David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

Licaldi takes a step backward, turns away, and retches.

When her stomach is empty, and her throat is so sore she can barely draw breath, she goes to find her mother.

She knows just where to look. If Mama isn't in the house with Papa and the girls, she's by the stream, where she would have gone to get water for the others.

Licaldi staggers out of the house and makes her way down to the wash. Mama is lying on the bank of the stream, in much the same position Licaldi's father had been in. Licaldi hurries to her crying out "Mama, Mama!" like she did when she was small, even younger than Baetri. Baet, who'• dead.

Incredibly, her mother still lives, though only just.

"Licaldi?" her mother murmurs, as Licaldi kneels beside her

"Yes, Mama. Its me."

"Did you bring healers?"

Licaldi touches her mother's cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin is aflame. Lightning flares, and Licaldi catches a glimpse of her mother's- face. White as bone and though her eyes are open wide, it seems that they see nothing. It won't be long now.

"Did you, child?"

"Yes, Mama. I brought healers."

Mama smiles and closes her eyes. "Good girl," she says, the words coming out as soft as a sigh. "I knew you would."

"You there!"

Lici's eyes snapped up and she shuddered, as if released from a spell. Perhaps a hundred fourspans down the lane, an Eandi man sat atop a peddler's cart much larger than her own. He was far younger than she, with an ample gut and a full shock of red hair that poked out from beneath a leather wide-brimmed hat. The wood of his wagon was a pale, warm tan, and the beast hitched to the front was a large bay, fit and strong. This was a man of some means, a man who had done well for himself.

Grateful for the distraction, she smiled, and raised a hand in greeting. The man flicked his reins and the bay started forward. Lici drove her cart in his direction, so that in mere moments their carts were side by side. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, fine," she said. Too quick with her response, too much brightness in her voice. "I used to live here," she said a moment later. "Many years ago. I was just… remembering."

The man nodded. "You live nearby, then?"

"Not very, no. I've been abroad for some time now." She gestured vaguely back at her cart. "I've baskets that I've been trying to sell." She noted that his eyes strayed toward her cart. Perhaps, if he was headed in the right direction, she could interest him in some or all of her wares. "And you?" she asked, offhandedly.

He met her gaze again, and smiled. He had a handsome face, despite the fleshy chin and round cheeks. "I came this way hoping to find some Mettai goods, some Y'Qatt blankets, things of that sort. Things you don't often find in Tordjanne. But it's proving harder than I expected."

Mettai, Y'Qatt. This was why the gods had steered her back into Sentaya. This was why she had ignored the little girl. This was why she had chanced those memories, sharp enough to draw blood. She needed to proceed carefully, though. She couldn't seem too eager to be rid of so many fine baskets. And somehow, before he left with her wares, she needed to place the spell on them.

"Mettai and Y'Qatt," she repeated aloud. "You're rather particular, aren't you?"

He grinned again. "I can afford to be. Any merchant can show up in a Tordjanne marketplace with the same tired goods and make a decent profit. That's not good enough for me. I've made a reputation for myself by selling not only the finest goods, but also the most unusual." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You think me a braggart."

"You don't lack for confidence."

"I merely tell you what I know to be true. There are such merchants in these lands, as well. Surely you've heard of Torgan Plye."

Lici shrugged and shook her head.

"Well, take my word for it. If you want something on these plains, you go to Torgan Plye. And if you want something in Tordjanne, you come to me."

"And you are?"

He smiled and removed his hat. "Forgive me. Brint HedFarren, at your service."

"My pleasure, sir. I'm called Lici."

"The pleasure is all mine, kind lady. It seems you're new to the peddler's life. At least I assume so, since you don't know of Torgan. How did you come to be driving a cart so late in life?"

She gave him the same answer she'd given so many others: She wanted to see the land before she died, and so had taken to trading, using the gold she earned from selling her wares to pay for food.

"And you've managed to steer clear of the pestilence?"

"Thus far. It seems I've been fortunate."

He nodded, regarding her once more through narrowed eyes. "You're Mettai, aren't you, Lici?" he asked her at last.

"I am."

"And you say you're selling baskets?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I see them?"

She gestured back at her cart. "Of course."

He eyed her for another moment, before climbing off his cart and walking to the rear of hers. She heard him draw aside the cloth that hung over the back entry to the wagon, and she waited. Let him look at them. Let him realize what a treasure he'd found, and then let him fix a price in his head. Not too long-he'd notice if she waited longer than was reasonable-but long enough.

Finally, she climbed down out of her seat and walked to the back of the cart. Brint was merely standing there, holding a basket in each hand and staring at the others.

He glanced at her as she stopped beside him. "You made these yourself?"

"Yes. Dyed them by hand. No magic."

The man smiled. "That was my next question."

"It always is with merchants."

He nodded, examined the basket in his right hand. "You do fine work," he said after several moments. "Another merchant would tell me not to say that, but I think you probably know it already."

"Yes, sir."

He reached in and pushed a few baskets out of the way, exposing still more. "How many are there? Do you know?"

Lici shook her head.

"What have you sold them for?"

"Too little," she said, without thinking. He looked at her, and she added, "I'm not skilled in such matters. I weave baskets. That's where my talent lies." She straightened. "I've gotten two sovereigns for many of them, and have traded food and such for others."

"Two sovereigns is a good price."

"Is that what you'll pay?"

Brint laughed. "I didn't say that." He regarded the contents of her cart again with an appraising eye. "No, I won't pay two. But I would be willing to buy all the baskets you have left for one sovereign apiece."

"One is too low."

"If this were a marketplace, I'd agree with you. But it's not. I'm offering you the chance to sell every basket in your cart, right now, at a decent price."

"And then you'll turn around and make a fine profit on each one."

"That's my intention, yes. But I'll be transporting them, putting them out each morning and packing up those that are left each night. You'll have nothing to do but return to your home and count your gold. Surely that's worth something."

Once more, as in Runnelwick and C'Bijor's Neck, and every village in between, Lici sought to find the balance between striking a convincing bargain and ridding herself of the baskets. But she was tired, and this young merchant seemed the perfect tool for delivering her curse to the last of the Y'Qatt villages.

"Yes, it is," she said with a sigh. "It's worth quite a bit. But I labored over those baskets, and I can't let them go for quite so little. So here's my offer. One sovereign for each basket, plus ten more for the lot. Neither of us knows what that will come to per basket, but I'm sure you'll be making out well, and I'll feel that I got a bit more for all my work."