David Coe: The Horsemen's Gambit

He no longer had time for guilt or doubt. And knowing what was coming, understanding with the certainty of a condemned man that the remainder of his life could now be counted in days, hours, hoofbeats, he found his nerve.

"Gather your belongings," the Fal'Borna Weaver told them. "We'll be leaving shortly."

Torgan and Jasha had barely spoken in days. Up until now, the young merchant's hostility had bothered him a good deal. But this once Torgan was glad that the young merchant was nowhere near him when he reached into his sack and pulled out the scrap of burned basket. His hands were trembling violently. No doubt the color had drained from his face, leaving him ashen. It didn't matter. Jasha wasn't there to see any of it.

He'd give the white-hairs one last chance to let him go. They de-served-

"No," he said aloud. He wasn't going to lie to himself. He didn't believe that they deserved any consideration at all. But he remained too frightened of what he was about to do; he would give them this last opportunity because the only way he could do this was to convince himself that he had no other choice.

Gripping the burned osiers in his hand, he turned, searching for the two Qirsi.

He spotted the Forelander first.

We're not going to talk about this now, Torgan," Grinsa said as the merchant drew near. The man's face was so white he actually looked

Qirsi, and there was rage in his eyes. Grinsa half expected him to throw a punch, and indeed Torgan's right hand was balled in a fist, his knuckles white.

"And when do you propose that we do talk about it?" the merchant demanded. "You can't really believe that Jasha and I have any chance at all once we reach the sept."

"You have a chance so long as we're all alive and I can argue for your life. That's why we have to get out of the Horn and back to the plain. Once we're there, I'll talk to E'Menua."

"He won't listen, and you know it! He's a warrior; we're at war. He'll look at Jasha and me, and all he'll see are dark-eyes. Make us go back and you kill us."

Grinsa closed his eyes briefly and raked a hand through his hair. It was something Cresenne would have done, and he nearly laughed at himself.

"You see?" Torgan said. "You know I'm right."

How had he ended up in the middle of all this? Why hadn't he just let E'Menua have his way from the start? Yes, Torgan and Jasha would be dead by now, but maybe he, Cresenne, and Bryntelle would be away from here, living peacefully with another clan. "I don't know anything, Torgan. I'm not Fal'Borna. I'm not even from the Southlands. I'm just trying to keep myself and my family alive long enough for us to find a home."

"That's right," Torgan said, as if trying to wheedle him into buying some bauble that he didn't really want. "You're not from here. You're not like the Fal'Borna. You don't have any reason to hate Jasha or me. In fact, if it wasn't for you, we'd be dead already. You fought for our lives, at great cost to yourself. You don't want all that you've sacrificed to be for nothing. So let us go. If you allow it, Q'Daer will go along."

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know that for sure. And I don't know if I can risk letting you go. It may not be fair, but for good or bad your fate and mine are linked. If I return to the sept without you, I might never be allowed to leave. I can't risk that." He started to turn away from the man. "I'm sorry, Torgan."

"Wait!" Torgan faltered, opened his mouth, then closed it again. A drop of sweat rolled down from his temple. He raised that fisted hand, but an instant later let it drop to his side again. It almost seemed that he was holding something, though Grinsa could see nothing but a faint shadow near the base of his thumb that might have been a trick of the light or a smear of black from the previous night's fire.

"We need to get ready, Torgan," Grinsa said, after waiting several moments for the man to speak. "The sooner we're on our way, the safer we'll be."

"No, I I…" He shook his head, licked his lips. "I want to speak with Q'Daer about this. I want to hear from him that he won't let us go."

Grinsa exhaled, knowing that this was a waste of time, and knowing as well that it would only serve to anger the young Weaver. "Torgan, I promise that once we're back-"

"No!" the merchant said sharply. "I want to speak with both of you about this. I I… I don't want the two of you to… to have a chance to discuss it alone. I want to be there." He nodded, as if convincing himself of this.

Clearly there was no reasoning with the man. "Fine," Grinsa said. "Come on then."

He started toward the Fal'Borna with Torgan just behind him. After just a few steps, he heard Jasha calling to the merchant. Torgan, though, either didn't hear the younger man or chose to ignore him.

Grinsa looked back at him. "Jasha-"

"I know," the merchant said irritably. He didn't stop or look back. "Torgan!" the young merchant called again.

"Not now!" Torgan shouted over his shoulder, still not breaking stride. Q'Daer was tying his sleeping roll onto his mount when they found him. He looked up at the sound of their approach and frowned.

"What's this?" he asked.

Grinsa turned to Torgan. "You wanted to talk to him. So talk." The man licked his lips again. "You have to let us go," he said. Q'Daer's frowned deepened. "What?"

"There's a war coming. If you take us back to your sept, the a'laq will kill us. You have to let us go."

Grinsa stared at the man, his eyes narrowing. Something wasn't right. Torgan's words made sense, but all the anger had drained from his voice. He seemed distracted, as if this conversation with Q'Daer was the last thing on his mind.

"We're not letting you go anywhere, dark-eye," Q'Daer said. "You still have to answer for your crimes, and the a'laq is the only one who can decide your fate. Even if I wanted to let you go-and I don't-it's not my place to do it." He turned his attention back to the sleeping roll. "Now, go ready your horse."

For several seconds, Torgan didn't move at all. Grinsa thought he might argue more, but he said nothing. He simply stood there, his chest rising and falling with each breath, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He glanced at Grinsa, and then looked at Q'Daer once more.

"We have nothing to do with this war," Torgan said, although still he sounded strangely calm. Where was the passion he'd shown only moments before? "But we'll be victims of it. You know now that when I sold those baskets I didn't think that anything was wrong with them. You know as well that Jasha and I have done what we could to help you find them and the witch who made them."

Q'Daer turned at that. "The other merchant did. I'm not so certain about you."

"I've done everything I could!" Torgan said, his voice rising so that he finally sounded a bit more like himself. "I did my share in S'Vralna! And I've lost everything I had! I've been punished enough!"

Q'Daer regarded him sourly, as if regretting that he'd responded at all. "Like I said, it's not my place to decide your punishment. We'll see what the a'laq has to say."

"By then it will be too late! If I wind up back in your sept, I'm a dead man, regardless of what I deserve. You know I'm right about this!"

Q'Daer looked at Grinsa wearily. "I have no time for this right now. I'm going to check on the other one to see if he's ready." He started to walk in Jasha's direction. "Next time, keep this one away from me."

Grinsa eyed Torgan as the merchant watched Q'Daer walk away. "I could have told you it would go that way," he said. "Q'Daer is devoted to his a'laq. He'd never presume to go against E'Menua's wishes, and that's just what you were asking him to do."

Torgan didn't answer. He didn't even look Grinsa's way. Instead, his eyes wandered the area around him before coming to rest on Q'Daer's mount. "I haven't eaten yet," he said. "Can I get something from his travel sack?" He cast a quick look after the Fal'Borna who was out of earshot by now. "Much of it was my food to begin with," he said. "Mine and Jasha's."