David Coe: The Horsemen's Gambit

Grinsa felt much as Q'Daer did at this point; he wanted nothing more to do with this man.

"Yes, fine," he said, turning to his own sleeping roll. "Get some food and then get yourself ready." He glanced over at the merchant. "No more delays. You understand?"

"Yes," Torgan said sullenly. "I understand perfectly."

He took several moments to get food from the young Weaver's bag. In fact, he was there fiddling with Q'Daer's belongings for so long that Grinsa finally turned to look to see what he was doing. But by that time Torgan was replacing the sack of food and putting a piece of dried meat in his mouth. Grinsa shook his head and turned his attention back to what he was doing. He did look up again as the merchant walked back to his horse. The man hadn't said anything more to him, or even grunted a thank-you. But he did seem to have accepted that he had no choice but to ride with them back to the sept. And from what Grinsa could see, his hands hung loosely at his side. No more fists. That was something at least.

They rode out a short time later in their usual formation: the Qirsi riding in front, the merchants behind them, and the Mettai bringing up the rear in their cart. Sirj approached Grinsa just as they were leaving to inform him that he and Besh would continue to journey with them.

"We may turn eastward in a few days," the man told him. "But for now we'll remain with you."

Grinsa told him that they'd be happy to have the Mettai with them for as long as they wished to remain, but inwardly he feared they were making a terrible mistake. He also lamented the fact that Sirj and not Besh had come to speak with him. He was afraid that he had offended the older man, and he resolved to make things right as soon as possible.

They crossed the Thraedes a short time after midday, leaving the Horn behind them, and then turned due south, continuing to follow the river. They pushed their mounts hard and covered a fair amount of ground before stopping for the night. None of them spoke much. Torgan had gone back to brooding in silence, and the Mettai kept to themselves.

They ate a small meal as darkness settled over the plain, and soon were unrolling their sleeping rolls beneath a cloudy sky that glowed faintly with moonlight. Q'Daer said something about remaining awake to speak with E'Menua. Grinsa was exhasted from having been awakened so early in the morning. He lay down and fell asleep quickly, only to wake up some time later to an odd sound. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and peered in the direction from which the sound had come, trying to make out a dark shape a short distance off.

A moment later he realized that he'd been hearing someone retch. He glanced at the young Weaver's sleeping roll, his stomach clenching itself into a hard ball. Q'Daer wasn't there.

"Q'Daer?" he called softly.

"Stay away from me!" came the reply. His voice sounded weak, strained. A moment later Grinsa heard him get sick yet again.

Grinsa stood and started toward the man.

"I told you to keep away, Forelander!" the man said, making him stop. He could see Q'Daer clearly now. He was on his hands and knees, his head hanging low, his breathing labored.

"I've got it," the Weaver said a moment later, all the anger gone from his voice. "I've got the plague."

Grinsa shivered in the darkness. "How is that possible? It's been days since we left S'Vralna. You can't have it. You're just sick."

Q'Daer shook his head. "No. I've been sick before, but I've never felt like this. I can feel the fever in me. I feel myself getting weak." He looked back at Grinsa. "The Mettai did this to me. That's why they wanted to stay with us."

This time it was Grinsa's turn to shake his head. "They wouldn't do anything of the sort."

"Then how did this happen? You said it yourself: We left S'Vralna days ago. This plague strikes in just hours."

Grinsa started to say again that he doubted it was the plague. But then it came to him. Torgan.

"I'll be back," he said, turning on his heel.

As he passed the fire circle he rekindled the flames with a thought, not even slowing his gait. He walked to where the merchants were sleeping and prodded them both with his foot.

"Get up, both of you."

Jasha grunted, turned over, his eyes barely even opening. Torgan, on the other hand, propped himself up on one arm immediately. Grinsa was certain that he hadn't even been sleeping.

"What's the matter?" the one-eyed merchant asked.

"Wake up, Jasha," Grinsa said, ignoring Torgan for the moment.

The younger man took a long shuddering breath. Then he rubbed at his eyes. "Forelander?" he said groggily.

"Yes. I want both of you to come with me."

"Why?" Torgan asked. "What's going on?"

Grinsa was certain that there was a way to do this, something he could say to put the man off for a few more moments so that he might find a way to prove that Torgan had done something to make Q'Daer ill. But he was too enraged and frightened to play games, and too addled with sleep to think clearly enough.

He said simply, "Q'Daer's sick."

"Damn!" Jasha said, instantly sounding awake. "Is it… has he got…?"

"Lici's plague?" Grinsa said for him. He started to say that he thought it was, but then reconsidered, his gaze sliding toward Torgan again. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see. On second thought, Torgan will come with me. Jasha, I want you to wake Besh and Sirj and bring them to our fire."

The young merchant scrambled to his feet. "Of course," he said, heading off toward Besh and Sirj's cart.

"Get up, Torgan," Grinsa said for a third time.

The merchant stood slowly. "What is it you want with us?"

Grinsa gave a small shrug. "I told you: Q'Daer's sick. I need help caring for him."

Torgan actually took a step back away from him. "How can we help you with that?"

"There's only the six of us," Grinsa said. He sensed the kernel of an idea forming and he followed his instincts. "We'll need everyone's help."

"Well, the Mettai-"

"Besh, Sirj, and I will have to start working on a cure. It's probably not the plague, but just in case it is…" He shrugged again.

"What about Jasha and me?"

"I'm going to send Jasha for help. You'll stay with Q'Daer. He'll need water, a compress on his head to keep his fever down. And you'll need to keep the fire burning."

"Jasha can do that! I can get help just as easily…" He trailed off seeing that Grinsa was shaking his head.

"You're determined to escape, Torgan. You've made that clear. I can't send you off anywhere." He started walking back to the fire and Q'Daer, leaving Torgan with little choice but to follow. "No, you have to be the one to care for him."

"But I can't be!" Torgan said. "The plague… his power will be out of control! You saw what happened in S'Vralna! I'll be killed!"

"We don't know that it's the plague, Torgan."

The merchant opened his mouth, but quickly clamped it shut again. Grinsa halted and grabbed the man's arm. "Or do we?"

Torgan wrenched his arm out of Grinsa's grasp. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice quavering.

"What did you do to him, Torgan?"

"I didn't do anything!"

Grinsa summoned a bright flame to the palm of his hand and held it just in front of the merchant's face. Torgan flinched, but before he could step back Grinsa took hold of the front of his shirt, wrapping his fist in the cloth.

"You're lying!" he said. "You did it this past morning, when my back was turned and you were rooting around in Q'Daer's things. Now tell me what you did!"

"Nothing! It must have been the Mettai! They're the ones with magic! It was their curse to begin with!"

Grinsa moved the flame closer to his face, so that it singed some of the man's hair. Torgan closed his eyes and turned his face away, wincing at anticipated pain.