by DAVID B. COE
"I still don't know."
Grinsa nodded, though the man wasn't even looking at him. A moment later, he, too, drew his dagger.
"What's going on?" Torgan called to him from behind.
"We're not certain," Grinsa told him. "You see those shapes up there?"
"Barely," came the reply. Grinsa wondered how much the man could see out of his one good eye.
"I can see them," Jasha said. "What are they?"
Before the gleaner could answer, Q'Daer reined his horse to a halt. "Damn," he whispered. His blade hand dropped to his side.
"What, Q'Daer? What is it you see?"
"You can't make it out?" the younger man said, his voice thick. He pointed to a large clump near the front of the shapes. A blackened pole jutted from it, as if it were some great, dark beast that had been felled by a huge spear. "That's a z'kal, or what's left of one."
A z'kal. It took him a moment. The word had been new to him when they reached Fal'Borna land, and he hadn't heard it used in days. Z'kals were the temporary shelters the Fal'Borna constructed from rilda skins and wooden poles. He wouldn't have recognized this blackened mass as one, but as soon as Q'Daer pointed it out to him, he knew that the young Weaver was right. He saw as well that this wasn't the only one that had been destroyed. Far from it. Knowing what to look for, he realized that the flat in front of them was filled with the remains of shelters, as well as what once had been a horse paddock.
"I don't understand," Torgan said, his brow furrowed as he stared at the scene, clearly still trying to make out what Q'Daer had seen. "What's happened here?"
Q'Daer didn't answer.
"It looks like a sept has been destroyed," Grinsa said, quietly.
"Destroyed how?"
"We don't know yet."
Q'Daer clicked his tongue and his mount started forward again, slowly this time. The rest of them followed.
As they drew nearer to the ruins of the sept, Grinsa began to see more than just shelters and the shattered wood of the paddock. There were human remains everywhere. Many of the bodies had been charred, probably by the same fires that destroyed the z'kals, and these remained largely intact. But of others, all that was left were bones and scraps of clothing. Perhaps they had died some other way; perhaps their remains had been more appealing to the crows and vultures and kites that would have descended upon such a feast. Several wild dogs still stood amid the ruins, eyeing the riders warily, their ears laid back. A few, particularly close, bared their teeth and growled.
The Fal'Borna halted and dismounted, heedless of the animals. "Q'Daer," Grinsa said, drawing the man's gaze. "Don't touch anything. It might not be safe."
The man's eyes widened slightly and he quickly glanced down at his feet, as if expecting to find that he was standing in a cluster of Mettai baskets. He looked at Grinsa again and nodded.
Grinsa dismounted and indicated to the Eandi that they should do so as well.
"What are we doing here?" Torgan asked as he stretched his back and surveyed the carnage around them.
"We're going to search the settlement," Grinsa said.
The merchant wrinkled his nose, as if disgusted. "For what?"
"For anything that might tell us what happened to these people."
"Isn't it clear?" the man said, opening his hands to indicate the ruins. "That same pestilence has been here. And this time you can't blame me for it."
"Torgan," Jasha said softly.
"What?" the older man shot back at him. "You know they'll try to. They'll say that we destroyed this sept, too, and they'll use it as an excuse to kill us right here, without waiting to go back to E'Menua."
"Nobody's looking for an excuse to kill you, Torgan," Grinsa said, though in that moment he wondered if the man was worth saving. "Even if the baskets caused this, we know you weren't responsible. But we have to know who was. You know what these baskets look like?" he asked, shifting his gaze to Jasha.
The young merchant nodded. "I'd recognize them."
"Good. See what you can find. I'll be watching you both," he warned.
"And as you already know, I can control your animals, even from a distance. So don't try to run."
Jasha nodded again. Torgan merely scowled at both his fellow merchant and Grinsa.
Grinsa left them there and followed the young Fal'Borna. Normally, he preferred to keep his distance, but he feared that Q'Daer might become so enraged by the destruction of this sept that he would seek vengeance against the merchants, simply because they were the only Eandi there.
Q'Daer gave Grinsa a puzzled look as he approached, but he said nothing.
Together, they walked past one destroyed z'kal after another, eyeing the bones and corpses, stepping over shattered bowls, broken spears, and all other manner of debris. It looked far more like the scene of a fierce battle than it did the detritus of an outbreak of pestilence.
Fractured bones lay scattered among many of the skeletons-Grinsa couldn't he certain whether they had been shattered before or after death. Dead horses lay in what had been the paddock; several living beasts grazed near them. But Grinsa saw no evidence that any people had survived.
"Even after the a'laq told us about S'Plaed's sept, I didn't believe it," Q'Daer said, his words barely carrying over the wind. "I knew he wasn't lying, but I didn't imagine it could be like this."
"Is there any chance that this wasn't the pestilence, or whatever the Mettai woman is spreading?"
Q'Daer cast a sharp look his way, narrowing his eyes. "What else could it be?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. A battle?"
"No." The man shook his head. "No, I've seen battles. They don't look like this. Nothing has ever looked like this."
Grinsa had to agree. "I'd like to find proof."
"What do you mean? What proof?"
"A basket, I suppose. Just to see one; just to be certain."
He expected that the Fal'Borna would argue, but Q'Daer merely nodded. "All right."
They continued forward, carefully stepping through the ruins, scanning the remains of the z'kals. Occasionally, Grinsa glanced back to check on the Eandi, but neither of the merchants had made any attempt to get away. Jasha seemed intent on all that he saw around him. Even from a distance, he looked pale and very young, a pained expression on his face. Torgan was harder to read. At one point he looked up and saw that Grinsa was watching him. For several moments he stared back at the gleaner with his one good eye. Then he looked away.
"How long ago do you think they died?" Q'Daer asked.
"I don't know. Nothing's smoking. There aren't many crows or vultures left here. I'd say it's been several days, at least."
"I was thinking the same thing." He nodded toward the Eandi. "They could have done this."
"I don't think so, Q'Daer. It's been at least half a turn since they could have been this far from E'Menua's sept."
"We just agreed that this happened several days ago."
"Several days, yes. But I don't think it's been half a turn."
"You don't know that. Neither of us does. You may not want to believe that these two were responsible, but it is possible."
Before Grinsa could argue the point further, he heard Jasha call out. Both he and the Fal'Borna turned to see the young merchant gesturing frantically for them to join him. They hurried toward him, slowing as they drew near.
"What is it?" Grinsa asked.
"Part of a basket." Jasha pointed at the ground a few fourspans from where he stood.
Grinsa spotted it immediately. He felt his blood run cold, and yet he also was fascinated, unable to look away as if he had just spotted a venomous snake. It sat in a pile of blackened rubble beside yet another ruined shelter. Most of it was burned to ash, and much of the rest of it was charred. But a small bit, perhaps as large as the palm of Grinsa's hand, remained unmarked. And even Grinsa, who knew nothing of basketry, could see that when whole, this basket had been beautiful. Its osiers were straight and tightly woven, and they had been dyed bri
lliant shades of green, gold, and blue.
"Is that her work?" Q'Daer asked. He turned to Torgan. "Does that look like one of the baskets you sold?"
"I was never here!" the merchant said. He stood a short distance off, staring sullenly at the three of them. Grinsa wasn't even certain he could see the basket from where he was.
"I haven't time for your games, dark-eye," the Fal'Borna said. "I'm asking you if this is one of the Mettai woman's baskets."
"I know just what you're doing, and I'm not going to let you!"
"What are you talking about, Torgan?" Grinsa asked.
"He wants me to answer so that he can claim I admitted it all! And I won't do it! I've never been here, and you won't get me to say otherwise!"
Grinsa raised his hands, trying to placate the man. "He's not saying you were here, Torgan."
"Yes, he was! He asked if I sold that basket!"
Q'Daer shook his head and turned to face Jasha. "You saw the baskets, too, didn't you?"
The young merchant hesitated, his eyes flicking in Torgan's direction, as if he feared how the man would respond to his answer. "Yes," he finally said. "Briefly. I only had one; I bought it from Torgan, and I sold it that same day. But I saw others."
"And this one?" Q'Daer asked.
Again he glanced Torgan's way. "It's hard to say from such a small piece, but it looks to be the right quality." He squatted down and pointed at the basket. "See how tight the weave is? How vivid the colors are? That's good work. The Mettai baskets looked like that."
Neither of the Qirsi stepped any closer to the basket, but both nodded. It began to rain lightly. Grinsa, glancing westward, saw that the sky had darkened.
"If there's one here," Jasha went on, "chances are there are more. If I see one that's still whole I may be able to give you a better answer."
"All right," Grinsa said, checking the skies again. "Look around a bit more. But I want to be moving again soon."
"It's not like I don't care," Torgan said.
All of them looked at the man.
He shifted his weight to the other foot, clearly uncomfortable under their gazes. "I mean, I didn't want any of this to happen. I'm sorry that… I'm sorry they're dead. All these people, I mean."
For several moments, none of them offered any response, until finally Grinsa decided that someone had to say something.
"We all are, Torgan."
"Right. Of course. It's just… I really had nothing to do with this. We were never here, were we, Jasha?"
Grinsa just shook his head and started to walk away. He sensed that Q'Daer was just behind him.
"What?" Torgan demanded, his voice rising. "I said I was sorry! But there's nothing we can do to help them anymore! And I'm fighting for my life!"
"Stop it, Torgan," Jasha said.
"They want us dead! You think they're trying to help us, but they're not! The Fal'Borna see this and they have to blame someone. They want to blame me; they want to blame both of us. You watch. You'll help them find those baskets and then they'll turn around and cut your throat!"
"Damn it, Torgan!" Jasha shouted.
The two Qirsi halted and turned to stare back at the men. Jasha stood just in front of the older merchant. Torgan was the bigger man by far; nearly a full head taller. But Jasha had his fists clenched, and despite their size difference Grinsa wondered if they'd come to blows.
A moment later, though, Jasha seemed to realize that Grinsa and Q'Daer were watching. He opened his hands slowly and shook his head. Then he turned away from the man.
"Just shut up, all right?" he said over his shoulder.
Torgan glowered at the man's back and opened his mouth, as if to say more. Then he appeared to think better of it.
Convinced that the two Eandi were content simply to avoid each other for a time, Grinsa turned and started walking again.
"Do you still think he's worth saving?" Q'Daer asked.
Grinsa gave a small, rueful laugh. "I don't think this is the time to ask me.
The Fal'Borna stopped and held out a hand, forcing Grinsa to halt as well. "You're wrong, Forelander. This is the perfect time to ask." He gestured in Torgan's direction. "What you just heard; that's his truest self. And I'm asking you, is that man worth saving? Is he worth leaving your family for? Is he worth this rain and wind?"
The rain started falling harder, darkening Grinsa's cloak and breeches. It almost seemed that the gods themselves were asking the question.
"He doesn't deserve to die," Grinsa said.
"Doesn't he?"
"No. He may be an ass, but he's not a murderer."
Jasha called out again and beckoned to them.
Neither of the Qirsi even looked his way.
"It seems the young merchant knows just where to find these baskets," said the Fal'Borna.
"They weren't here, Q'Daer. You heard what Torgan said."
"Yes, I heard." The young Weaver regarded Grinsa briefly, the rain soaking his long hair and running down his face. "I've heard talk about you Forelander. I know that you had Eandi friends back in your old home. That may be why you trust these men as you do. But I assure you, the dark-eyes of the Southlands are demons. They're not to be trusted. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."
He started toward Jasha before Grinsa could answer. Grinsa wasn't sure what he would have said if the Weaver had waited.
Damn them all! Torgan thought, his rage threatening to spill over into violence. In that moment he wasn't sure who he hated more: Jasha or the Qirsi.
He'd had enough of the white-hairs and their suspicions, their certainty that he was a monster. Yes, he had sold the Mettai woman's baskets, but he hadn't known what they would do. He'd tried to explain this countless times-first to E'Menua and later to these two-and still they didn't believe him. They thought him a monster and worse. Sure, he hated the Qirsi. Who among his people didn't? But that didn't mean that he would do… this. He looked around him, at the burned shelters, at the bones of the dead, and he shuddered.
And Jasha! Who was that whelp to tell him when he could speak and when he couldn't? There had been a time-could it have been only a turn before?-when Torgan had been the wealthiest, most famous merchant in all the land, and Jasha had been little more than a common peddler, trading wares of questionable value and eking out meager profits. He made as much gold in a day as Jasha made in half a turn. And now Jasha was telling him to shut up? Torgan should have throttled the little bastard when he had the chance.
This search of theirs was futile. Not that they couldn't find the Mettai woman-it seemed unlikely that they would, but he supposed that it was possible. No, the futility of it lay in the fact that all hinged on the Fal'Borna keeping their word. Even now, the Qirsi were using them, getting Jasha to search through the ruins for baskets as if he were a hound. They'd let the merchants lead them to the Mettai woman, just as they had agreed. And then they'd execute them anyway. That was the Qirsi way. Torgan had thought that maybe this white-hair from the Forelands was different, but now he knew better. They were all the same, no matter their clan, or their homeland.
The worst part of it was that poor Jasha was making it easy for them, being as trusting as a pup.
Well, Torgan had no intention of following along. He'd save Jasha if he could, but he wasn't going to risk his life for the young fool. But how to get away?
It came to him suddenly, and he felt his knees give way, so that it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He'd never done such a thing before. True, he had brought this white-hair plague to C'Bijor's Neck and S'Plaed's sept, but he hadn't done it on purpose. He'd been selling baskets, trying to make some gold, doing what all merchants do. He hadn't known that hundreds would die until it was too late to save even one of them.
But this was different. This was murder.
No, a voice said in his mind. This is war. They're holding you against your will. They intend to execute you for crimes you didn't commit. You're defending yourself.
He co
uldn't bring himself to move. Jasha had wandered off a ways, and was scanning the ground for more baskets. The white-hairs had walked away and were speaking in low tones, probably about him, about how much longer they would keep him alive.
The rain began to fall harder, but Torgan stood there, staring down at it: his hope, his weapon, his freedom. If only he had the courage to reach clown and take hold of it.
Jasha called out. He waved the Qirsi over to where he stood. Another basket, no doubt. Probably there were several of them here.
The white-hairs started in Jasha's direction, ignoring Torgan for the moment. This was his chance. And yet he didn't move.
It's murder.
It's the only way.
It might not even work. Who was to say how long such a thing could last? But he watched the Qirsi walk to Jasha. The young merchant bent down to look at this newest discovery. He said something that Torgan couldn't hear and he pointed. The Qirsi looked, they nodded. But they had halted two or three strides shy of Jasha, and they continued to keep their distance. They didn't squat down. They certainly didn't get close enough to touch it. They still feared the Mettai woman's magic.
And so at last, while his three companions spoke among themselves and looked at this new basket, Torgan bent down quickly and picked up the first scrap of basket they had seen. He straightened, slipping the burned osiers into his pocket. It couldn't have taken him more than a moment, a heartbeat or two, and it was done. The others didn't notice a thing.
He walked over to them, keeping his trembling hands in his pockets. Jasha looked up at him as he approached and nodded at the basket they'd found. This one was nearly whole. It had been dyed in earth tones and it had a long, curved handle. It was as fine a basket as Torgan had ever seen; it had to have been made by that Mettai witch he'd seen in the Neck.
"What do you think?" Jasha asked.
"It's her work," Torgan said. "I'm sure of it."
The Forelander looked Torgan in the eye. "Thank you." He turned to the Fal'Borna. "At least we know we're heading in the right direction."
Q'Daer didn't seem pleased, but he nodded and started back toward the horses. "Then let's get going. If I'm going to be out here in the rain, I'd rather be getting somewhere."
