"Doesn't he?"
"No. He may be an ass, but he's not a murderer."
Jasha called out again and beckoned to them.
Neither of the Qirsi even looked his way.
"It seems the young merchant knows just where to find these baskets," said the Fal'Borna.
"They weren't here, Q'Daer. You heard what Torgan said."
"Yes, I heard." The young Weaver regarded Grinsa briefly, the rain soaking his long hair and running down his face. "I've heard talk about you Forelander. I know that you had Eandi friends back in your old home. That may be why you trust these men as you do. But I assure you, the dark-eyes of the Southlands are demons. They're not to be trusted. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."
He started toward Jasha before Grinsa could answer. Grinsa wasn't sure what he would have said if the Weaver had waited.
Damn them all! Torgan thought, his rage threatening to spill over into violence. In that moment he wasn't sure who he hated more: Jasha or the Qirsi.
He'd had enough of the white-hairs and their suspicions, their certainty that he was a monster. Yes, he had sold the Mettai woman's baskets, but he hadn't known what they would do. He'd tried to explain this countless times-first to E'Menua and later to these two-and still they didn't believe him. They thought him a monster and worse. Sure, he hated the Qirsi. Who among his people didn't? But that didn't mean that he would do… this. He looked around him, at the burned shelters, at the bones of the dead, and he shuddered.
And Jasha! Who was that whelp to tell him when he could speak and when he couldn't? There had been a time-could it have been only a turn before?-when Torgan had been the wealthiest, most famous merchant in all the land, and Jasha had been little more than a common peddler, trading wares of questionable value and eking out meager profits. He made as much gold in a day as Jasha made in half a turn. And now Jasha was telling him to shut up? Torgan should have throttled the little bastard when he had the chance.
This search of theirs was futile. Not that they couldn't find the Mettai woman-it seemed unlikely that they would, but he supposed that it was possible. No, the futility of it lay in the fact that all hinged on the Fal'Borna keeping their word. Even now, the Qirsi were using them, getting Jasha to search through the ruins for baskets as if he were a hound. They'd let the merchants lead them to the Mettai woman, just as they had agreed. And then they'd execute them anyway. That was the Qirsi way. Torgan had thought that maybe this white-hair from the Forelands was different, but now he knew better. They were all the same, no matter their clan, or their homeland.
The worst part of it was that poor Jasha was making it easy for them, being as trusting as a pup.
Well, Torgan had no intention of following along. He'd save Jasha if he could, but he wasn't going to risk his life for the young fool. But how to get away?
It came to him suddenly, and he felt his knees give way, so that it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He'd never done such a thing before. True, he had brought this white-hair plague to C'Bijor's Neck and S'Plaed's sept, but he hadn't done it on purpose. He'd been selling baskets, trying to make some gold, doing what all merchants do. He hadn't known that hundreds would die until it was too late to save even one of them.
But this was different. This was murder.
No, a voice said in his mind. This is war. They're holding you against your will. They intend to execute you for crimes you didn't commit. You're defending yourself.
He couldn't bring himself to move. Jasha had wandered off a ways, and was scanning the ground for more baskets. The white-hairs had walked away and were speaking in low tones, probably about him, about how much longer they would keep him alive.
The rain began to fall harder, but Torgan stood there, staring down at it: his hope, his weapon, his freedom. If only he had the courage to reach clown and take hold of it.
Jasha called out. He waved the Qirsi over to where he stood. Another basket, no doubt. Probably there were several of them here.
The white-hairs started in Jasha's direction, ignoring Torgan for the moment. This was his chance. And yet he didn't move.
It's murder.
It's the only way.
It might not even work. Who was to say how long such a thing could last? But he watched the Qirsi walk to Jasha. The young merchant bent down to look at this newest discovery. He said something that Torgan couldn't hear and he pointed. The Qirsi looked, they nodded. But they had halted two or three strides shy of Jasha, and they continued to keep their distance. They didn't squat down. They certainly didn't get close enough to touch it. They still feared the Mettai woman's magic.
And so at last, while his three companions spoke among themselves and looked at this new basket, Torgan bent down quickly and picked up the first scrap of basket they had seen. He straightened, slipping the burned osiers into his pocket. It couldn't have taken him more than a moment, a heartbeat or two, and it was done. The others didn't notice a thing.
He walked over to them, keeping his trembling hands in his pockets. Jasha looked up at him as he approached and nodded at the basket they'd found. This one was nearly whole. It had been dyed in earth tones and it had a long, curved handle. It was as fine a basket as Torgan had ever seen; it had to have been made by that Mettai witch he'd seen in the Neck.
"What do you think?" Jasha asked.
"It's her work," Torgan said. "I'm sure of it."
The Forelander looked Torgan in the eye. "Thank you." He turned to the Fal'Borna. "At least we know we're heading in the right direction."
Q'Daer didn't seem pleased, but he nodded and started back toward the horses. "Then let's get going. If I'm going to be out here in the rain, I'd rather be getting somewhere."
The rest of them followed the man, Torgan bringing up the rear. He was still shaking, even as his fingers caressed the osiers hidden within in his coat. He felt sick to his stomach, as if the woman's plague was making him ill. He had to fight an urge to throw the basket back onto the ground.
I don't have to do it, he told himself, trying to ease his nerves. Not yet; not ever, if that's what I decide. But at least now I know that I can.
This thought calmed him. By the time he reached his mount, he felt composed enough to pull his hands from his pockets and reach for the pommel of his saddle. As he climbed onto his horse, he realized that for the first time since being captured by the Fal'Borna, he had some hope of getting away.
Chapter 6
FAL'BORNA LAND, WEST OF THE SILVERWATER WASH
They were losing ground with each day that passed, held back by cold and wind, by the madwoman who rode in the old peddler's cart, rocking back and forth, mumbling nonsense to herself, and by Besh's own physical limitations, which humiliated and appalled him. The trader who had bought Lici's cursed baskets, who was no doubt selling them to the Fal'Borna already, was by now days ahead of them.
Perhaps he knew what he carried; perhaps he understood the peril that lurked in those innocent-looking wares. But even if that was the case, he could only know this from experience, from having sold the baskets to unsuspecting Qirsi and then having watched them die.
It seemed more likely that he had sold some baskets in a marketplace in some sept on the northern plain, and then had moved on, determined to sell more. There was no telling how much damage the merchant had done without intending to, without even being aware that he was hurting anyone. At this point, if Besh could have stopped the man at the cost of his own life, he would have done so gladly, so much did he suffer for every moment delayed, every hour wasted.