. Obviously, Q'Daer doesn't. And I don't think the a'laq does, either."

  "No, I don't imagine so."

  "So why do you stay with them?"

  "Is there something you want, Torgan?" Grinsa asked, his patience wearing thin. "Because I'm really in no mood to satisfy your curiosity right now."

  "I want to know why you're doing this. My life is in your hands. So is Jasha's. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," he went on, sounding anything but contrite, "but I'd like to know a bit about the man who may end up determining whether we live or die."

  It seemed a fair point.

  "I'm with them because I'm a Weaver," Grinsa said. "They want me to become part of their sept; my wife and I want to move on. If I can find the Mettai woman you've told them about, they'll let us go."

  "That's it? This is some kind of test? A way of proving yourself?"

  "It's a way of winning our freedom. That may not sound like much to you, but we've come a long way to make a life for ourselves in your land, and we're not willing to let the Fal'Borna destroy that for us."

  The merchant didn't look pleased, but he nodded once.

  "We're on the same side in this, Torgan. You may not think of me as the perfect ally, and certainly I had no desire to have my fate tied to yours, but we're in this together now, and we'd best make the most of it."

  "Yeah," Torgan said, "all right. As you say, we haven't much choice in the matter." He looked Grinsa in the eye. "You argued for our lives when no one else would. I suppose that's worth something."

  He dropped back again, allowing the other merchant to catch up with him.

  Grinsa continued to ride alone, his eyes fixed on the north horizon. There were hills ahead to the west, and he knew that there were mountains to the north beyond the plain, but he couldn't see them for the rain and clouds. Eventually, Q'Daer halted and waited for the others to catch up with him. He pulled a pouch of food from one of the sacks tied to his saddle, took out a piece of what appeared to be dried meat, and handed the pouch to Grinsa.

  "We're cold," Torgan said. "How much longer do you intend to ride in this weather?"

  Q'Daer smiled, though there was no warmth in his pale eyes. "As long as this weather lasts," he said. "And then we'll have some other weather to ride in."

  "We've a couple of hours left before sunset," Grinsa said, biting into a piece of meat. It was good-better than he'd expected. "We'll ride until it starts to get dark."

  He handed the food to Torgan.

  The merchant shook his head. "We should stop before then. We'll need time to set up some kind of shelter and find wood for a fire."

  Of course. The longer this took, the longer the merchants would stay alive and the better their chances of making an escape. In this respect, Torgan and Grinsa were anything but allies.

  "Leave that to us, Eandi," Q'Daer said. "Your only concern is finding that Mettai witch you've been going on about. And the sooner we do that, the better for all of us."

  The merchants each took a piece of the meat, and then Torgan started to tuck the pouch into his travel sack.

  "Give that to me, dark-eye."

  Torgan glared at Q'Daer. "It's mine. I bought it in Stelpana."

  "It may have been yours once, but now it belongs to the Fal'Borna." The Weaver held out a hand. "Give it here."

  "And if I refuse?"

  Torgan's mount reared, just as the young merchant's had earlier. This time though, the rider was thrown. Torgan landed heavily on the wet grass and lay on his back, too stunned to move. Q'Daer was off his mount an instant later, a knife in his hand. He strode to where the merchant lay, picked up the pouch of food, which had landed beside Torgan, and stared down at the man.

  "Next time, I'll break your arm. You may have hopes of being spared, or perhaps you think you might escape. But until the a'laq tells me otherwise, you're a prisoner of the Fal'Borna, and you'll do exactly as I say." He reached into the pouch and pulled out another piece of meat. Then he smiled and placed it between his teeth. Looking up at Grinsa, he held out the food. "You want more?"

  Grinsa shook his head.

  Q'Daer shrugged and walked back to his mount. "On your horse, Eandi," he said, as he climbed back into his saddle.

  Torgan struggled to his feet and tried to get on his horse. He couldn't. Finally, the other merchant dismounted and helped him up. Soon after, they were moving again. Once more, Q'Daer rode a fair distance ahead of the others.

  "We can help each other."

  Grinsa looked over and saw that Torgan was beside him again.

  "It sounds as though you want to get away from them as much as we do. So let's work together."

  "No," Grinsa said. "I left my wife and daughter with the Sept. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. I can't get away unless you help us find that woman. So that's what you're going to do."

  "You told me before that we're allies," the merchant said sullenly. "But you sound like a Fal'Borna to me."

  "Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe we're not allies. But I'm not Fal'Borna either. I'm alone in this." Grinsa knew as soon as he spoke the words that this was true. The merchants were concerned only with staying alive; Q'Daer was Fal'Borna. And he owed loyalty to no one except Cresenne and Bryntelle. "I have no allies," he said, as much to himself as to Torgan. "I have no need of them."

  "You think you can do battle with the Fal'Borna by yourself?"

  Grinsa shook his head. "I have no intention of battling the Fal'Borna. I'm going to war against a Mettai witch. And so are the two of you, so I'd get used to the idea. You want to live through this? Then you'll help me, you'll stop antagonizing Q'Daer, and you'll lead us to that old woman. Otherwise you're corpses. It's as simple as that."

  Torgan glowered at him another moment, then fell back to join the other merchant.

  "Serves me right for trying to talk sense to a white-hair," the Eandi muttered.

  Grinsa didn't bother responding, or even looking back. His eyes were fixed on the young Fal'Borna Weaver riding ahead of him. Q'Daer was the real threat. The merchants might have been willing to risk an attempt at escape, but Grinsa knew that he and the Fal'Borna could stop them. The young Weaver, though, was another matter. The a'laq had told Grinsa that he hoped they'd succeed in finding the old woman. But what if he lied? What if he cared nothing for sparing the Eandi and stopping this Mettai witch, but remained determined to keep Grinsa in his sept? For all Grinsa knew, Q'Daer's purpose in riding with him was not to help, but rather to keep him from succeeding.

  As if reading his thoughts, Q'Daer looked back at him and, after a moment's hesitation, gestured for Grinsa to ride forward.

  "Come, Forelander. Join me. You don't need to guard the dark-eyes. They'll go nowhere without us."

  Grinsa glanced back at Torgan, who was watching him closely. Then he kicked at his mount and joined the other Weaver. He even chanced a smile.

  "I wouldn't have thought you wanted anything to do with me," he said, pulling abreast of Q'Daer.

  The young man shrugged. "We both lost our tempers," he said. "Live with the Fal'Borna for a while and you'll realize that this isn't so uncommon." A smile crossed his lips and was gone; he still refused to look the gleaner in the eye.

  "Well, I apologize for hitting you. I'm not sure why I did it. It wasn't at all like me."

  "Perhaps you're more
like the rest of us than you care to admit." Grinsa nodded and gave a small laugh. "That may be," he said. "But still, I am sorry."

  The man nodded in turn, glancing at him for just an instant. "Apology accepted."

  It all seemed quite pleasant, far more so than Grinsa would have thought possible. And yet something in Q'Daer's bearing gave him pause. He didn't know the Weaver well, but he had always been a good judge of people, and he could tell when someone was hiding something.

  So he smiled and nodded, and acted as though their conflict had been settled. But he kept a firm hold on his magic, and he was conscious suddenly of the dagger that he wore on his belt. He had taken the measure of the man's power, and he thought that he could prevail in a battle of sorcery, if it came to that. But he wasn't going to take any chances, not with so much at stake.

  There was an old saying in the Forelands. Always keep your enemies at arm's length. Closer, and their blade might find your heart. Farther away, and your blade might never find theirs.

  They stopped and made camp by a small stream that curved through the grasses and rich dark soil of the plain. Clouds still hung low over the land and daylight gave way to night in ever-darkening shades of grey. They found enough wood among the trees growing by the rill to build a warming fire, and they ate a small meal of smoked meat and bread.

  The dark-eyes said little. The younger merchant watched Grinsa and Q'Daer keenly, as a grouse might eye a circling falcon, but Torgan had retreated into himself. He merely stared at the fire and ate what was offered to him in sullen silence.

  Since apologizing for their earlier encounter the Forelander hadn't said much either; Q'Daer thought it possible that Grinsa considered the matter settled, which suited his purposes quite well. But they would have to speak some time if Q'Daer were to begin to gain the man's trust. He had also decided hours before that he couldn't allow the Eandi and the Forelander to become too friendly. It would have been quite natural for them to begin working together; Q'Daer didn't want that.

  "Tell me, Grinsa," he said now, with a glance at the merchants. "Are the dark-eyes of your land similar to these two?"

  The Forelander had just taken a bite of meat, and he paused briefly in his chewing, his pale eyes flicking first to the Eandi and then to Q'Daer. After a moment he finished chewing and swallowed.

  "They're like some men I knew in the Forelands," he said evenly. "They're different from others."

  "That surprises me. I'd heard that you had friends among the Eandi of the north, that you fought alongside their kings and nobles. Yet these two fight among themselves. At every turn they show themselves to be cowards and liars. They may have killed thousands. And you want me to believe that they're just like your friends in the Forelands."

  Grinsa shook his head. "That's not what I said. You can find honorable men in any land, regardless of the color of their eyes." He gestured vaguely at the merchants. "I don't know these men very well, but I sense that they're not too different from some of the people I knew in the Forelands. Just as you're not."

  Q'Daer's eyes widened slightly. "Me?"

  A smile touched the man's face. "Yes. You remind me of several Qirsi I knew in the North."

  "Friends of yours?"

  Grinsa shrugged. "Some. As I say, there are all sorts of men, of all races."

  Torgan continued to ignore them, the firelight reflected in his one eye. But the younger merchant had been listening, and now he said, "Sounds like you're no better in his view than we are, Q'Daer."

  "Shut your mouth, dark-eye," Q'Daer said.

  The Eandi shrugged, then took another bite of meat.

  "Is that what you meant?" the Fal'Borna asked Grinsa.

  The Forelander cast a hard look at the merchant, but then turned to face Q'Daer, his expression easing. "I meant nothing beyond what I said. You seem to think that people here-Eandi and Qirsi alike-are quite different from the men and women I knew in the Forelands, and I'm just telling you that the differences aren't that great."

  Q'Daer nodded, though he wasn't quite satisfied with the man's answer.

  "It's been a long day," Grinsa said, standing and retrieving his sleeping roll. "I'm going to get some sleep. I'd suggest the rest of you do the same."

  Q'Daer watched Grinsa and the merchants arrange themselves on the ground around the fire before reluctantly doing the same. He wanted to stay awake, to keep talking so that they couldn't sleep either, but he knew he was being foolish, like a petulant child. Somehow the Forelander had managed to make himself the leader of their little group. Somehow the young merchant had managed to twist their conversation. None of this was going the way it was supposed to. He would have to be more careful in the days to come.

  Q'Daer stared up into the darkness and listened to the fire settling beside him. After some time he began to grow calmer, his thoughts clearing like the sky after a passing storm. He still considered Grinsa a threat to all that he wanted, but with E'Menua's help he had glimpsed a way past the danger.

  Before leaving the sept, while Grinsa said farewell to his woman and child, Q'Daer had spoken with the a'laq. D'Pera had been there when he entered E'Menua's z'kal, but the a'laq sent her away. Q'Daer had only seen him do this a few times before; the last time had been following the storm in which Q'Daer's men perished.

  "You dislike the Forelander," E'Menua had said, once they were alone.

  He saw no point in denying it. His cheek still throbbed where Grinsa had struck him. No doubt E'Menua could see the bruise, and even if he couldn't, others had seen what happened. There were few secrets in a Fal'Borna sept.

  "Yes, A'Laq. I dislike him."

  "Why?" Immediately, E'Menua shook his head and held up a hand to silence him. "It's all right. I know why. In your position I might hate him, too."

  "My feelings aren't important, A'Laq. He's a Weaver, and his presence here strengthens your sept. He and I will find this Mettai witch and stop her."

  The a'laq nodded once and smiled. "You are truly Fal'Borna, my friend. I wish your father had lived long enough to see the man you've become."

  "Thank you, A'Laq."

  E'Menua motioned for him to sit.

  "I know how difficult a time you've had since the storm," the a'laq said, when Q'Daer was settled on the other side of the fire. "I know that you fear you've fallen out of my favor."

  Q'Daer lowered his gaze. "L'Norr is my friend, and a good man, A'Laq. I believe either one of us would be a worthy husband for U'Vara."

  "I agree with you. But I think you're stronger than he is. I have sons, so I don't expect that either of you will ever rule this Sept. But I want a strong husband for my daughter."

  "Yes, A'Laq."

  "I also want the Forelander to stay here."

  Q'Daer's mouth twitched. "Yes, A'Laq."

  "You have every reason to want him to leave, I know. And that means that you have every reason to want him to succeed in this endeavor with the dark-eye merchants. He and I have struck a bargain. If he succeeds, I'll allow him to leave. If he fails, he stays and agrees to be properly joined to a Weaver."

  It was just as Q'Daer had feared. Despite the a'laq's kind words of a moment before, he felt his hopes of being joined to U'Vara slipping away.

  "I understand, A'Laq. You want me to make certain he fails."

  E'Menua raised a finger, his eyes narrowing. "It's not quite that simple. I want this Mettai witch dead-I fear this curse of hers. But I don't want Grinsa to prove that Torgan and his friend are innocent, and I don't want the Forelander to be able to claim credit for killing the witch." E'Menua's pale eyes shone in the firelight. "I want you to succeed where he fails. Do this and I promise that you will be joined to U'Vara. The failure of your hunt will be forgotten." His expression darkened. "Fail me again, and I'll see to it that you never marry."

  There had been nothing for Q'Daer to say but "Yes, A'Laq."

  He left the z'kal, and a short time later he led the Forelander and the merchants away from the sept.

  They'd
ridden a long way this day; it was hard for him to believe that his conversation with E'Menua had taken place only a few hours before. It seemed like days ago.

  He didn't know yet how he would do all that the a'laq had asked of him. A part of him simply wanted Grinsa dead. His cheek didn't hurt much anymore, but the humiliation of being struck by the Forelander still burned his heart like a brand. He knew, though, that he couldn't kill the man without incurring E'Menua's wrath. And he had to admit that he looked forward to seeing Grinsa defeated and humiliated in turn, compelled to accept E'Menua's authority over him. He would enjoy seeing Grinsa's woman forced to relinquish her place at his side so that she might become some other Weaver's concubine. He might even claim her as his own. And once he was joined to U'Vara, he would hold a place of honor in the sept, above all Weavers save the a'laq himself. Grinsa would be under his authority as well as E'Menua's. Then the man would pay for what he had done, not all at once, but a thousand times each day for a thousand days and more. Q'Daer would enjoy that immensely.

  Chapter 22

  THE LANDS BETWEEN RAVENS WASH AND SILVERWATER WASH,

  SOUTH OF THE COMPANIONLAKES

  Rain and wind, grey skies at dawn and dusk, starless, moonless ights. In the days since leaving Kirayde, this was all Besh and Sirj had known. Everything they carried with them was wet-their clothes, their sleeping rolls, their food. None of it had been spared. It occurred to Besh that the gods might be punishing him for his arrogant belief that he was still young enough to undertake such a trek. You think you can do this? they seemed to be saying. We'll show you how wrong you are.

  The two men weren't walking particularly fast. Sirj took the lead each day, and he always set a reasonable pace. No doubt he could have gone faster had he been on his own; it was as though he was reining himself in. And still the old man suffered. It had been too many fours since last he covered such distances on foot. His legs and back ached. His feet were blistered. The slightest incline stole his breath; walking downhill jarred his ancient knees. He was cold and weary all the time.