He lay awake for hours after that, and when he finally closed his eyes again, odd, disturbing visions continued to haunt his sleep. Upon awaking to a cold clear dawn, Torgan scrambled out of his cart and stared back toward the city, hoping that he'd see nothing unusual. Better to wonder if he had been deceived by his eyes, and made fearful by imagined horrors, than to see that any of it had been real. But there could be no mistaking the columns of black smoke that rose from the eastern horizon. C'Bijor's Neck had burned.
He thought briefly about going back to see what had happened. Perhaps there were wounded in need of aid. Perhaps, though, the city was still under siege, or at war with itself. Perhaps there were raiders behind him on the plain making their way westward. He packed up his belongings, not bothering with breakfast, and drove his cart northwest, keeping the smoke and the sun at his back. He didn't spare the whip either. Trili, the old horse pulling his cart, wasn't capable of much anymore, but on this day Torgan determined that the beast would give her all. He rested only occasionally, ate little, for he wasn't hungry, and tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Neck.
There were said to be Fal'Borna settlements throughout the north. This was where the rilda spent the warmer months, and though the Harvest had begun, they might still be up this way. The Fal'Borna were a difficult people, even as Qirsi went, and because Torgan was Eandi, they had shown him little friendship over the years. But he enjoyed a reputation among the various septs as a merchant who sold quality goods, and who could be trusted. It wasn't much, but it was all he had, and if there were brigands on the plain, he wanted to be under the protection of the Fal'Borna.
When evening fell, however, he was still alone. He stopped for the night in a small ravine and, despite the cold, didn't make a fire, for fear of attracting the notice of anyone else on the plain. Climbing out of the ravine and keeping low to the ground, he looked back toward the Neck. He saw nothing. No orange glow. No bolts of light. This meant little, though. He'd covered at least five leagues on this day; even if there had been something to see, Torgan wasn't certain that he was still close enough to see it.
The night passed without incident, as did the following two days and nights. He found no septs, but neither did he encounter any brigands. And as the memory of that first night grew more distant, he began to question what he had seen. Perhaps there was another explanation for the fire and smoke, one that didn't involve warriors or raiders. Maybe, alone in the darkness, he had allowed his fears to get the better of him. By the time he fell asleep on that third night, he had convinced himself that this was so. But once again, he didn't build a fire.
For two more days he searched the northern reaches of the plains, until at last he decided to turn southward and seek the Fal'Borna there. He could have gone farther west, but he didn't wish to cross the mighty Thraedes so late in the year, lest he find himself forced to cross it on the way back after the weather had turned wetter and colder. As his frustration at finding no septs grew, his fears continued to fade. On those fourth and fifth nights he allowed himself a fire, and though he jumped at every unexpected noise and loud pop from the flames, his blaze attracted no brigands.
At last, late in the morning of the sixth day, he spied a sept in the distance and drove his cart toward it. It was a large settlement-larger than most of the Fal'Borna villages he had encountered in the past-and as he drew near he saw that several other merchants had set up their carts on its fringe. Seeing his approach, several Fal'Borna children ran toward his cart calling out for him to show them what he had to sell and asking if he sold sweets or toys or anything else that they could think of that was more interesting than cloth or fruit or baskets. Of course he had sweets, he told them. For he did. Selling sweets to children often made it easier to sell more substantial goods to their parents.
The men and women of the sept eyed him with a combination of suspicion and challenge and curiosity that he'd come to realize was unique to the Fal'Borna. They were a violent, difficult clan. But they were also uncommonly acquisitive, far more so than the other warrior clans, the J'Balanar and the T'Saan.
Torgan climbed off of his cart and pulled out the sweets first, distributing them one by one to all the children who had gathered around him. He didn't bother to keep track of faces or names. The cost of the treats was minimal; the goodwill he could engender by giving them away couldn't be fixed with a price. After the children wandered off, their mouths full, he began to bring out the rest of his wares. Slowly, a crowd of older Fal'Borna wandered toward his cart. Many of them recognized him, nodding when he caught their eye. Others stubbornly refused to look at him at all, staring intently at his goods instead. This, too, he had experienced before. Even a few of the other peddlers strolled over, no doubt to see what he had and what prices he was asking. Torgan Plye's arrival in a marketplace rarely went unnoticed.
As he had expected, the baskets he'd bought from Y'Farl drew a good deal of attention.
"How much for these, Torgan?" one of the peddlers asked, lifting one and examining it closely. He didn't know the man's name, though clearly the stranger knew his. He was a younger man. Eandi. "Mettai work, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mettai," Torgan said. "And they're three sovereigns."
The man's eyebrows went up. "Three?"
"Firm price," Torgan added. "No bargaining on those."
"But three," the man said.
"Look at them. If you can show me any baskets that are finer, I'll let you have it for two."
"I thought you said the price was firm."
He grinned. "I did. That's my point."
The other merchants laughed. He even drew grins from a few of the Fal'Borna.
"Where did you find them?"
"Back in the Neck."
"What?" the man said.
"C'Bijor's Neck."
Everyone stared at him, their expressions turning his innards to water.
"Is that supposed to be funny, dark-eye?" one of the Qirsi asked, his voice hard.
"Not at all," Torgan managed to say, though abruptly his mouth was so dry that he could barely move his tongue. "What's happened?" "You truly don't know?" another peddler asked.
How could he answer? He had seen fire and smoke. But what did he know? What had he seen that night?
"Please, tell me."
"Pestilence," the Fal'Borna said. "Worst I've ever heard of." "Pestilence?" Torgan repeated. Of all the things they might have said, he least expected that.
But the Qirsi nodded. "According to some, the fever drove them mad. Houses and shops were burnt to the ground or shattered. There's talk some were even blown over by winds, though I doubt that."
"But how-?"
"Magic," another peddler told him. "Y'Qatt magic. The pestilence drove them to use their magic."
"Demons and fire," he whispered.
"Indeed."
"How long ago did you leave there, dark-eye?" the Fal'Borna man demanded.
"Days," he said, too stunned to think clearly. "Five days, maybe six." The Qirsi shook his head. "If it had gotten in your blood you'd be dead by now. You were fortunate."
Fortunate. To say the least. The Fal'Borna had no idea just how close Torgan had come to dying. Hours. Maybe less. Suddenly he remembered how flushed Y'Farl had looked when they concluded their trade. Torgan had assumed at the time that the man was merely angry. But maybe he'd already been feeling the effects of the disease, in which case Torgan should have been dead.