The smell of rotting flesh was far stronger here than it had been outside the city, and the scavenger birds circled overhead, their shadows slipping across the roads and mounds of debris like dark, elusive wraiths. The bodies had been cleared from this lane, but Grinsa could smell the great pyres burning farther in, toward the city's marketplace.
Here and there Fal'Borna moved among the ruins, picking through the rubble for lost items, or perhaps for those dead who had yet to be found. Hearing Grinsa and the others approach, many of them looked up and watched the company pass, the expressions in their yellow eyes bleak and haunted. A great number of them appeared to be children, too young yet to have come into their power.
"So many young ones," Grinsa heard Besh say behind him.
"Yes," the n'qlae said over her shoulder. "More than half of those who survived were children, and nearly all of them lost at least one parent. Many-too many-are now orphans."
"Do you know why so many children were spared?" Grinsa asked her.
"My husband believed that the disease struck at our magic. Those who hadn't come into their power were immune. My daughter had only been wielding her magics for a few turns. If the pestilence had come to us in the Planting, rather than the Harvest, she would still be alive."
The n'qlae faced forward again, still walking, and Grinsa followed her, wanting to ask more questions, but mindful of treading on emotions that obviously remained raw.
Before they reached the marketplace, they passed a great structure of white stone that looked to be less damaged than the rest of the buildings, though perhaps only because it had been more sturdily constructed. Again, Grinsa wanted to ask what it was, but didn't want to press the n'qlae.
To his surprise, though, she gestured at the building as they walked past, and said simply, "This was our home."
Grinsa chanced a quick look at Q'Daer, who was walking beside him. The young Weaver looked much as he had the day they found the small sept that had been devastated by Lici's curse. His face was pale, and his eyes burned with fury and grief and maybe even a touch of dread, as if he were imagining what this pestilence might do if it struck at E'Menua's sept.
Past the marketplace, they turned to the west, where the destruction seemed to have been more severe and less work had been done to clean up the streets. Again, there were Fal'Borna here, young and old, many of them with cloths wrapped around their mouths and noses to protect them from the stench of the dead.
"We need help here, to find and pile the bodies," the n'qlae said. "And we also need help farther to the north."
"How long ago did all this happen?" Torgan asked, surveying the lane with obvious disgust.
"It's been more than half a turn," the n'qlae told him.
"And you're only cleaning it up now?"
"We fled the city the night… the night all this happened. My husband told us to." She turned to Grinsa and Q'Daer, eager, it seemed, to make them understand. "I had to leave him. I had to leave my daughter. I didn't-" She stopped and shook her head. For several moments she stared at the ruined buildings. "He was very wise, my husband. He told us to separate. He said we should stay apart for ten days. Only then could we risk returning to the city." She appeared to shudder. Then she shook her head, as if rousing herself from a dream. "We spent several days searching for survivors, and when we were convinced we'd found everyone, we returned here to reclaim our home."
Jasha approached Grinsa. "We shouldn't help them," he said, keeping his voice low. "At least you and Q'Daer shouldn't. You remember the village we found. There were pieces of the baskets there. Even if these people aren't carrying the disease anymore, those baskets will be. You can't go digging around in this mess. You'll kill yourselves."
"The Fal'Borna are doing it," Grinsa answered, lowering his voice as well.
Jasha hesitated. "They have no choice," he finally said.
Grinsa looked at Q'Daer, who was watching them both. "You heard what he said?"
The young Weaver nodded.
"And what do you think?"
He expected Q'Daer to dismiss the merchant's concerns and insist that they help the n'qlae and her people. But the man surprised him. "I don't know," he said. "I want to help, but he makes a good point."
"Why don't you and Jasha work together," Grinsa said. "Jasha, you do the digging. Q'Daer can clean up and carry what you've already checked through. I'll take Torgan."
"Do you trust him?" Q'Daer asked.
"I'll take the Mettai as well. I trust them."
The n'qlae had waited patiently while they spoke, but now she cleared her throat.
"Forgive us, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said. "The young merchant and I will remain here. The rest will go on with you."
"I didn't agree to that," Torgan said, sounding petulant.
Q'Daer shot him a look that should have made the man quail. "You weren't asked."
The Fal'Borna woman walked on, and Grinsa followed her with Torgan beside him and the Mettai just behind.
"What is it we're doing here?" Torgan asked, far too loudly. "And what were the three of you talking about back there?"
"We're helping these people for a short while," Grinsa whispered. "And Jasha pointed out that there might still be remnants of the baskets here, just as there were at the village we found."
The merchant's face blanched. "The Mettai baskets?" he said.
"Yes. So I need for you to go through the rubble and make certain there are none there before I handle anything."
A look of purest malice flashed in the man's eyes so suddenly and vanished again so quickly that Grinsa could easily have convinced himself it wasn't real. But he knew better. He shuddered in spite of himself.
"Sirj," he called.
Both of the Mettai men hurried forward to join them.
"Yes?" the younger man said.
"I need you to dig through the rubble for me. I can't risk finding the remnant of one of Lici's baskets."
Sirj nodded. "Of course."
"You don't trust me," Torgan said.
Grinsa shook his head. "No, I don't."
Torgan looked away for several moments. His color had returned, and he was scowling, which gave his scarred face a fearsome look. "Well, why should I be concerned for you?" he asked with quiet intensity after a few moments. "You heard what the Fal'Borna said. They're going to execute me when we get back to the sept."
"He had to say that," Grinsa whispered, eyeing the n'qlae to make certain that she hadn't heard. "You saw the way she reacted to hearing your name. Everyone here knows that you were named an enemy of the Fal'Borna, and after what's happened to them, they're probably eager for your blood themselves. Q'Daer said that to mollify her."
"I don't believe you," Torgan said. He stopped, grabbing hold of Grinsa's arm so that he had to stop, too. "You have to let me escape. You know you do. They'll kill me otherwise."
Grinsa wrenched his arm out of the man's grip. "We've been through this. I'll do what I can to keep you alive-to keep all of us alive-but you're not leaving."
A strange look came into the man's eye once more, and then was gone just as quickly. "Then maybe you're right not to trust me."
Grinsa just stared back at him, not certain what to make of his behavior.
"Here," the n'qlae said, as they stepped into yet another lane of collapsed and charred houses. A pile of bodies burned at the end of the road, feeding a great column of rank, black smoke. A few Fal'Borna worked nearby, watching the strangers with guarded expressions.
"We'll do what we can, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "We can't stay here long. We're still hoping to find other merchants who have these evil baskets among their wares. But we'll help you as long as we can."
She merely nodded and started away.