"They both live in the Companion Lakes region," Torgan said. "The Mettai and the Y'Qatt, I mean. There's no history of warfare between them but there could be old rivalries that the rest of us don't know about. Or it may be that this woman and her people had a feud with them."
The others regarded him with surprise.
"What?" Torgan asked, looking at each of them, until his gaze came to rest on Jasha.
"Nothing," the younger man said. "It's a good point."
"And that surprises you?"
None of them answered, but Grinsa and Jasha shared a look and after a moment both of them began to laugh.
"You think I got to be as successful as I did without knowing a thing or two about the people of this land? I can tell you about every sovereignty, and about every clan in the white-hair lands. I know this land better than any of you."
"I'm sure you do, Torgan," Jasha said, still grinning. "You're just not always that insightful about… about the feelings of other people."
Torgan dismissed the remark with a wave. "Feelings have nothing to do with it. We're talking about the Mettai and the Y'Qatt. They're strange, all of them. Eandi sorcerers? White-hairs who refuse to do magic? It's a miracle that they never went to war. It shouldn't surprise any of us that they're the ones behind all this madness."
"Now, that sounds more like Torgan," Jasha said, drawing another laugh from Grinsa.
Torgan glared at them a moment longer before stalking off toward his horse. "Forget it," he called over his shoulder. "I try to help you people and I just get ridiculed." His horse, a mount given to him for this journey by the Fal'Borna, snorted a greeting as Torgan drew near. Torgan stroked the beast's nose, then reached into his travel sack intending to pull out a pouch of food. As he did this, though, his hand brushed the frayed, blackened osiers of the basket scrap he'd been carrying. He hesitated, looking over at Jasha and the Qirsi. The merchant was deep in conversation with Grinsa, but at that moment Q'Daer happened to look Torgan's way. Torgan froze, staring back at him, like a boy caught stealing gold from his father's purse.
Their eyes remained locked for what seemed an eternity to Torgan, until finally one of the others said something that caught the Fal'Borna's attention, making him look away.
Torgan began to breathe again. Taking hold of the food pouch he'd been after in the first place, he pulled it from the sack with a trembling hand and opened it. It was only as he was raising a piece of hard cheese to his mouth that he noticed the black smudge on his hand. It was on the heel of his palm, just below the thumb; three faint streaks of black, as if some dark bird from the Underrealm had brushed his hand with the tips of its wings.
Again his gaze darted in the direction of the others, and again he found that the Fal'Borna was watching him. He put the cheese in his mouth and quickly wiped his hand on his breeches. Glancing down, he saw that the stain was still there and he wiped his hand again, harder this time. He looked hack toward his companions.
Q'Daer was walking in his direction.
Torgan took another piece of cheese and shoved it in his mouth, taking care to wipe his hand once more. At last it looked clean. He closed the food pouch, shoved it back into the sack, and closed that as well. Then he began walking in Q'Daer's direction, wanting to put some distance between his sack, with its lethal scrap of basket, and the Fal'Borna.
"What are you up to, Torgan?" Q'Daer asked as they approached each other.
"Nothing. I'm eating."
The white-hair looked past Torgan toward his horse. "What is it you're hiding over there?"
"I'm not hiding anything." He gestured at his mouth which was still full of cheese. "See? I'm eating. That's all."
For a moment he feared that the Fal'Borna wouldn't believe him, that he intended to go over and search Torgan's travel sack. Instead, after peering over Torgan's shoulder a moment longer, he looked the merchant in the eye.
"They have more questions for you," he said. "Seems there are several merchants selling those cursed baskets on the plain, and they think maybe you'll have some idea where to look for them."
"All right."
Again the Fal'Borna hesitated, his eyes narrowing briefly. After a moment, though, he led Torgan hack to the others.
"Do you know Stam Corfej, Torgan?" Jasha asked as Torgan reached them.
"Stain? Yes, of course. Good man. Aelean. Partial to pipeweed from Naqbae."
Grinsa smiled. "You truly are a merchant, aren't you?"
Torgan regarded him mildly. "You doubted it?"
"Where would he be right now?" Q'Daer asked.
He frowned. "That I'm less certain of." He removed his hat and scratched his head. "This late in the Harvest? He could be in any number of places. He might have returned to Aelea-if he planned to spend the Snows there, he'd cross the mountains before the weather turned too harsh. But he might also have headed south to the Ofirean, or west to the Horn, or into the southern sovereignties. Qosantia or Tordjanne," he added, for Grinsa's benefit. "Maybe even Naqbae."
Jasha looked troubled. "That doesn't help us much."
"Try one of the other names," Q'Daer said.
Jasha nodded once. "All right. What about Lark?"
"Lariqenne?" Torgan said, smiling. "Lovely woman, and what a singing voice. This time of year she'll probably be near the Horn, or heading toward the sea."
"And Grijed?"
Torgan frowned. "Semlor, you mean?" He shook his head. "He'd definitely he on his way south by now. He doesn't have the stomach for grey skies and cold nights."
"You don't like him," Grinsa said.
"Not much, no," Torgan admitted. "His goods are poor and he asks far too much for them. Men like him give men like me a bad reputation."
Q'Daer gave him a sour look. "I'd have thought you took care of that yourself."
Torgan ignored the comment, as did the others. Jasha named two other men, neither of whom Torgan knew.
"I'd never heard of them either," the younger man said. "They must be new to the plain."
"I agree."
"So then where should we go?" Grinsa asked. "We know of several merchants who might be headed toward the Ofirean or the Horn, and we have a crazed Mettai witch who we know is east of here."
"We go after the witch," Torgan said immediately. "That's the deal we made with E'Menua. We find the woman, he lets us live."
Grinsa looked at Q'Daer. "My conversation with the a'laq went much the same way, but knowing those baskets are out there changes everything. We'll save more lives going after the merchants. If that's what you want to do, we'll do it."
Torgan could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you mad? You're throwing away everything! Our lives! Your freedom!"
Grinsa hardly looked at him. "What do you think?" he asked the Fal'Borna.
"It's not his decision! The Fal'Borna are the enemy! Don't you get that?"
The Forelander whirled on him, stepping so close that Torgan had to back away. He hadn't realized until that moment just how big the white-hair was. "Keep quiet, Torgan! Q'Daer and I are going to make this decision, and you'll live with whatever we decide! Do I make myself clear?"
Torgan tried to hold the man's gaze, but failed. After a moment he nodded.
"You'd do this?" Q'Daer asked.
"If you think it makes sense to try. Torgan's right: We had an agreement with your a'laq, and eventually we have to find the woman. But if you think we can save lives, then that's what we should do."
The Fal'Borna was looking at Grinsa as if seeing the Forelander for the first time.
"The Horn," he finally said. "Finding the merchants on the shores of the sea would be next to impossible. It's a long coastline, and there are cities scattered throughout. But the Horn is a different matter. It's a small area, with a lot of people. The merchants will be easier to find there. And if those baskets reach S'Vralna or worse, D'Raqor, the effects would be.." He shook his head. "The dead would number in the thousands."