She shook her head. "It's different. Don't ask me how, because I can't explain it. I just know that it is."
"What will your father do?" Enly asked.
"I don't know. He… he hasn't been himself in recent days. After losing all those men to the white-hairs' fire magic.." She shook her head again. "Before that, I think he would have sent the merchant away without speaking to him."
Enly wasn't as sure of this as she seemed to be, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
Their eyes met, and for an awkward moment they stood gazing at each other in silence.
He looked away first. "I should see to my men," he said. "I'm sure your father will want to be moving soon." He took hold of his mount's reins and started to lead the beast away.
"Enly, wait."
He turned to face her. Her brow was creased, and she looked like she was about to say something. Then she smiled weakly and gave one more quick shake of her head.
"It was nothing."
He didn't believe her, but he didn't force the matter. He merely nodded and walked away with Nallaj trailing behind him.
Before he had gone far, he heard someone calling to him. At first he couldn't see who it was, and he didn't recognize the voice. After a moment, though, he spotted Mander, Fayonne's son, striding toward him, waving a hand over his head.
The young man stopped in front of him, slightly winded and frowning. He was an odd-looking man, with angular features and a long, narrow face. His skin looked pale in the silvery light. With his black hair hanging limply to his shoulders and his dark eyes peering out from beneath his brow, he had the look of an overgrown waif.
"Your men didn't know where you were," he said. "And they didn't seem inclined to help me find you."
That didn't surprise Enly at all. Like most of the soldiers in Jenoe's army, his men didn't like the idea of relying on magic in this war, and they wanted nothing to do with the Mettai. They would have done all they could to keep the man away from their captain.
"I'm sorry for that," Enly said. "You've found me now. What can I do for you?"
The young Mettai glanced around, as if suddenly conscious of all the men surrounding them, readying themselves for the day's march.
"Is there somewhere else-?"
"Forgive me," Enly said, his patience running thin, "but there's not. No one's listening to us, and I haven't time to leave the camp. What is it you want?"
Mander frowned. "My m-" He stopped, licked his lips, then started again. "The eldest wanted me to speak with you. She doesn't trust this merchant who rides with us."
That seemed a common feeling, but Enly kept this to himself.
"She also doesn't believe the white-hair plague came from our people," Mander went on. "She doesn't think it's possible."
"Really?" Enly asked. "After seeing what your magic can do, I have to disagree. Sleeping spells? Giant wolves and eagles? The shield you conjured to stop the Fal'Borna's fire? I have little doubt that the Mettai witch Torgan mentioned could conjure a plague if she wanted to."
"You don't know enough about my people or our magic to say that," the young Mettai told him. "We do, and I'm telling you it's not possible."
Enly had no desire to prolong their conversation by arguing with the man. "What is it you want me to do, Mander?"
"We don't trust this man," the Mettai said again.
"I understand that, but there's really nothing I can-"
"The marshal trusts you. He listens to you. If you were to tell him-"
"Tell him what?" Enly said, cutting him off. "The eldest doesn't want to believe that the plague could have come from Mettai magic, so you need to send away this man who may hold the key to victory in the palm of his hand?" He laughed harshly. "Jenoe wouldn't listen to me, and I wouldn't blame him."
Mander ran a hand through his long hair, looking troubled and beyond his depth. "Your men hate us already," he said with quiet intensity. "They regard us as demons. With the merchant saying these things about us it'll only get worse."
Enly shrugged. "I'm sorry."
"You say that the merchant has a way to win the war? He carries a weapon?"
He felt the color rising in his cheeks. Jenoe hadn't told them to keep this information from the Mettai, but Torgan had spoken to the marshal and his captains in confidence. Enly couldn't imagine that Jenoe would be pleased with him for letting this slip.
"It's not a weapon so much as… as information."
Mander eyed him skeptically. "Information about Mettai magic?"
"Information about the plague," Enly said. "I really can't tell you more than that. I shouldn't have said as much as I have."
"He's lying to you," Mander said. "He can't be trusted. Can't you see that?"
"Is there anything else?" Enly asked him.
Mander looked like he did want to say more. His dark eyes smoldered and he rubbed the scars on the back of his hand as if they pained him. But after a moment he shook his head and stomped off, back toward the rest of the Mettai.
Enly watched the man walk away until Nallaj snorted impatiently.
"Yes, all right," Enly muttered. "He's right, you know." He stroked his horse's nose. "We'd be better off without the merchant. For that matter, we'd be better off without the Mettai as well." He looked at his mount and grinned. "In fact, I think I'd like to be back in Qalsyn about now, enjoying an ale at the Swift Water and flirting with anyone other than Tirnya."
Nallaj placidly stared back at him, as if reminding him that he'd chosen to march with the Onjaefs in the first place.
"Right."
He heard one of Jenoe's men calling the army to muster and he swung himself into his saddle. If anything, his mood had grown even worse than it had been when he woke.
As Torgan had wrested control over his life back from the Fal'Borna and everyone else who had tried to bend him to their purposes over the past several turns, he had also rediscovered the powers of observation that once made him such a successful merchant. Not long ago, he had been able to discern a rival merchant's weaknesses with little more than a glance. That had been his gift. Within seconds of beginning a negotiation he knew how it would end. And nearly every time, he used this knowledge to turn a tidy profit.
The stakes were different now. He was trading in blood rather than gold; he concerned himself not with profit but with his own survival. In other ways, however, the game remained much the same.
And right now, he was losing. With each day that passed he thought it increasingly likely that Marshal Onjaef would send him away without using his scrap of cursed basket against the white-hairs. He'd cautioned himself to remain patient, but after his encounter with the Onjaef woman and Qalsyn's lord heir, he didn't believe he could afford to wait any longer.
He felt reasonably sure that the problem and its possible solution lay with Tirnya. If he could convince her, he could turn the marshal. But he no longer thought that he could change her mind, at least not on his own. For whatever reason, she didn't like or trust him. That was clear.
But he thought it equally clear that she had other matters on her mind. Any fool could see that Maisaak's son was in love with her, and from what Torgan had observed the night before, it seemed obvious that Enly had a rival in Gries Ballidyne. Enly and the woman were too much alike; if Torgan couldn't convince her, he wouldn't convince the lord heir either.
Gries, on the other hand, struck the merchant as being a perfect ally. Those who knew the Ballidynes spoke often of their ambition and their daring. The fact that Gries would make a play for the woman in the middle of a war confirmed what Torgan had already known: Here was a man Torgan could understand, a man who thought in terms of risk and profit. Yes, Tirnya Onjaef was beautiful. But more to the point, if Gries could win her from Enly, he and his house would profit handsomely. She came from a powerful, wealthy family. And if this invasion succeeded in ending the Onjaef's exile, such a marriage would prove even more advantageous to the Ballidynes.