The guard eyed him briefly, but didn't answer. Eventually he faced the Fal'Borna again. "Our n'qlae, who leads us now-she instructed us to turn away strangers. She didn't say anything about answering questions."
"You're led by your n'qlae?" Q'Daer asked.
"She's… she's the only Weaver we have left."
Q'Daer exhaled through his teeth. "I would speak to her," he said. After a brief pause he added, "If I may."
The two guards exchanged a look. Finally, the scarred man nodded, and the other soldier retreated through the gate.
"What are you doing traveling with dark-eyes, Q'Daer?"
Q'Daer opened his mouth to reply, but Grinsa answered before he could speak.
"That tale is best saved for your n'qlae," he said.
The guard frowned, but he didn't argue the point. Grinsa might have been a stranger to these lands, but Q'Daer had told the guard that he was a Weaver. No doubt a soldier in a Fal'Borna army was expected to defer to Weavers at all times.
For a time none of them spoke, until Q'Daer said softly, "Here she comes."
Grinsa saw her, too, leading the young guard back through the gate. She was a small woman, with pale golden eyes, long white hair that looked windblown and matted, and deep lines around her eyes and mouth. Once, perhaps not so long ago, she might have been beautiful. Now she looked careworn and slightly mad.
"Who are you?" she demanded, walking toward them. "You're both Weavers. What do you want here?"
"We're searching for the merchants who are selling cursed Mettai baskets, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said.
"Yes, so I've been told. The merchant who sold us the baskets is dead. My husband took her life before he died."
"Who was your a'laq, N'Qlae?" Q'Daer asked. "What was his name?" She stared at him briefly, and Grinsa wondered if the young Weaver had erred in asking.
But then she said, "His name was P'Crath. I lost my daughter as well. I should be dead myself. I haven't any idea why I'm not."
"We're sorry we didn't get here sooner," Grinsa said, drawing her gaze. "But is there some way we can help you now?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Your accent is strange."
"I'm from the Forelands. I've only been in your land for a short time." She looked at the Eandi, not bothering to mask her hostility. "And them?" she asked with contempt. "What are they doing here?"
Q'Daer caught Grinsa's eye and shook his head. A warning. Under different circumstances, Grinsa would have ignored him and told the woman the truth, but not here, not on this day.
"They're merchants, N'Qlae," Grinsa said, gesturing vaguely at all four of the Eandi. "They've been helping us track those who may have been selling baskets."
"Were they selling them, too?" she demanded.
"One of them was," Q'Daer said. "But he claims he didn't understand the danger until it was too late."
"The woman said the same thing. P'Crath didn't think it mattered."
"What was her name?" came a voice from behind them.
Grinsa and Q'Daer both turned. Torgan had steered his mount a few paces closer to where they stood.
"The woman-the merchant your husband killed. What was her name?"
"I never knew," the n'qlae said, ice in her voice. "Some called her by the name of a bird."
Jasha inhaled sharply, the color draining from his cheeks.
"Lark," Torgan whispered, closing his eyes. "Lariqenne Glyse. You bastards killed Lark."
"Torgan!" Grinsa said sharply.
"Torgan Plye?" the woman said, her voice rising.
The merchant stared back at her, unflinching. "That's right."
"You've been declared an enemy of the Fal'Borna."
"So I've been told," Torgan said, his tone bitter.
"My a'laq has taken his goods and his cart, N'Qlae," Q'Daer told her quickly. "And upon our return to the sept, he's to be executed. For now, he's helping us."
Torgan's face paled, though it seemed to Grinsa that he didn't look frightened so much as enraged.
"You lament the killing of this woman you knew, dark-eye?" the n'qlae asked, still glowering at the merchant. "You think her death an injustice?"
"Yes, I do."
"Do you know how many people used to live in this city?" When Torgan didn't answer, she asked again, "Do you?"
"I have some idea," Torgan admitted. "I used to pass through here from time to time."
"There were more than four thousand," she said, her chin quivering. "Four thousand! Fewer than eight hundred survived the pestilence that your friend brought to us."
"She wouldn't have meant for it to happen," Torgan said quietly. "She wouldn't have hurt even one of you on purpose."
"I don't give a damn about what she meant to do! And neither did my husband! Three thousand of my people are dead! Someone had to pay for that! She had to pay!"
None of them spoke. Grinsa didn't so much as look at the n'qlae, and he silently begged Torgan to say nothing more. Her city had been devastated, its army no doubt destroyed, but still she held their lives in her hand. If she decided that all of them should die, there was little he and Q'Daer could do to save them. And there was no telling what she might do if she learned that Besh and Sirj were Mettai.
Which was why his heart nearly stopped beating when he heard the old man call out to her.
"My pardon, N'Qlae," he said. "But it may comfort you to know that the woman who created this curse also is dead. I… I killed her."
Q'Daer had turned his glare on the man, his blazing eyes seeming to ask, Are you mad?
But Besh kept his eyes on the n'qlae, and she took a step toward him. "What is your name?" she asked, her voice more subdued now.
"I am called Besh, N'Qlae."
"And where is your home?"
Grinsa held his breath, but Besh seemed to understand that the truth could do only so much good.
"I live to the north, in Aelea, N'Qlae."
"And you say that you killed this woman?"
"I did. She meant to kill me, and I had no choice in the matter."
She stared at him for a long time. Then, "You're Mettai, aren't you?"
"He's been named a friend of all the Fal'Borna for what he did," Grinsa told her before Besh could answer. "An a'laq to the east named him so.
What was the a'laq's name, Besh?"
The n'qlae held up a hand to silence them both. "It's all right, Forelander. I have no desire to kill him. If what he says is true, we owe him a great debt."
Grinsa exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. He had taken hold of his magic, expecting that he would need it to save Besh's life. He relaxed his hold on it now, though he didn't let down his guard entirely. The n'qlae's reassurances notwithstanding, the two soldiers had exchanged looks when they heard that Besh was Mettai, and they continued to eye him darkly now.
"You offered to help us earlier," the n'qlae said. "Was your offer sincere?"
"Of course, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "What can we do?"
"We have bodies to burn," she said. "And our city is in ruins. A few more able hands would be welcome, even if just for a few hours."
Grinsa glanced at Q'Daer, who nodded.
"Lead the way," he said, facing the woman again.
She turned and started back through the gate. Grinsa, the young Weaver, and their company followed. Besh and Sirj left their cart by the gate, after being assured by the n'qlae that it would be safe.
"How is it that a Forelander speaks for your company, Weaver?" the n'qlae asked Q'Daer, as they walked beneath the portcullises.
The young Weaver's face colored and he eyed Grinsa with obvious resentment. "He doesn't," the man said.
She nodded. "I see. Forgive me."
Emerging from the gateway into the sunlight, Grinsa faltered. Nothing he had seen from beyond the city walls could have prepared him for the amount of damage he now saw within. It seemed no building had been spared. Homes and shops lay in ruins, piles of shattered stone and wood lined the lane, the charred remains of people's lives were strewn everywhere. It appeared that some great beast had rampaged through the city streets, destroying anything and everything in sight.