David Coe - The Horsemen's Gambit

"Then why would you wait to sell them?"

"I didn't know how…" She shook her head, certain that he wouldn't understand or believe her explanation, wondering if it really mattered anymore. "I wasn't sure how much to ask for them, and I was afraid that they'd make the rest of what I sold look common by comparison."

"So you just carried these baskets with you, ignoring the gold you'd spent to get them, thinking nothing of the gold you'd make when you sold them. Is that what you want me to believe?"

"I can't make you believe me, A'Laq. But that's the truth. You can use your mind-bending magic on me and I'll tell you the same thing."

He stared at her a moment longer, perhaps considering whether or not he should do just that. But then he turned to Antal. "How did you end up with this woman, dark-eye?"

In a flat voice, the merchant briefly related how he and Lark had met that day.

"What did she tell you about the baskets?"

"Basically the same thing she told you. She'd been carrying them for a while, but had yet to sell them. She said that she was reluctant to display them here. Seems she had an encounter with one of your gate guards that scared her off of them. I encouraged her to put them out. I thought she'd get a good price for them, and she did."

Lark closed her eyes and shook her head. What little doubt might have remained as to Antal's fate was gone now.

"What about that?" the a'laq asked, turning back to Lark. "How did you convince the guard to let you through?"

"I told him that I'd had the baskets when I visited other septs, and that nothing had happened to make me believe they posed a threat to your people."

"You lied to him, didn't you?"

A denial sprang to her lips and she nearly gave it voice. But she could see from the look on P'Crath's face that he understood as well as she what she had done.

"Yes," Lark said. "I lied to him."

Antal whirled on her. "What?"

"I tried to tell you before," she said. "I did take the baskets to other septs-that's what I told the guard," she added, glancing at the a'laq. "But I didn't take them out while I was in any of those places. I didn't display them. The guard assumed, because of what I said, that the baskets were safe, but they weren't."

"And you knew that," P'Crath said.

"No," she said. "I didn't know that they were dangerous. But I didn't know that they were safe, either."

"Surely that's not her fault," Antal said, looking first at Lark and then at P'Crath.

"Not entirely, no," said the a'laq. "The guard will be punished for his carelessness. But there is a price to be paid for her crime, as well."

"And mine?" Antal asked. He looked pale, but he didn't shy from the a'laq's gaze.

"Yes," P'Crath said. "And yours." He glanced at the captain. "What have you done with their wares?"

"Their carts have been burned, A'Laq. Their wares are gone. That seemed the prudent course to take."

P'Crath nodded. "Very well." He regarded Antal, looking thoughtful. Then he nodded again. "Yes, very well. You can go, dark-eye. The loss of your wares and cart seems punishment enough. Return the man's horse to him," he said to the captain. "When the gates are opened again, he's free to leave the city. For now… take him back to the marketplace."

"Yes, A'Laq." The captain sheathed his sword again. "What of the woman?"

"Leave that to me."

The soldier's eyes flicked toward Lark, but then he bowed. "Yes, A'Laq." He turned to leave the chamber. "Bring him," he said to the guards.

Antal's guards started to lead him away.

"Wait!" the merchant called, twisting his neck to look back at Lark and the a'laq. "What are you going to do to her?"

The a'laq didn't answer.

"Just go, Antal," Lark said. "Get away while you can."

"She didn't mean any harm! You know she didn't." He fought to break free, but the guards held him firmly and dragged him out of the building. "You bastards! She's done nothing wrong! You have no right to do this to her!"

Even after the guards had taken him out of the building, Lark could still hear him shouting. For several moments the a'laq said nothing, and Lark realized that she could also hear the wretched cries of the sick and grieving, the terrified, unearthly screams of horses, the harsh rending of wood. The pestilence had not relinquished its grip on the city; if anything, matters had worsened in the time Lark had been in P'Crath's home.

"My people are dying," the a'laq finally said, his eyes fixed on a small glazed window that overlooked his gardens. The sky above his home still glowed with that same malevolent orange. "For all I know my daughter is dead already." He faced Lark again. "You understand: Someone must pay for what's been done to us this night."

"Are you asking me to forgive you for killing me?"

His expression hardened. "No. I don't give a damn if you forgive me or not. When the time comes I'll answer to Bian, and to him alone."

"There's no need to be angry with me, A'Laq," she said, surprising herself with her calm. "I'm just trying to understand what it is you were trying to say."

He looked away again. "This pestilence has moved across the plain faster even than my people feared it would. It was set upon us by the Mettai and spread with aid from Eandi merchants like you and your friend." He glanced at her before averting his gaze again. "My people are warriors. In all our history, we've never hesitated to defend ourselves. We've never surrendered to any foe. But with this…" He opened his hands, then let them drop to his side again.

His eyes met hers again, and this time he didn't look away, though it seemed to take some effort. "Perhaps I am seeking forgiveness. You tell me that you had nothing to do with the poisoning of these baskets, that you mean us no harm. And I believe you. But you're Eandi, and no matter your intentions, you brought this illness into our city."

A door behind the a'laq opened and a small, white-haired woman with wide, pale eyes appeared. Lark couldn't be certain, but there seemed to be tears on her face.

P'Crath turned at the sound, stared at the woman for several moments, and nodded once. She withdrew and closed the door.

"I have no more time for this," the a'laq said. "Draw your blade."

Once more, Lark found that she hadn't the power to disobey. It seemed as if her hands were no longer hers, that they were guided by some other will, stronger than her own. She felt tears flowing down her face again, and she couldn't even wipe them away.

"Please," she said, her voice quavering.

"I'm sorry." The a'laq didn't sound contrite, but he wore a troubled expression. "This will be quick. I promise you that much."

Lark stared at him, her entire body trembling. All except her hands, which were perfectly still. "I don't deserve this."

"My daughter doesn't deserve her fate, either. Turn the blade and place the tip over your heart."

She did as she was told, though she fought the man's magic with every bit of strength she possessed. Never in her life had she felt so powerless.

"I hope your daughter lives," she said. "I hope that one day, you'll have to explain to her what you're about to do."

The a'laq opened his mouth, then closed it again. "She's Fal'Borna," he finally said. "I won't have to explain." He exhaled and looked away. "Take your life."

She battled as she never had before. She tried to release the blade, to let it fall to the ground. She tried to move its tip so that her heart wouldn't be pierced. She tried to flee the chamber. But her hands were not her own, her feet, it seemed, were held by invisible shackles, her aim was perfectly, lethally true.

"No!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the ceiling and walls.

And still, her hands, steady, strong, sure, guided the blade into her chest, as if they had been waiting to do so all her life.