Q'Daer nodded once. "Good." He spurred his mount forward.
Grinsa watched him ride ahead before looking down at the rilda he'd killed. "Tried to kill," he corrected in a whisper.
He shook his head and took a long breath. For just a few moments he'd felt more like a true Fal'Borna than he ever had before, than he'd ever thought possible.
Chapter 19
After speaking with Gries about his scrap of basket, Torgan hardly saw the man for the better part of a day. He had thought that he and the captain had come to some sort of agreement as they rode together, but Gries spent that evening with his men, leaving Torgan on his own. The next morning Fairlea's lord heir took his place at the head of the Stelpana army, leaving Torgan with little choice but to ride alone. Gries nodded to Torgan as he rode past the merchant, but he offered no greeting and gave no sign that he wanted Torgan to join him. The other captains, Tirnya and Enly in particular, had made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him; the soldiers of Stelpana were on foot and seemed no more inclined than their commanders to welcome Torgan as a marching companion; and Torgan had no interest in riding alongside the Mettai.
Instead, as they made their way westward, Torgan merely sat astride Trey, shivering within his riding cloak, cursing Gries and the rest of the soldiers. For a brief moment Torgan had managed to convince himself that he might actually profit from this invasion. He had even found some satisfaction in knowing that the piece of cursed basket he carried would help Stelpana's army defeat the white-hairs. He remained eager to strike back at the Fal'Borna for all they had done to him, and Gries had made it sound like he would have that opportunity.
Now Torgan wondered if the captain had been humoring him. His misgivings only increased when shortly after midday, as the army rested and ate, he spotted Gries speaking with the Mettai woman who had as much as called Torgan a liar the day he joined the company. The woman didn't look pleased about whatever it was Gries was telling her, which gave Torgan some small hope. But after Gries left her, he didn't approach the merchant. In all likelihood, whatever the captain discussed with the Mettai woman had nothing to do with Torgan. Soon Jenoe had them all on the move again. Torgan seethed. Late in the day the army came within sight of a broad, swift river. The marshal and his captains halted briefly and huddled together at the head of the company, though they didn't dismount. Torgan could see them speaking, but of course couldn't hear a thing they said. He guessed that they were trying to determine exactly where they were, and Torgan could have told them. They had reached the Thraedes River. S'Vralna lay only a short distance to the south. If Gries intended to use the basket, they'd have to act soon.
After a few moments, the marshal and captains rode on, and the army followed. But they stopped on the eastern bank of the river and made camp there for the night. Still Gries kept his distance, and Torgan cursed him in silence.
"I'll leave them come morning," he muttered to himself, chewing on a tough piece of salted meat and washing it down with cold river water. If they weren't smart enough to use the basket and win, he wasn't going to ride with them to his doom.
Darkness fell and clouds began to cover the sky. Torgan sat beside a fire built for him by a few of the Fairlea soldiers, who apparently had heard snippets of his story about Widlyn Crane. He showed them the hat and answered a few questions about the man from whom he'd won it-Was he big? Had Torgan ever seen him fight? Was it possible he was lying about how he'd gotten the hat?-before they left him alone again.
He was about to pull out his sleeping roll and blankets when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Fairlea's lord heir step into the firelight, a grin on his handsome face.
"Well, that proved a bit harder than I thought it would," the captain said, sitting on the grass and helping himself to a pull of water from Torgan's skin.
Torgan glared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"What do you think I'm talking about?" Gries asked, his brow creased, though a faint smile remained on his lips.
The merchant shook his head, feeling his face redden.
"Do you even remember what we discussed yesterday, Torgan?"
"Of course I do! But then you didn't say anything more to me, and I… I thought that you… that maybe you'd changed your mind."
Gries's frown deepened. "What did the Fal'Borna do to you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The Torgan Plye I know would have understood that these things take time. If I came to you looking for A'Vahl woodwork, you wouldn't just have it there waiting for me. You'd be the first to tell me that if you want the best goods, you need to be patient." He shrugged. "Alliances of the sort we're after are no different. We can't rush this. And it can't seem to the marshal that you and I have been working together. At least not immediately." He glanced around them. "That's why I circled around the camp to get to your fire. I told my men to build it for you here. I didn't want any of the others to see us together."
"You told your…?" Torgan broke off, shaking his head slowly. "I don't understand. What alliances? What is it you've been doing?"
"I've been trying to convince the eldest that she needs to work with us on this."
"The eldest," Torgan repeated, still confused. "Who are you-?" He stopped, his mouth agape. The eldest. Finally he understood. "You're trying to get the Mettai to help us?"
"Yes! I thought I made that clear to you yesterday."
Torgan shook his head. "No. You just said that you'd figured out a way to expose as many Fal'Borna as possible to the plague, and then you rode away."
"I thought it would be clear," Gries said. "We need magic to do this, Torgan. And the eldest has agreed to help us."
"But the eldest hates me."
Gries nodded. "Yes, she does. I didn't realize quite how much until I spoke with her earlier today. But she's agreed to help us."
Torgan wasn't certain how he felt about this. He'd never really liked the Mettai. Even when he traveled to the villages around the Companion Lakes, trading for baskets and blankets and the fine pelts sold by Mettai trappers, he did his best to be on his way before nightfall. He distrusted magic of any sort, be it the strange powers of the Qirsi or the blood conjurings of the Mettai. He understood that by using the poisoned basket to sicken the Fal'Borna, he was relying on Mettai magic. Somehow, though, the fact that they'd need the help of the Mettai to spread the plague bothered him.
"You don't look pleased, Torgan," Gries said, narrowing his eyes.
He shook his head. "No, I am. I just…" He stopped, shook his head again. "Never mind."
"Good." Gries stood and stepped beyond the firelight for a moment. "She's coming," he said, returning to where he'd been sitting. "I think she's got her son with her."
The two of them sat in silence for several moments, until at last two Mettai appeared in the firelight. One of them was the old woman, whose dark eyes found Torgan immediately. She had a narrow face and short white hair that made her look like a half-starved child, despite the lines around her eyes and mouth. The young man with her had a harder look. His features were sharp, and his dark, stringy hair made his face look even longer than it was. He was short, but wiry looking. If Torgan had passed this man on a lonely stretch of road while driving a cart filled with goods, he would have kept his knife within reach.
Gries stood to greet them, casting a look at Torgan that all but commanded the merchant to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, Torgan climbed to his feet.
"Thank you for coming, Eldest," Gries said. He indicated the merchant with an open hand. "I believe you've met Torgan Plye."