He would have liked to seek out Fairlea's captain immediately after leaving Enly and Tirnya, but he could see that the soldiers and their commanders were preparing for the day's march, and this was not a conversation he wanted to rush. Instead, he saddled Trey and, when the army of Stelpana mustered into columns, positioned himself a short distance behind the captains. A short time later they resumed their march westward, and for some time Torgan rode alone in silence.
He watched Gries closely. The captain appeared to be in good spirits as he chatted amiably with some of the captains under his command. He also kept his eye on both Tirnya, who rode with her father, and Enly, who appeared to ride alone. But it seemed to Torgan that Gries glanced at the woman now and again, as if unable to stop himself. Torgan didn't approach the man at first. He didn't wish to appear too eager, nor did he want to begin their conversation by interrupting Gries's interaction with his men.
But late in the morning Jenoe signaled for a brief halt by one of the many rills that cut through the plain. Gries dismounted and took a long drink of water and Torgan did the same, though he continued to keep his distance, positioning himself upstream of Fairlea's lord heir. One of the men with whom Gries had been riding lingered near the captain. Otherwise Torgan might have approached him then. A moment later, though, this other Fairlea captain returned to his mount, leaving Gries alone.
Scanning the area to make certain that no one else was near, Torgan stood. As he did, he purposely knocked his hat off his head and into the water. Immediately the current took it, and sped it downstream toward the captain.
"Damn!" Torgan said, stumbling after his hat along the stream bank. Gries looked up, saw the hat floating toward him, and snatched it out of the water. He straightened and, when Torgan reached him, handed the soaked hat back to the merchant.
"There you go," the captain said with a grin.
"Thank you, Captain. It may not look like much to you, but I've had this hat a long time. I wouldn't have wanted to lose it."
"I'm sure," Gries said, his tone courteous. He started to turn away. "There's a story behind it," Torgan said, shaking as much of the water out of the hat as he could and returning it to his head. "If you'd like to hear it."
Gries stopped, seeming to weigh whether to make his escape or agree to listen to Torgan's tale.
"This hat actually comes from your city."
Gries looked genuinely surprised. "Does it really?"
"Indulge an old man, Captain. Let me tell you how I came by it. I promise you won't be sorry."
The captain chuckled. "Very well, Mister Plye. Tell me your story." Before Torgan could begin, one of Jenoe's men called for the soldiers to muster in once more. The timing couldn't have been better.
"Can I ride with you?" the merchant asked.
"Of course."
"The tale of this hat begins with a game of dice," Torgan told him when they were riding again. "I was in the marketplace in Fairlea, and had spent the entire day making sales and trades. This was many years back and I wasn't as successful as I am-" He broke off, his cheeks coloring. "As I later became."
Gries said nothing and had the good grace to keep his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"None of the men I was playing against had much more gold than I did," he went on after a moment. "And soon those of us who were less fortunate had to place our bets in currencies other than gold. I bet cloth and blades and, yes, even baskets." He glanced at the captain, who was watching him now. "One of the other players tried to bet this hat, and when those of us with a stake in that particular throw questioned its value, he told us that he had taken the hat in a knife fight with none other than Widlyn Crane."
Gries's eyes widened. "Widlyn Crane?" he repeated, incredulous. "The Scauper himself?"
"The very same," Torgan said, grinning. "As you probably know, Crane died in a knife fight in Yorl. He was drunk, and fell to a man who couldn't possibly have bested him had he been sober. This was the man. We let him bet the hat, and I won the roll."
Gries regarded him doubtfully.
The merchant's smile broadened. "You don't believe me."
"Not really, no."
"I don't blame you." Torgan took off the hat, handed it to the captain, and pointed to the letters scratched into the leather at the back. They read, "W Crane."
"Blood and bone!" the captain whispered. "Widlyn Crane."
"One and the same." Torgan smiled again. It was indeed a true story, except that he won the hat in Redcliff along the Aelean Coast and not in Gries's city of Fairlea. But now that the captain had seen Crane's name etched into the hat, he would never think to question the rest.
Gries handed the hat back to Torgan, shaking his head. "Well, I have to admit, Torgan: I didn't think your tale would amount to much. I apologize for doubting you."
Torgan put the hat back on and waved off the captain's apology. "If I'd been in your position, I wouldn't have expected much either," he said. "Look at me. It's hard to believe that just a few turns ago I was the wealthiest merchant in the Southlands."
Gries looked him up and down quickly, a slight frown on his face. "You'll be trading again before long," he said bracingly.
The merchant didn't respond, and for several moments the two of them rode in silence. Torgan could feel the captain growing increasingly uncomfortable, which suited his needs. Eventually he'd try to force the conversation along, and with any luck he'd give Torgan some sort of opening to talk about his scrap of basket.
Sooner than the merchant would have expected, Gries said, "You seek revenge against the Fal'Borna, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"This basket you carry, or whatever it is. You want to avenge the loss of your wealth and the time you spent in captivity. Perhaps even the life of the other merchant you mentioned when we first found you. He died at the hands of the white-hairs, didn't he?"
"He died while still their prisoner, yes. But I'm not sure that it's revenge I'm after."
Gries raised an eyebrow. "No?"
Torgan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The marshal won't use the plague against them."
"You don't know that."
He didn't want to anger the man. Not exactly. It had to be done with care. "Actually, I do. I spoke with his captains this morning. They made it clear that they didn't like the idea. Not at all."
"Which captains?" Gries asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, his daughter, for one. I get the feeling that she doesn't like me, and that she has no intention of allowing her father to use the plague. And she was with the lord heir at the time. He didn't seem to like the idea, either."
"Enly, you mean?"
"Is that his name?"
Gries nodded, glancing at the other lord heir. "Yes." He faced Torgan again. "What did they tell you?"
"It wasn't as much what they told me as how they spoke to me. As I say, I don't think they like me very much."
"Perhaps it's the plague they don't like," Gries said.
"You don't like the idea, either, do you?"
The captain opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I haven't decided yet," he finally answered.
"Then let me ask you what I asked them. What would you say if I told you that your army could take back S'Vralna without losing a single man? All you'll have to do is walk through the shattered gates of the city and reclaim it for Stelpana."
"You sound very confident, Torgan. I can't imagine it will be that easy, even if the plague does all that you say it will."
"But you're wrong," Torgan told him. "The city has already been destroyed by the plague. It's yours for the taking. I'm not suggesting that you use the basket I carry against S'Vralna. I'm telling you that the city is already defeated."
Gries gaped at him. "You're certain of this?"
"I've been there. I've seen it with my own eye." He grinned, knowing that the man would think him ghoulish, and not really caring. He could see from the captain's expression that he had reached him.