Grinsa didn't say anything. He merely grinned. Then he left the z'kal, and went in search of his family.
Chapter 6
He had become a creature of the night, a man who hid in shadows and walked with wraiths at his shoulder. Not long ago Torgan Plye had been a successful merchant, renowned throughout the Southlands for the quality of his wares and his refusal to back down when bargaining. He'd been wealthy, comfortable, and respected, if not liked.
Now his gold was all but gone. His wares had been taken from him by the Fal'Borna. Every a'laq in the clan lands wanted him dead; every Qirsi warrior on the plain wanted to be the one to kill him. He himself had killed; he'd snapped Jasha's neck with his own hands, and he had exposed Q'Daer of the Fal'Borna and Grinsa, the Forelander, to the deadly plague that had taken the lives of so many white-hairs. Their deaths were on his head as well.
Torgan should have been miserable. Until the night when he killed his fellow merchant and the Qirsi, he had considered himself a coward. The Torgan of old would have been paralyzed with fear, ashamed of his actions. He would have been waiting to die.
It was enough to make this new Torgan, a man he barely recognized, laugh out loud. For too long he had allowed himself to be controlled by his fears and browbeaten by the white-hairs, of whose magic he was so afraid. Two turns ago-it seemed so much longer!-when he first realized that he had been responsible for spreading the plague to S'Plaed's sept, Torgan had been racked by guilt. His time as a prisoner of the Fal'Borna had changed him, made him bolder. He had never felt so alive, so free, so strong.
It had been several days since he left Jasha's limp form lying on the plain-he'd lost track of the exact count. His nose still hurt from the blow he'd received from Sirj, the young Mettai, but the pain had dulled. He probably looked a mess, but that was a small price to pay for his freedom. He'd gotten away from the white-hairs and the Mettai early in the waning. Now the waning had progressed far enough that the moons did not rise until well after nightfall. Yet in just these few days, Torgan, who had never been much of a horseman before, and who had lost one eye to a coinmonger in his youth, had grown perfectly comfortable riding by starlight. It almost seemed that sleeping during the day and traveling at night had improved the vision in his remaining eye, allowing him to see in darkness, something that in the past would have bewildered him.
On this night, by the time Panya, the white moon, appeared on the eastern horizon, Torgan had already covered nearly a full league. He had been navigating by the stars. Seeing the moon rise, a bright sickle carving through the darkness, he realized that he'd been angling slightly toward the south. He adjusted his course a bit and rode on.
He'd been fortunate so far. He had avoided Fal'Borna septs and had managed to steer clear of any white-hair riders. The truth was, though, he didn't know what he'd do when he finally encountered the Qirsi. War was coming to the plain. He'd learned that much from Q'Daer before sickening the man with the small scrap of Mettai basket that he still carried. He wanted to make his way to the safety of Eandi land as quickly as possible, but a part of him also wanted to exact some revenge on the sorcerer race. The Fal'Borna had robbed him of his wealth, humiliated him time and again, and threatened so often to kill him that Torgan had come to doubt that he'd ever see his native Tordjanne again. He wanted vengeance beyond what he'd reaped by killing Q'Daer and Grinsa. He wanted to be part of the war, to be counted among the Eandi soldiers who would soon be fanning across the plain.
So when he spotted the sept ahead and slightly to the north, he stopped, his eves fixed on the faint glow of spent cooking fires, and the small shelters illuminated by Panya's light. Then he turned and rode toward the settlement.
It was late, and no one stirred in the sept. Still, he stopped well short of the first shelters and covered the remaining distance on foot. He'd named the horse the Qirsi had given him Trey, after a farrier he'd known as a boy. The beast, like all Fal'Borna horses, was well trained and obedient. He left it behind, confident that it would stay put and keep quiet.
Torgan wasn't entirely certain what he intended to do once he reached the village, but he'd brought the scrap of Mettai basket with him. Now, as he walked, he pulled out his knife and cut away a small piece from that scrap, and tried to decide what to do with it.
He had sickened Q'Daer by hiding the piece of basket in the Fal'Borna's sleeping roll. Clearly he wouldn't be able to get that close to any of the Fal'Borna living in this settlement. Instead, he scanned the sept for a place he could leave the cutting where it wouldn't be noticed but would infect as many as possible. As soon as he spotted the grinding stones, it came to him. The grain, of course. What better way to spread the plague than through their food supply?
He stayed clear of the paddock at the west end of the sept, fearing that if he frightened the horses they'd wake the Fal'Borna. As it was, his mere presence in the settlement drew a few low whinnies from the beasts. Three wild dogs searching for food at the fringe of the sept growled at him. But though Torgan stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering as he watched for movement, no one awoke. After several moments, he went on toward the grinding stones and the large baskets of unground grain just beside them.
He didn't place the basket cutting in the largest of the grain baskets, but rather in the one nearest to the grinding stones. He didn't leave it where it could be seen, but neither did he bury it too deeply in the grain. The women who worked the stones would find it soon enough, and by the time they did it would be too late.
Satisfied that he had placed it as well as he could, Torgan began to retreat into the darkness. He slipped what was left of the basket scrap back into his pocket and sheathed his blade.
The dogs growled at him again as he slipped past them.
And that was when he heard the voices.
"There it is again!" one of them said. A man's voice, youthful, but strong. "The dogs, you mean."
"Yes. Over this way. Near the grain."
"It's probably rabbits, or something of that sort."
Torgan had to resist an urge to run, knowing that they'd hear him. He slowly backed farther into the shadows and lowered himself to the ground. He could see the men now. Both of them were broad and muscular, their white hair tied back in the way of Fal'Borna warriors. They reminded him of Q'Daer.
As they approached, one of the men shouted something at the dogs and scared the animals off.
"You see anything?" the other man asked.
The first man peered into the darkness, his gaze passing right over Torgan. After a moment he shook his head. "No, nothing."
"A rabbit or two won't eat much grain," the second man said. "We should get back to the horses in case those dogs come back."
His companion nodded, but continued to stare in Torgan's direction. A lone cloud drifted in front of Panya, darkening the plain somewhat.
"What is it?"
"I thought I saw something. Did the a'laq say anything to you about one of the horses getting loose?"
Torgan felt his mouth go dry, even as he thanked every god he could name for that stray cloud.
"Not that I remember. You see a horse?"
"I thought I did. I was probably imagining it, or looking at another dog." One of the horses whinnied again.
"Come on. Let's get back to the paddock."
Still the first man stared Torgan's way for another second or two. Then he gave up and followed his companion in the opposite direction.
Torgan closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, enjoying the smell of the plain grass and the very fact that he was still alive. At last, when he was certain that the men were far enough away, he climbed to his feet. Keeping in a low crouch, he crept back to Trey. He led the beast away on foot, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, half expecting at any moment to see a Fal'Borna war party bearing down on him.