David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

He'd sell the baskets at his first opportunity. There were septs all around here and Qirsi villages along the wash. He wouldn't get as much for them in these lands as he would in Tordjanne, but he'd get enough. And then they'd be gone, and with them the memory of that old woman.

He absently rubbed his arm where she'd grabbed him. For an old woman, she had been uncommonly strong. Or simply desperate.

Fifty-seven sovereigns. He should have just done as she asked and given her the baskets back. Probably she was just deluded, but at this point he wanted nothing to do with her or her wares.

Brint was headed toward a bend in a narrow tributary of the Silver- water. He often met other Eandi merchants there to share what food they had, to speak of prices in the various marketplaces, to share tidings from other parts of the land, or simply to swap tales and sing songs. It was here that he first met Torgan Plye several years before. For all Brint knew, Torgan was there tonight. He never was sure who he might encounter at the bend, but usually at least a few merchants gathered there on any given night. And this evening was no different. Topping a small rise as the sun stood balanced on the horizon, he saw that there were already five carts in the bend, and as many figures seated around a small fire.

At first opportunity. He made the decision in that moment, with a clean conscience. Surely the woman was insane. That was why she said all the things she did. He would remember the crazed look in her dark eyes for as long as he lived. He'd recall the smell of her breath and the feel of her bony fingers digging into his arm and then his leg. That was why he couldn't keep these baskets for even one night. But for other merchants, men and women who hadn't encountered the old hag, they were simple baskets-beautiful, brilliantly made, and reasonably priced. He'd be doing them a favor, even if he did manage to turn some profit.

As he drew nearer to the bend and the merchants' fire, he recognized a few of the people there-a woman from Stelpana who was known simply as Lark, for her fine singing voice; another man from Tordjanne, whose name he'd forgotten, and Stam Corfej, who came from Aelea, but now spent more time in Qirsi lands than in the sovereignties. Good people all, successful merchants. They'd know the quality of the baskets, and they'd have no trouble selling them in the Fal'Borna septs that roamed these plains.

Stam turned at the sound of Brint's cart and raised a hand in greeting.

"If it isn't Young Red," the man called, removing his pipe from his mouth. "You'd better have food to share. We're a bit spare tonight."

Brint grinned. "I've plenty," he answered, halting by the other carts and climbing down out of his seat. "And wine, too."

Lark nodded. "Then you're certainly welcome."

"I've wares for you to see as well," Brint said. "Fine ones and at a good price."

"Offering bargains, are you?" Stam said skeptically, winking at the others. "And which one of us will be fortunate enough to be giving you gold?"

Brint pushed aside the cloth that covered the back of his cart and began gathering baskets in his hands.

"I imagine it will be all of you," he said. "There's plenty to go around."

So, if you don't go with them, they'll simply be executed?"

Grinsa nodded, afraid even to look at her. He'd left her once before to save the life of a man falsely accused, and it had nearly destroyed them both. Now they were the parents of a baby girl, trying to make sense of a strange land, held captive by a hostile people. How could he consider such a thing? That's what she would ask him; that's what he was asking himself.

Cresenne sat beside him, her eyes locked on his, and she asked, her voice as even as the plain, "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do?" he said. "I'm going to let them die. I can't leave you and Bryntelle. Not here; not now."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you'll just stand by while two men are put to death without cause?"

"They're strangers to us. Innocent people die every day. I can't be expected to put our lives at risk for every one of them, can I?"

Cresenne took his hand in her own, and lifted it to her lips. "Not every one, no."

He looked away, his gaze wandering the shelter until at last it came to rest on Bryntelle, asleep in a cradle by their pallet. "That's right. There's only so much one man can do."

"Even if he is a Weaver."

He faced Cresenne again. "What does that mean?"

"It means, this isn't you."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"Oh, come now, Grinsa. 'They're strangers to us'? 'Innocent people die every day'? You've never thought such things in your entire life. You've just convinced yourself that you can't leave us here, and you're trying to make peace with that."

"And you'd have me do different?"

"I don't want you to leave. You have to know that." She ran a hand through her long white hair. "But I also know that you'll never be able to live with yourself if these men are killed while you have a chance to save them."

"Who says I have that chance?"

She smiled, though the look in her pale eyes made his chest ache. "This is you we're talking about. If you decide to try, you have a chance."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "It's not that easy. In fact, I'm not sure it can be done. E'Menua wants to prove a point."

"Another test?"

"In a way. Only this time he wants me to fail. He's tired of me challenging him. I think he wants me to try this, and to return to him humbled, chastened. And Q'Daer and L'Norr just want me to go. I think they'd be happiest if I didn't come back at all." Grinsa shook his head. "I'm not sure I should give them the satisfaction."

"But E'Menua must want this Mettai woman stopped."

"I have the sense that he's not worried about her, or maybe he just expects that another sept will find her. No, I really think this is about him and me." He rubbed his cheek where the a'laq had struck him. "Did I mention that he hit me?"

"I saw the mark. I assumed you'd tell me about it eventually."

He grinned. The bruise felt tight and sore. "There's not much to tell. I argued with him in front of the other Weavers, the two Eandi, and a large number of warriors. He ordered me into his shelter and hit me."

Grinsa was still smiling, but Cresenne looked deadly serious. "You're lucky he didn't do worse."

He shrugged and looked away. "I suppose."

She bent lower, searching for his eyes, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I mean it, Grinsa."

"I don't think he's any more powerful than I am."

"That's not the point," she said. "And you know it. In any test of magic you'll stand alone against four of them. Strong as you are, you won't survive that."

"I know. You're right." He twisted his mouth. "While we're on the subject, I should also tell you that I hit Q'Daer. He challenged me after

I left the a'laq's z'kal, said he was going to teach me to respect Fal'Borna ways."

"And you hit him?" she asked, her voice rising.

He rubbed his hand. It was sore, too. He felt as though he'd come through a street brawl. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

She shook her head, looking frustrated. "Why are you trying to antagonize them? Is there some purpose to it, or is it just some Weaver thing?"

He had to laugh. "Some Weaver thing?"

She smiled reluctantly and shrugged. "You know, 'My magic's bigger than yours.' "

"No," he said, still laughing. "It's not some Weaver thing." He shook his head, his mirth fading. "Really, I'm not certain what it is. I can't help myself. Q'Daer is dangerous, I know. But I think I can handle him. When all is said and done, this is about E'Menua. And I honestly don't know why I keep defying him. The others are so quick to defer to him, even when he's wrong. I can't bring myself to do the same. So I fight him. I don't know; maybe I'm hoping that he'll get so angry with me that he'll just let us go."