David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

Brint appeared to consider this for several moments. "Very well," he said at last. "One for each basket and ten more for the lot." He started to climb into her wagon, but then stopped himself. "Forgive me. May I?"

"Yes, of course." But inwardly, she winced. He was in a hurry now- no doubt he wished to be moving on before nightfall. Lici had concluded, though, that the night would be her best opportunity to use her magic on the baskets. She could pretend to be going in his direction, but his cart was finer than hers, and his was the stronger horse. She'd never be able to keep pace with him.

He emerged from her cart a moment later with several baskets in his hands. "This is eight," he said, stepping to the back of his cart. "I'll leave it to you to keep count."

"Yes, all right."

He placed the baskets in his cart and was back in hers a moment later.

"So were you born in Tordjanne?" she asked, waiting for him to climb out again.

"Yes."

"And you live there still?"

"It's home, if that's what you mean. I can't really say that I live anywhere in particular." He crawled out of the cart again. "Eight more." "Do you have family?" she asked, watching him walk to his cart and place the baskets inside.

"I haven't a wife and children. Not yet at least." He pulled himself back into her cart. "I have brothers," he called to her. "Three of them. And my mother is still alive."

"All of them in Tordjanne, too?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He emerged again. "Ten this time. Do you know Tordjanne?"

"I've spoken of it with others. Merchants and the like. I have some sense of the land."

He nodded, stepping past her to get back into her cart. "Well, I grew up near Fairdale, on the river. My father was a woodcrafter and my mother made baskets." He came out again and smiled. "Though none were as fine as these. Ten more."

"And your brothers are merchants as well?"

"No."

He put the baskets in his wagon and climbed back into hers. She could hear him moving freely now. He'd be finished in another moment. The sun was low in the west, but not low enough. Not yet.

"So they're in Tordjanne still?"

"Who? My brothers?"

"Yes."

"That's right. I'm the only one who left the woodlands. The others followed my father into woodcrafting."

"What made you leave?"

He emerged one more time, laden with baskets. "Gold," he said. "This is the last of them. Eleven. So how many is that?"

Lici thought about this for just a moment, closing her eyes, as if tallying up the number in her head. "Fifty-three," she finally said.

Brint frowned. He put the baskets in his cart, then turned to face her. "I don't think that's right."

She made her face fall. "No? I'm afraid I've never been very good with numbers."

He shook his head, removed his hat, and raked a hand through his hair. "You might have mentioned that when I left it to you to count them." He exhaled heavily and began to count the baskets in his cart. Several moments later he faced her again. "I count forty-seven."

She took a step toward him, frowning in turn. "You're certain?"

"Quite," he said. "But you're welcome to count them yourself."

She walked to his cart and began to count, pretending to lose her place twice before finally turning to face him.

"Yes, you're right," she said, smiling. "I'm terribly sorry."

He smiled in return, though clearly it was forced. "That's all right. I believe I owe you fifty-seven sovereigns."

"Fifty-seven. That's right."

He hesitated, and immediately Lici knew why. Perhaps there was a way to do this without delaying him any further. Merchants commonly carried great sums of gold, and with road brigands quite common throughout the Southlands, they generally had several secret caches hidden within their carts. Clearly Brint was no exception to this. He would have to retrieve her payment from one of these, but he would be reluctant to reveal the location of even one of his caches, even to her.

"Perhaps you could leave me alone for just a moment?" he asked.

"And risk having you drive off with my baskets?" She shook her head. "I'm old, but I'm not a fool."

"No, of course not! I merely… I need to get you your gold. That's all.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I'm going to wait right here while you do."

The merchant made a sour face, but after a moment he nodded. He dropped to the ground and crawled under the cart.

Lici bent down too, placing her hands on the ground as if to brace herself. "What are you doing?"

"Getting some gold," he said impatiently. "Please, can I have a moment of privacy?"

"Yes, of course." Lici stood, and as she did, she grabbed a handful of dirt.

She quickly pulled her knife free, cut the back of her hand, and began the familiar chant, keeping her voice to the barest whisper. At the same time, she caught some blood on the flat of her blade and let it trickle into the earth she held in her hand.

Her spell was more complicated than most-just as it was more powerful than most. But still, she had long since committed the words to memory.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, magic to dust, dust to curse, curse to pestilence, pestilence to baskets, baskets to magic."

Saying this last, she threw her hands toward the opening to the merchant's cart. Dust flew from her fingers, dust that had been blood and dirt. It glittered briefly in the failing sunlight, before settling on the baskets. It coated them like light snowfall for just an instant, then vanished, as if absorbed into the osiers.

"I'm sorry?" Brint called to her. "Did you say something?"

"No, nothing." She licked her blade and sheathed it, then licked the back of her hand.

A few moments later, he crawled back out from beneath the cart, a small leather pouch in one hand, the back of his shirt and trousers stained and covered with dead leaves and twigs.

"Here you are," he said, handing the pouch to her. "Fifty-seven sovereigns. You'll want to count it I'm sure."

Lici didn't care to really, but neither did she wish to raise his suspicions. She stepped to her cart and poured the coins out onto the bare wood, making a quick count. Satisfied, she returned the coins to the pouch and faced him again.

"Thank you, sir. I hope the baskets bring you all the profit you seek." "I'm sure they will. The plains people always pay well for Mettai baskets."

Lici blinked. "The plains people? I thought you were heading toward the lakes."

"No, the plains."

"But there are no Y'Qatt on the plains."

"Well, there are a few. But I'm not sure I need to go looking for the Y'Qatt. Not anymore."

"But you said you were! You said you were looking for Y'Qatt and Mettai!"

He smiled, though he was looking at her strangely. "Well, I found a Mettai, didn't I? Those baskets are quite beautiful. I'm sure they'll fetch a good price in the septs of the Fal'Borna. And as for the Y'Qatt…" He shrugged. "We're well into the Harvest now. I need to be heading west and then south, back to Tordjanne. I don't want to be abroad when the Snows come."

"No! You don't understand! You have to find the Y'Qatt! Those baskets-" She stopped herself, grabbing handfuls of her silver hair. "The Y'Qatt will buy those baskets," she went on a moment later, trying desperately to sound reasonable. "They love Mettai baskets."

"I believe you," Brint said. "But I'm sure they'll sell on the plains, too. Or in Tordjanne."

"No! You can't sell them on the plains! Not to the Qirsi!"

The merchant took a step back, frowning once more. "Why not?"

She opened her mouth, swallowed. "I hate them," she said. It was the only thing that came to mind. "I don't want my baskets going to the white-hairs. The Y'Qatt-they're all right. But not the rest! You can't let the rest have them!"