Before long, she had reached the front of the column. One of the guards approached her, his eyes so pale they appeared white, just like his hair, which was tied back from his face.
"What are you selling today, dark-eye?" the man asked, sounding bored.
"My usual wares," Lark told him, refusing to flinch away from that wraithlike gaze. "Blankets, cloth, a few blades, some smoked fish, wine-"
"Any baskets?" the guard demanded.
Lark blinked. "Yes. Several."
Instantly, the man's entire bearing changed. "Where did you get them?" he asked, his tone crisp. Had his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword?
"From another merchant," she said. "What's this about?"
"The merchant's name?"
"I won't tell you that until I know why you're asking."
His blade was out and leveled at her neck before she could draw breath. "The a'laq takes this matter most seriously, dark-eye," he said, low and menacing. "Don't toy with me. Now I'll ask you one last time, who sold you your baskets?"
She swallowed, reluctant to give Brint's name to this Qirsi, but knowing that if she defied the man again, angering her friend would be the least of her worries. "His name is Brint HedFarren."
The soldier appeared to relax somewhat at the mention of Brint's name. "And where was this?" he asked.
"East of here, on the plain."
"How long have you had them?"
"Half a turn perhaps."
"And have you stopped in other Fal'Borna septs in that time?"
"Yes, a few."
"And you've noticed nothing unusual."
Lark shook her head. "No, nothing."
He nodded and lowered his blade. "Very well." He stepped away from her cart and motioned her through the gate. "You can pass."
She frowned. "Can't you tell me what this is about?"
"Apparently some are trading baskets that carry the pestilence with them. Obviously, we don't want any of them in our city."
The pestilence? In baskets? "No," Lark said, still not quite understanding. "Of course you don't."
"Get moving there!" came a voice from behind her; one of the other merchants no doubt.
Lark flicked the reins and clicked her tongue at Ashes, her dappled grey gelding. The old horse started forward through the archway. But still Lark shook her head, her brow furrowed. How could the pestilence come from baskets, except through some dark magic? Were the Fal'Borna at war with one of the other clans? Were they fighting their own kind?
She steered Ashes through the broad stone lanes to the large marketplace in the center of the city. This late in the morning, the market teemed with peddlers and buyers alike. Her mind fixed on what she had heard from the Qirsi guard, Lark noticed immediately that few of the other peddlers had any baskets for sale. She should have been pleased. Stam or Brint or any of the others would have been. Her baskets were sure to fetch a good price and sell quickly. But as before, Lark wondered if she should just leave them in her cart for today. Perhaps people here would be afraid to buy them. They might even be offended if she displayed them with her other wares.
She found a small space between two Eandi traders. She guessed that they were from Tordjanne, or maybe the southern shores of Qosantia: both were fair-skinned, with well-groomed beards and yellow hair that they wore short. They displayed goods from every other sovereignty except Tordjanne, but this wasn't all that unusual. Tordjannis were born merchants; they made few articles themselves.
The men nodded to her as she took her place between them, spread a blanket on the ground, and began to put out her goods.
"Good day so far?" she asked the one on her left as she worked.
The man shrugged and grimaced, then gave a slight shake of his head. Looking at him again, she saw that his hair and beard weren't so much fair as white, and his face was more deeply lined than she'd first noticed.
"Not so good," he said. "It's harvest time. Everyone's selling; no one's buying."
Qosantian. Definitely. She'd know that accent anywhere. "You're from Ferenham," she said. "Or maybe Harborton."
The man grinned at that, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "Ferenham. And you're from north shores of the Ofirean. Stelpana, if I had to guess."
She smiled. "I'm Lark."
"Lark, is it? The woman who sings so well. I've heard of you." He tapped his chest. "The name's Antal Krost."
"Nice to meet you." She glanced over at the merchant on her other side, but he seemed intent on ignoring them. She cast a questioning look at Antal, who merely shrugged again, an amused grin on his face.
"What are you selling, Lark?" Antal asked, pulling out a skin and taking a small drink. He offered it to her. "Wine?"
She shook her head. "Too early for me, thanks." She gestured vaguely at her old display blanket, which was already half covered with bolts of multicolored cloth and heavier woolen blankets. "Nothing that unusual," she told him. She hesitated, but only for an instant. "I have some baskets in my cart, but I'm wondering now if I should just leave them there."
Antal raised an eyebrow. "Baskets, you say?"
Lark nodded.
He stood and walked to her cart. "Let's have a look."
She joined him at the back of her wagon, and pushed aside the cloth that covered her goods. Seeing the baskets, Antal whistled through his teeth.
"You'd be mad to leave those in the cart. They'll bring a good price, even this time of year." He glanced at her. "If you hadn't noticed, there's a hit of a shortage of good baskets in S'Vralna."
"So I heard. What's this about the pestilence?"
"I'm not certain I understand it,"- Antal said. "Seems there's been pestilence east of here, near the wash. Somehow the Fal'Borna have convinced themselves that the baskets are spreading it. They think it's some Mettai curse, and they think that our kind are using the baskets to attack the septs."
"It's no' jest any pestilence."
Lark and Antal turned to look at the other merchant, who continued to sit just as he had, staring straight ahead, as if still ignoring them.
"What do you know about it?" Antal demanded.
"Jest what I's heard. It's no' a pestilence like any other. It's a white-hair plague." He looked at them, dark eyes peering out from beneath a shock of yellow hair. He wasn't a young man, but neither was he as old as Antal. "It don' touch our kind," he went on. "Jest them. That's why they's so scared. It only kills them." He stared at them another moment. Then he faced forward, his expression unreadable. Had Lark not seen him speak, she might have thought that the words had come from someone else.
She turned back to Antal. "Those baskets are Mettai," she said in a low voice. "And I was near the wash when I got them."
Antal smiled and shook his head. "Don't let him scare you," he said, dropping his voice as well. "Mettai curses? White-hair plagues? If you ask me it's all nonsense." He nodded toward her cart. "What did you pay for them?"
"One and a half sovereigns for each."
"You'll get three for them here. Two and a half at least. And they may well be the only things you sell." He shrugged. "It's up to you of course, but if it was me, I'd have them out already."
Lark knew Antal was right. Ignoring her lingering doubts, she retrieved the baskets from her cart and placed them on the blanket, pushing aside goods of lesser quality in order to make room for them. She started by putting out eight of them, but at Antal's urging, ended up with all sixteen on display.
"That's it," the older merchant said as she laid out the last of them. "Let them be seen. No one ever bought any goods of mine that they didn't see first." He winked at her and smiled.