"And you refused."
Brint looked at him. "You saw those baskets. You know how fine they were. And at that point I just wanted to get away from her as quickly as I could."
"Where are the baskets now, Brint?"
"I sold them to other merchants."
Jasha had been afraid of this. He passed a hand through his hair. "Where did you sell them?"
"Around a fire, much like this one. I met up with some other merchants and decided I didn't want anything to do with that crazy woman or her wares. So I sold them all."
"To who?"
Brint named several merchants. A few of them-Stam Corfej, Lariqenne Glyse, Grijed Semlor-Jasha knew. He tried to commit to memory those names he didn't recognize.
"And how many baskets were there in all?" Jasha asked.
"Forty-seven."
Jasha felt his mouth drop open. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him. The Mettai woman was selling her wares throughout the land; no doubt she had dozens of them. But somehow hearing this number-forty-seven!-and knowing that they were being spread across the plain, like seeds blown from a harvest flower, struck him dumb. He and his riding companions had seen the remains of two or three in the ruined sept they'd found days before. How many more villages could be ravaged that way? Would one basket do it, or did it take two or three or even four? Even if it took more-six or eight-that meant half a dozen villages might suffer the same fate as the one they had seen. And that assumed the baskets Brint had bought from the woman were the only ones still out there.
"It didn't seem like that many at the time," Brint whispered after some time.
"No. I'm sure it didn't."
Jasha had to resist an urge to climb back on his horse and return immediately to Torgan, Grinsa, and Q'Daer. Forty-seven baskets! He wanted to find them now, this night.
We can't do anything tonight, he told himself. I need to rest so that we can be moving again with first light.
"You probably don't know where the merchants who bought them were headed, do you?"
"No," Brint said. "There were several of them. They were all headed in different directions. Some were going west, others south, toward the Ofirean."
Jasha winced and closed his eyes. The Ofirean. If those baskets reached Thamia or Siraam or one of the other major settlements on the inland sea… He shuddered.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," Brint told him.
"I'm sure you didn't." Jasha stood, too weary to say more. "I'll see you in the morning."
Brint nodded.
Jasha lay down beside the fire, stretching out on the hard ground and wrapping the blanket he'd brought with him around his shoulders. But for a long time sleep wouldn't come. Whenever he closed his eyes, he began to see once more the devastation of S'Plaed's sept and the ruined settlement they'd seen south of here. So he kept them open, staring at the baleful orange glow of the embers. After a while, he heard Brint walk off to his cart. One of the other merchants mumbled something in her sleep, and an owl called from far off.
Death and ruin, the woman had warned. Yet clearly that was what she had been hoping for when she first conjured this plague of hers.
"She was mad," Jasha whispered to himself, thinking that this should make him feel better somehow.
But it didn't. And he lay awake.
Chapter 10
Long after Jasha left them, Torgan remained apart from the Qirsi. He didn't wander far-the Fal'Borna wouldn't let him-but he kept his distance, watching the sky darken, wondering if this would be his last night alive.
Let him go, Q'Daer had said, speaking of Jasha. And when he doesn't return, we can kill Torgan and be done with this folly.
He had no doubt that the Fal'Borna meant what he said, and though he didn't think that the Forelander would let Q'Daer follow through on the threat, there was always the chance that Grinsa would be powerless to stop the younger man. The larger question looming in Torgan's mind was whether or not Jasha would return. If Jasha had asked for his advice, he would have told him to ride eastward as fast as he could until he crossed into Eandi land. Yes, he'd be condemning Torgan to his death, but better one of them should get away.
Jasha didn't think that way, though. He was young. He still thought that kindness and generosity could win out over centuries of hatred and war. He truly believed that if they helped the Fal'Borna find the Mettai woman and end her plague, the white-hairs would let them go. So he'd go and speak with the merchants they'd seen, he'd find out what he could, and then he'd come back, thinking that they actually had a chance to succeed in this foolish venture.
Jasha was an idiot, and because of that Torgan would probably live to see another sunset.
Or would he? On more than one occasion the young merchant had surprised Torgan with his cunning. He'd done his part to keep them alive when they first spoke with E'Menua. And, in fact, he'd been so sly about it that at first Torgan believed Jasha had betrayed him, and he tried to strangle the younger man. Jasha had also turned conversations so as to keep Grinsa and Q'Daer at odds with each other, convinced that so long as the Forelander believed he had more in common with the two merchants, he was more likely to protect them from the Fal'Borna.
Jasha might well have come to the same conclusion that Torgan had reached: The Fal'Borna were likely to execute them no matter the outcome of their search for the Mettai witch. In which case, Torgan would never see the young merchant again.
Sitting on a boulder, staring at the clouds that scudded past, vaguely conscious of the two Qirsi nearby, Torgan pondered these possibilities, assessing the reasoning behind each, examining them for flaws as if they were goods in a marketplace. A part of him wondered at how calm he felt contemplating the possibility that he would be killed in a few hours. He knew better than to think that he had suddenly found courage. More likely this endless ordeal with the Fal'Borna had left him numb.
Or perhaps there was another explanation. Perhaps the knowledge that he wasn't entirely powerless had made him bold. Could it be that he had drawn strength from that scrap of cursed Mettai basket that he carried at the bottom of his travel sack?
He had told himself that he would use it against the Qirsi only as a last resort. Already he carried too many dead with him, and he was loath to add to that burden. Yes, the deaths he had caused in C'Bijor's Neck and S'Plaed's sept had been inadvertent, but that didn't make the wraiths hovering at his shoulder any less unsettling. If he were to use the scrap he had found in the ruined sept to expose Grinsa and Q'Daer to the witch's plague it would be murder, plain and simple.
Some murders are justified, said a voice in his head. And is it really murder if it's the only way to save yourself?
The question itself was enough to start Torgan shaking, and he thrust his hands into his pockets, though the Qirsi weren't close enough to notice.
It was the timing that made his decision so difficult. He wouldn't know until morning if his life was in imminent danger. Either Jasha would return or he wouldn't; if he didn't Q'Daer might well have his way, and Torgan would be killed. But from what he knew of the witch's pestilence, it took several hours to take effect, which meant that if Torgan waited for morning to use the basket scrap, he wouldn't be able to save himself; he'd merely be assuring that the Qirsi died several hours after killing him. Not that Torgan was above such vengeance, but it struck him as a thoroughly empty gesture. Better he should expose them to the plague tonight. Quite likely the Qirsi would be dead by morning and regardless of whether Jasha returned, Torgan would be able to escape.