"You have to try," Grinsa told him, closing his eyes again. He felt so weary suddenly. All he wanted was to sleep.
"I intend to. I'll bleed myself weak if I have to. I'll do everything in my power to defeat this plague."
Sirj nodded once. "So will I."
Grinsa smiled weakly. "Thank you both."
"We'd like to stay with you if we may, Grinsa," Besh said. "We may need to try different cures on you until we find one that works."
"Yes, all right."
Besh turned to Sirj. "We'll need that piece of basket, too."
Grinsa looked at him. "Don't you have it?"
"No. Jasha still has it. We heard you getting sick before I could take it from him."
Grinsa was still on his hands and knees, but now he straightened and looked around, though the effort made his head spin. "Where is Jasha? For that matter where's Torgan?"
Besh and Sirj glanced at one another. "When we heard you we came running," the old man said. "I assumed that they'd follow."
"Damn," Grinsa muttered. He wanted to lie down, but instead he tried to stand, fully intending to search for the merchants.
"Stay there," Sirj told him. "Rest. I'll get them."
"Be careful of Torgan," Grinsa said, forcing himself to his feet and staggering toward the fire.
"He'd best be careful of me," Sirj answered, and walked away.
Torgan watched the two Mettai run off in Grinsa's direction, dabbing gingerly at his nose. It was tender and it still bled. "I think that bastard broke my nose," he said.
Jasha was staring after the Mettai, looking scared and very young. "We should go over there. They'll need our help."
He started to walk toward the others.
"Wait a moment, Jasha."
The young merchant turned, eyeing him with manifest distrust. "Why?"
"Look, I have a pretty good idea of what you think of me right now. I'll even admit that I feel bad for what I've done to the white-hairs."
Jasha smirked. "Sure you do, Torgan."
"I don't care if you believe me. It's the truth. But it's also true that I begged them again and again to let us go. I told them that we'd be killed if they didn't, and they wouldn't listen. They left me with no choice."
"If you say so." Jasha started away again.
"My point is," Torgan said, striding after the younger man, "nothing's changed."
Jasha stopped again. "What do you mean?"
"They're still going to kill us."
"Yes, well you saw to that, didn't you?"
"They were still going to kill us anyway, you fool! Haven't you been paying attention? There's a war coming! We're Eandi; they're white-hairs! If we stay with them we're dead men!" He glanced in the direction the Mettai had gone. "But this is our chance. The two Qirsi are sick; the Mettai are so concerned with saving them that they've left us alone. We can get away right now."
"We're not going anywhere, Torgan. This is your doing, and we're going to help them in any way we can. And if Grinsa and Q'Daer die, you'll be judged for their murders."
Torgan shook his head. "No. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. I won't die for a white-hair, or for a Mettai, and I certainly won't die for you." He started to walk away, looking up at the sky briefly to gauge how much longer the moons would light the plain. "Good-bye, Jasha. I hope your death is painless."
He heard the young merchant coming after him, but he didn't slow down, at least not until Jasha took hold of his arm. He halted then, looking the young man in the eye.
"Let go of me, Jasha. I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm not letting you go. Not after what you've done."
Torgan laughed, and then punched him in the face. Jasha staggered back but righted himself quickly. He lunged at Torgan again. The older merchant swung at him a second time, but this time Jasha ducked under the blow, wrapping his arms around Torgan's middle and knocking him to the ground.
They wrestled for several moments, breathing hard, grunting with the effort. Jasha was stronger than Torgan had expected, and he was lithe and quick. But Torgan was bigger and more powerful. In short order he had managed to get the younger man in a choke hold.
"That's enough, lad," he said, as Jasha continued to struggle. "Give up now. I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
Jasha flailed at him with his fists.
"Stop it!" Torgan said. He adjusted his grip on the man so that he held him more firmly, his forearm locked around Jasha's throat, his other hand wrapped in the younger man's hair.
"Let me go, Torgan!"
"I won't until you stop fighting me!"
"Never! You've as good as killed those men! You have to pay for that!"
He had no time for this. Any moment now, the Mettai would realize that he and Jasha weren't there, and then they'd come looking for them. If he had chance of getting away, this was it, and he wasn't going to waste it on Jasha.
"I'm gonna let you go," he said. "No more fighting, you hear me? No tricks either."
He began to relax his grip on the lad, and immediately Jasha went into a frenzy, punching blindly with his hands, kicking his feet, trying to twist his body out of Torgan's grasp.
The one-eyed merchant tightened his hold again. "Damn you!"
It wasn't something he would have done a turn or two before. He wasn't certain that he would have done it yesterday. But circumstances had changed. He had changed. War was coming, and he refused to die here on this blasted plain.
"Forgive me, lad," he whispered.
It took little effort really-it amazed him how fragile the human body could be. A sharp tug with the arm at Jasha's throat; a similar motion but in the other direction with the hand that gripped the young man's head. He heard the snap as clear as a bell and abruptly the man's body went limp in his arms. Torgan released him, and watched the young merchant's form roll onto the grass, where it lay still.
One of the lad's hands fell open, revealing something dark against his skin. Torgan knew immediately what it was.
He started to reach for it, but before he could he heard a voice calling out, "Jasha? Torgan?"
The merchant looked up. Sirj was walking in their direction, though Torgan could tell that the man hadn't seen him yet. He would have liked to kill this one, too; a measure of revenge for the broken nose. But he had no answer for the Mettai's magic, and he sensed that this young, dark-haired man would be a more dangerous opponent than Jasha had been.
Instead, he reached down for that dark scrap of cursed basket, tucked it into his pocket, and crept off into the darkness as quietly as possible, edging toward his mount. He'd be away before they could find him. Given a choice between pursuing him and trying to save the Qirsi, the Mettai would choose the latter. It was their curse; they'd do all they could to keep it from taking any more victims.
That curse was also his greatest weapon. And that piece of Mettai basket would get him back to Stelpana alive.
Besh sat cross-legged on the grass, his knife in his hand, but his hands resting in his lap. He didn't know how to begin. He hoped that that small scrap of basket might help him. There was an old spell, one he'd learned as a young man, that would allow him actually to see Lici's magic as light. Perhaps it would also allow him to measure any effect his own spells were having on her curse. It wasn't much, but it was all he had just now.
"Are you awake, Forelander?" he asked, looking at the man. Even in the firelight, the Qirsi's face looked ashen. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth was open, slack. "I want to try some spells on you and I want you to tell me whether they're having any effect. Can you do that?"
After a moment, the Forelander nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes. I'm awake. I can help you. How's Q'Daer?"
Besh looked across the fire at the Fal'Borna. He looked much as Grinsa did, though there was little doubt but that he had lost consciousness some time ago. The old man didn't know for certain, but he guessed it wouldn't be long before the magic began to flow from his body.