by DAVID B. COE
"I'm sorry for that," Enly said. "You've found me now. What can I do for you?"
The young Mettai glanced around, as if suddenly conscious of all the men surrounding them, readying themselves for the day's march.
"Is there somewhere else-?"
"Forgive me," Enly said, his patience running thin, "but there's not. No one's listening to us, and I haven't time to leave the camp. What is it you want?"
Mander frowned. "My m-" He stopped, licked his lips, then started again. "The eldest wanted me to speak with you. She doesn't trust this merchant who rides with us."
That seemed a common feeling, but Enly kept this to himself.
"She also doesn't believe the white-hair plague came from our people," Mander went on. "She doesn't think it's possible."
"Really?" Enly asked. "After seeing what your magic can do, I have to disagree. Sleeping spells? Giant wolves and eagles? The shield you conjured to stop the Fal'Borna's fire? I have little doubt that the Mettai witch Torgan mentioned could conjure a plague if she wanted to."
"You don't know enough about my people or our magic to say that," the young Mettai told him. "We do, and I'm telling you it's not possible."
Enly had no desire to prolong their conversation by arguing with the man. "What is it you want me to do, Mander?"
"We don't trust this man," the Mettai said again.
"I understand that, but there's really nothing I can-"
"The marshal trusts you. He listens to you. If you were to tell him-"
"Tell him what?" Enly said, cutting him off. "The eldest doesn't want to believe that the plague could have come from Mettai magic, so you need to send away this man who may hold the key to victory in the palm of his hand?" He laughed harshly. "Jenoe wouldn't listen to me, and I wouldn't blame him."
Mander ran a hand through his long hair, looking troubled and beyond his depth. "Your men hate us already," he said with quiet intensity. "They regard us as demons. With the merchant saying these things about us it'll only get worse."
Enly shrugged. "I'm sorry."
"You say that the merchant has a way to win the war? He carries a weapon?"
He felt the color rising in his cheeks. Jenoe hadn't told them to keep this information from the Mettai, but Torgan had spoken to the marshal and his captains in confidence. Enly couldn't imagine that Jenoe would be pleased with him for letting this slip.
"It's not a weapon so much as… as information."
Mander eyed him skeptically. "Information about Mettai magic?"
"Information about the plague," Enly said. "I really can't tell you more than that. I shouldn't have said as much as I have."
"He's lying to you," Mander said. "He can't be trusted. Can't you see that?"
"Is there anything else?" Enly asked him.
Mander looked like he did want to say more. His dark eyes smoldered and he rubbed the scars on the back of his hand as if they pained him. But after a moment he shook his head and stomped off, back toward the rest of the Mettai.
Enly watched the man walk away until Nallaj snorted impatiently.
"Yes, all right," Enly muttered. "He's right, you know." He stroked his horse's nose. "We'd be better off without the merchant. For that matter, we'd be better off without the Mettai as well." He looked at his mount and grinned. "In fact, I think I'd like to be back in Qalsyn about now, enjoying an ale at the Swift Water and flirting with anyone other than Tirnya."
Nallaj placidly stared back at him, as if reminding him that he'd chosen to march with the Onjaefs in the first place.
"Right."
He heard one of Jenoe's men calling the army to muster and he swung himself into his saddle. If anything, his mood had grown even worse than it had been when he woke.
As Torgan had wrested control over his life back from the Fal'Borna and everyone else who had tried to bend him to their purposes over the past several turns, he had also rediscovered the powers of observation that once made him such a successful merchant. Not long ago, he had been able to discern a rival merchant's weaknesses with little more than a glance. That had been his gift. Within seconds of beginning a negotiation he knew how it would end. And nearly every time, he used this knowledge to turn a tidy profit.
The stakes were different now. He was trading in blood rather than gold; he concerned himself not with profit but with his own survival. In other ways, however, the game remained much the same.
And right now, he was losing. With each day that passed he thought it increasingly likely that Marshal Onjaef would send him away without using his scrap of cursed basket against the white-hairs. He'd cautioned himself to remain patient, but after his encounter with the Onjaef woman and Qalsyn's lord heir, he didn't believe he could afford to wait any longer.
He felt reasonably sure that the problem and its possible solution lay with Tirnya. If he could convince her, he could turn the marshal. But he no longer thought that he could change her mind, at least not on his own. For whatever reason, she didn't like or trust him. That was clear.
But he thought it equally clear that she had other matters on her mind. Any fool could see that Maisaak's son was in love with her, and from what Torgan had observed the night before, it seemed obvious that Enly had a rival in Gries Ballidyne. Enly and the woman were too much alike; if Torgan couldn't convince her, he wouldn't convince the lord heir either.
Gries, on the other hand, struck the merchant as being a perfect ally. Those who knew the Ballidynes spoke often of their ambition and their daring. The fact that Gries would make a play for the woman in the middle of a war confirmed what Torgan had already known: Here was a man Torgan could understand, a man who thought in terms of risk and profit. Yes, Tirnya Onjaef was beautiful. But more to the point, if Gries could win her from Enly, he and his house would profit handsomely. She came from a powerful, wealthy family. And if this invasion succeeded in ending the Onjaef's exile, such a marriage would prove even more advantageous to the Ballidynes.
He would have liked to seek out Fairlea's captain immediately after leaving Enly and Tirnya, but he could see that the soldiers and their commanders were preparing for the day's march, and this was not a conversation he wanted to rush. Instead, he saddled Trey and, when the army of Stelpana mustered into columns, positioned himself a short distance behind the captains. A short time later they resumed their march westward, and for some time Torgan rode alone in silence.
He watched Gries closely. The captain appeared to be in good spirits as he chatted amiably with some of the captains under his command. He also kept his eye on both Tirnya, who rode with her father, and Enly, who appeared to ride alone. But it seemed to Torgan that Gries glanced at the woman now and again, as if unable to stop himself. Torgan didn't approach the man at first. He didn't wish to appear too eager, nor did he want to begin their conversation by interrupting Gries's interaction with his men.
But late in the morning Jenoe signaled for a brief halt by one of the many rills that cut through the plain. Gries dismounted and took a long drink of water and Torgan did the same, though he continued to keep his distance, positioning himself upstream of Fairlea's lord heir. One of the men with whom Gries had been riding lingered near the captain. Otherwise Torgan might have approached him then. A moment later, though, this other Fairlea captain returned to his mount, leaving Gries alone.
Scanning the area to make certain that no one else was near, Torgan stood. As he did, he purposely knocked his hat off his head and into the water. Immediately the current took it, and sped it downstream toward the captain.
"Damn!" Torgan said, stumbling after his hat along the stream bank. Gries looked up, saw the hat floating toward him, and snatched it out of the water. He straightened and, when Torgan reached him, handed the soaked hat back to the merchant.
"There you go," the captain said with a grin.
"Thank you, Captain. It may not look like much to you, but I've had this hat a long time. I wouldn't have wanted to lose it."
"I'm sure," Gries said,
his tone courteous. He started to turn away. "There's a story behind it," Torgan said, shaking as much of the water out of the hat as he could and returning it to his head. "If you'd like to hear it."
Gries stopped, seeming to weigh whether to make his escape or agree to listen to Torgan's tale.
"This hat actually comes from your city."
Gries looked genuinely surprised. "Does it really?"
"Indulge an old man, Captain. Let me tell you how I came by it. I promise you won't be sorry."
The captain chuckled. "Very well, Mister Plye. Tell me your story." Before Torgan could begin, one of Jenoe's men called for the soldiers to muster in once more. The timing couldn't have been better.
"Can I ride with you?" the merchant asked.
"Of course."
"The tale of this hat begins with a game of dice," Torgan told him when they were riding again. "I was in the marketplace in Fairlea, and had spent the entire day making sales and trades. This was many years back and I wasn't as successful as I am-" He broke off, his cheeks coloring. "As I later became."
Gries said nothing and had the good grace to keep his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"None of the men I was playing against had much more gold than I did," he went on after a moment. "And soon those of us who were less fortunate had to place our bets in currencies other than gold. I bet cloth and blades and, yes, even baskets." He glanced at the captain, who was watching him now. "One of the other players tried to bet this hat, and when those of us with a stake in that particular throw questioned its value, he told us that he had taken the hat in a knife fight with none other than Widlyn Crane."
Gries's eyes widened. "Widlyn Crane?" he repeated, incredulous. "The Scauper himself?"
"The very same," Torgan said, grinning. "As you probably know, Crane died in a knife fight in Yorl. He was drunk, and fell to a man who couldn't possibly have bested him had he been sober. This was the man. We let him bet the hat, and I won the roll."
Gries regarded him doubtfully.
The merchant's smile broadened. "You don't believe me."
"Not really, no."
"I don't blame you." Torgan took off the hat, handed it to the captain, and pointed to the letters scratched into the leather at the back. They read, "W Crane."
"Blood and bone!" the captain whispered. "Widlyn Crane."
"One and the same." Torgan smiled again. It was indeed a true story, except that he won the hat in Redcliff along the Aelean Coast and not in Gries's city of Fairlea. But now that the captain had seen Crane's name etched into the hat, he would never think to question the rest.
Gries handed the hat back to Torgan, shaking his head. "Well, I have to admit, Torgan: I didn't think your tale would amount to much. I apologize for doubting you."
Torgan put the hat back on and waved off the captain's apology. "If I'd been in your position, I wouldn't have expected much either," he said. "Look at me. It's hard to believe that just a few turns ago I was the wealthiest merchant in the Southlands."
Gries looked him up and down quickly, a slight frown on his face. "You'll be trading again before long," he said bracingly.
The merchant didn't respond, and for several moments the two of them rode in silence. Torgan could feel the captain growing increasingly uncomfortable, which suited his needs. Eventually he'd try to force the conversation along, and with any luck he'd give Torgan some sort of opening to talk about his scrap of basket.
Sooner than the merchant would have expected, Gries said, "You seek revenge against the Fal'Borna, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"This basket you carry, or whatever it is. You want to avenge the loss of your wealth and the time you spent in captivity. Perhaps even the life of the other merchant you mentioned when we first found you. He died at the hands of the white-hairs, didn't he?"
"He died while still their prisoner, yes. But I'm not sure that it's revenge I'm after."
Gries raised an eyebrow. "No?"
Torgan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The marshal won't use the plague against them."
"You don't know that."
He didn't want to anger the man. Not exactly. It had to be done with care. "Actually, I do. I spoke with his captains this morning. They made it clear that they didn't like the idea. Not at all."
"Which captains?" Gries asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, his daughter, for one. I get the feeling that she doesn't like me, and that she has no intention of allowing her father to use the plague. And she was with the lord heir at the time. He didn't seem to like the idea, either."
"Enly, you mean?"
"Is that his name?"
Gries nodded, glancing at the other lord heir. "Yes." He faced Torgan again. "What did they tell you?"
"It wasn't as much what they told me as how they spoke to me. As I say, I don't think they like me very much."
"Perhaps it's the plague they don't like," Gries said.
"You don't like the idea, either, do you?"
The captain opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I haven't decided yet," he finally answered.
"Then let me ask you what I asked them. What would you say if I told you that your army could take back S'Vralna without losing a single man? All you'll have to do is walk through the shattered gates of the city and reclaim it for Stelpana."
"You sound very confident, Torgan. I can't imagine it will be that easy, even if the plague does all that you say it will."
"But you're wrong," Torgan told him. "The city has already been destroyed by the plague. It's yours for the taking. I'm not suggesting that you use the basket I carry against S'Vralna. I'm telling you that the city is already defeated."
Gries gaped at him. "You're certain of this?"
"I've been there. I've seen it with my own eye." He grinned, knowing that the man would think him ghoulish, and not really caring. He could see from the captain's expression that he had reached him.
"D'Raqor can be taken the same way. This plague is no trifle. It's the most powerful weapon you'll ever wield." He gave the man a sly look and, acting on instinct once more, said, "Tell me, Captain: What has it been like relying on the magic of these Mettai who march with you?"
Fairlea's lord heir eyed him briefly, then smiled and shook his head again. "I've heard tales about you, Torgan. Some of them from my father; others from merchants I've met in the marketplace of my city. But only now do I realize how skilled a negotiator you must have been when you still drove your cart."
"I intend to drive a cart again, Captain."
"Of course you do." He sighed, and looked over at Tirnya, who still rode beside her father. "As you seem to have surmised, the Mettai have proven somewhat less valuable as allies than I might have hoped. Their magic has its limits, and at times it appears that they can't control the spells they cast."
"That must be frustrating for the marshal."
"It is," Gries said. "It's bad enough losing men to the Fal'Borna. But losing men to the creatures conjured by the Mettai is nearly too much to take. I believe Jenoe regrets the alliance he forged with them."
Torgan thought about saying more, but held his tongue. He thought it likely that Gries would take their conversation where it needed to go.
"Can this plague be controlled?" he asked after a brief silence.
"No," Torgan told him. "It's like a wild beast. And it unleashes the white-hairs' magic. That's how it kills them. They expend their power until they die. They bleed to death, but they bleed magic."
Gries appeared to shudder. "So Sivralna…"
"It lies in ruins," Torgan said. "Its gates and walls are shattered, as are many of its buildings."
"Jenoe won't like that," the captain said, frowning.
"I don't imagine. But you have to ask yourselves, what will a siege do to D'Raqor, and how successful can that siege be if your soldiers are concerned with preserving this building or that one?"
Gries appeared to weigh this.
"Don't get me wrong,
Captain. This plague is an ugly business. But it only strikes at the white-hairs. You and I are immune. I doubt the Mettai can say that about the spells they've cast on your behalf."
The man nodded vaguely. He was eyeing Tirnya Onjaef again. "She doesn't like the idea," Torgan said.
Gries looked at him sharply.
The merchant nodded gravely. "You know she doesn't. But you need to ask yourself if that's reason enough to oppose it as well."
"You overstep your bounds, merchant!" Gries said. "You're speaking of matters that you know nothing about."
Torgan smiled. "Then ignore what I've said and forgive my presumption."
"You said that Enly opposes your idea as well?" the captain asked, as if he hadn't heard Torgan's apology.
For a third time, the merchant was forced to rely on nothing more than his intuition. The day before, a soldier had told him that there were whispers in Qalsyn of a romance between Enly and Tirnya. But last night he had seen Gries and the woman share an intimate moment. She had appeared to welcome his kiss. Enly and Gries were both heirs to governorships. Both were good-looking, confident, perhaps prone to arrogance. He would have been shocked had either Enly or Gries regarded the other as anything more or less than a rival. He was guessing, of course. But he trusted his insights here just as he did in the marketplace. And so he played on that rivalry.
"He seemed to," Torgan said. "They were together, so I can't say if he was speaking his mind or merely echoing what she had told me."
Gries nodded, his eyes still fixed on the woman. "That sounds like Enly. He… he dotes on her. There's no other way to say it."
"She is quite beautiful," Torgan said, as if that excused Enly's failings.
Gries glanced at him disapprovingly. "Of course she is. But that's not the point. Winning Tirnya's heart is only half the battle. I need to win Jenoe's approval as well."
Again, Torgan said nothing.
"Are you certain that this scrap of basket you carry will sicken the Fal'Borna?" Gries asked him eventually. "If this were to fail-"
