David Coe: The Sorcerer's Plague

"This house is new," the woman said, her voice so low that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard her correctly.

"I'm sorry, but I believe you're mistaken. My wife and I built this house ourselves nearly sixteen years ago."

The woman stared at him a moment. Then a faint smile crept over her face. "Yes," she said. "And to me, that would make it new."

"You were here that long ago?" Aiva asked, taking a step forward. "It's been sixteen fours," the woman said. "I was just a child." "Sixteen fours!" Aiva said. "Truly the gods have blessed you!"

The woman grinned, revealing sharp yellow teeth. "Yes, they have." "You live near here?" Giraan asked.

"I did once. We lived… we lived south of here. But my people moved about a good deal."

"You're Mettai," he said.

She stared at him for several moments, her smile fading slowly. "We are," she answered, ice in her voice.

Giraan shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Why should I be offended? You merely told me what I already know. I'm Mettai."

"Yes, of course. But I I…"

"When you said I was Mettai, did you mean to insult me?"

It almost seemed that she was trying to confound him with her words and her indignation. "Not at all," Giraan said, smiling, trying to mollify her.

"But you know that we are hated by Eandi and Qirsi alike, and so you feared that I would take offense. If you were to see a one-legged beggar in a marketplace, you would not say to him, 'You're a cripple.' You would ignore his infirmity, or at least pretend to. But you would slip a silver into his cup as a gesture of pity, and feel that you had done a good turn. So it is with the Mettai. You spoke without thinking, stating what was obvious, and now you fear that you have reminded me of my infirmity."

"I assure you-"

Aiva laid a hand on Giraan's arm, silencing him.

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood my husband, good lady," she said. "He simply apologized because we do not judge people by their race or even their clan, and he feared that you would think he was doing just that. We are Y'Qatt. We know as well as anyone what it is to be shunned by one's people. You would be welcome here no matter your clan or your nation." She beckoned to the woman with an open hand. "Please. Come and sit with us. No doubt you've traveled far. You must be weary. We haven't much, but we can offer you food and drink."

"My lady is most kind, but I should be getting on to your marketplace. The day's nearly half gone, and I've farther to go."

"What is it you're selling?" Giraan regretted the question as soon as the words crossed his lips. He would have preferred that this strange woman move on and leave them in peace. But he was curious about those overlarge baskets she carried, and he couldn't help but give voice to that curiosity.

She smiled again, and he thought he saw a flash of malice in her dark eyes. He knew what she was thinking. He and Aiva would buy something from her now, or at least agree to a trade. He'd asked the question. But more than that, he was still stinging from what she'd said earlier. They'd barter over price and he'd convince himself that he needed whatever she might be selling. But in the end, no matter how much he gave her, it would be the same as that silver slipped into a beggar's cup: a token of his pity, a way to assuage his guilt. For the truth was, as soon as he said that she was Mettai, he had cringed inwardly. Her infirmity. He would never have phrased it that way, but yes, that was just how he thought of it. Whatever Aiva might have said, being Y'Qatt was nothing like being Mettai.

He and his people chose to live as they did because they knew that in resisting the urge to use their powers, they were acceding to Qirsar's wishes. Their way of life honored the Qirsi god. The Mettai, on the other hand, were born to their fate. Some said that they were created by the Eandi god, Ean, to mock Qirsar. Here, Ean seemed to be saying, I give you Eandi sorcerers who are neither frail of body nor cursed with brief lives. Others claimed the opposite. Qirsar made them, these people said, to show Ean how his children might have been if only he'd been able to give them the gift of magic. Either way, the Mettai were mongrels, or worse, the bastard offspring of some rivalry between the gods. In a sense, they were the embodiment of the Blood Wars, the violent conflicts that had been fought throughout the history of the Southlands.

More to the point, though, they used blood magic, opening their veins for every act of sorcery. They were as different from the Y'Qatt as the darkest, coldest night of the Snows was from the bright warmth of this fine day.

"You'd like to see what I'm carrying?" the old woman asked, tilting her head to the side as might a mischievous child.

Aiva nodded, no doubt eager to end the unpleasantness. She hated it so when anyone failed to get along. "Yes, please."

"All right, then." The woman placed both baskets on the ground and stretched. Even without her burden, her back remained bent, her shoulders rounded.

Then she removed the blankets that covered the two baskets, and Giraan forgot everything else. The strange awkwardness that had made him wary of the stranger just moments before seemed to vanish, as if swept away by magic. Within the large baskets were smaller ones of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Basketry was the one craft for which the Met- tai were renowned throughout the land, and clearly this woman had mastered the art as few others had.

"They're beautiful!" Aiva whispered.

The woman smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you, my lady." "You made all of them yourself?"

"I did."

"There are so many. It must have taken you years."

"Several, yes."

Giraan looked at her. "Haven't you been selling them all along?"

"I promised myself that I would see as much of the land as possible before Bian called me to his side. So I made these baskets and set them aside from those I sold day to day. I trade these for food and gold, sometimes even for a night's sleep in a warm bed. As you can see, there are plenty here, and they're of good quality. And if need be, I can make more. Osiers are easy enough to find."

The smile remained on her tanned, wrinkled face, and she didn't shy away from his gaze. But something about what she was telling them struck Giraan as odd. Still, even if the woman was half mad, there could be no denying the worth of her wares.

Aiva had already chosen two baskets, one that was shallow and round, and another with steeper edges and a braided handle.

"You've chosen well, my lady," the woman said. "Those are two of my favorites."

She might have been strange, but clearly the woman had been peddling for a long time. She knew this craft as well.

"How much for the two of them?" Giraan asked, reverting to the tone he had used in his shop when negotiating the price of a new wheel for a cart, or the repair of a broken rim. "We don't have much gold."

"I don't need gold; only something else I can trade in another village." She nodded toward the beaver and stoat that he still carried. "I'd trade them for pelts if you have any."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Food then. Salted meat? Cheese? A loaf or two of bread?" "Baskets such as these would fetch a fair bit in the marketplace. I'm not sure that we can spare so much from our kitchen."

"I'm an old woman, sir. I don't eat much, and I'm not trying to grow fat and rich in my last years. As I've told you, I seek only enough so that I can continue my travels. Surely you and the lady would be able to part with one loaf of bread and half a wheel of cheese."

"You'd trade the baskets for so little?"

She frowned, seeming to consider this. "I don't suppose you have any wine as well?" She glanced at Aiva, the grin returning. "I might be old, but that doesn't mean I've forsaken all my old pleasures."