"I trust you're not feeling ill," the man said, eyeing him closely.
Torgan shook his head. "I wasn't until now. But hearing this…"
The Fal'Borna nodded. "Yes, I know. This isn't the first we've heard of the pestilence in this part of the plain. The cold turns could be long and hard this year."
Torgan said nothing. He really did feel ill, as if the fever were upon him. His stomach felt hollow and sour; his body ached. One of the peddlers asked him something else about the baskets, but he barely heard and he offered no response. At that moment, all he wanted was to leave, to get as far away from the Fal'Borna and the north as he could.
"Come on, Torgan," one of the peddlers said, picking up a basket. "Two and a half. Three is just too high."
"Yes, all right," he said absently.
The other traders gaped at him. One might have thought he had told them they could have his entire cart for that amount, so surprised did they look.
"What did you say?" the peddler asked.
Torgan turned to look at him, making up his mind. Two and a half per basket would make him a small profit, and then he'd leave. The truth was he felt fine. At the first mention of the pestilence he'd imagined himself growing ill, but he knew better. Somehow he had managed to avoid the disease. It was nothing short of miraculous, a gift of the gods. And having been given such a gift, he now resolved to do what he should have done in the first place. He'd been warned about going north, about the dangers of the pestilence, and he'd gone anyway. He'd been reckless, and had nearly paid with his life. It was time to head south.
"You can have the basket for two and a half. In fact, I'll sell all of them at that price."
"But you said-"
"I know what I said. But this once, I'll make an exception, as a way of honoring my friend in C'Bijor's Neck who sold them to me, and who's now dead, for all I know." He shuddered, but forced himself to smile.
The peddlers crowded around his cart, each trying to find the best ones, and in just a few moments Torgan had sold all of them.
He made a show of remaining in the marketplace and chatting with the Fal'Borna and the other peddlers for an hour or so. He even sold a few more items, mostly cloth, and also a few ornate blades. But with the sun still high above the plain, he began to pack up his goods. The peddlers watched him, some of them frowning slightly, others speaking in low tones as their eyes wandered in his direction. One of the Fal'Borna approached him.
"You're leaving already, dark-eye?"
"Yes," Torgan said. "To be honest, I'm unsettled by the news from C'Bijor's Neck. I'd just as soon be gone from this place."
"The Neck is a long way east of here."
"I know it is. But it's time I was headed south."
The Fal'Borna nodded once, but his tone remained grim. "The a'laq usually expects that peddlers will sup with him the night of their arrival here. He also expects a small tribute from those who sell in his sept."
Torgan should have expected as much; he'd done business with the Fal'Borna before. But with all that had occupied his thoughts on this day, he'd forgotten. He reached into his purse and pulled out four sovereigns.
"Who is a'laq of this sept?" he asked.
"S'Plaed, son of I'Baln."
He handed his coins to the man. "Please give this to him with my respects, and my deepest apologies for having to leave so soon." "He won't be happy."
Torgan shrugged. "I'm sorry. But I'm leaving just the same."
The Qirsi frowned at him, but then he pocketed the money and walked away without saying more.
"Where will you go, Torgan?" asked the young peddler, the one whose name Torgan didn't know.
"To the Ofirean, I think," he answered, making up his mind in that moment. He resumed his packing. "I'm sure I'll find a few septs between here and there, but I think I'm done with the plains for a while."
"Well, good luck to you," the man said, sticking out his hand.
Torgan had to smile. Had he once been this eager? "What's your name, friend?"
The peddler grinned, pumping Torgan's hand. "Jasha Ziffel. I'm a big admirer of yours."
"Have we met before, Jasha?"
He shook his head, still grinning. He was a small man, a good deal shorter and thinner than Torgan. He spoke with a Tordjanni accent, and his hair was yellow, like that of so many from the Tordjanne coast. The bridge of his nose was generously freckled and his eyes, widely spaced in an open round face, were pale blue.
"I've seen you," the young man said. "We've been in the same marketplace a few times. But we haven't been introduced, at least not so's you'd remember."
"Well, it's good to meet you," Torgan said, giving his hand one last shake before turning his attention back to his cart.
"Is it true what they say about your eye?"
Torgan glanced at him. "What is it they say?"
"That you lost it in a fight with a coinmonger. That you lost your eye, but he lost his life."
He briefly considered telling Jasha the truth. He quickly decided, though, that it might be convenient to have such a reputation, just in case there were brigands on the plain. Besides, anyone foolish enough to believe such a tale didn't deserve the truth.
"That's close enough," he said at last. "There were actually two of them: the coinmonger and one of his men. But the rest is true."
Jasha stared at him, just drinking it all in. Torgan could have told him that he'd bested five men, and the man would have believed him. He wanted to believe him. Fine, then.
In another few moments, Torgan had finished packing up his wares and was climbing onto his cart.
"Good-bye, Torgan," Jasha said, waving. "May gold find you wherever you go."
It was an old merchants' saying, one that he hadn't heard anyone use in years. The boy was trying far too hard.
"You, too" was all he said before clicking his tongue at Trili and steering his cart away from the sept.
He didn't push the beast hard on this day. She had labored enough recently-the last thing Torgan needed was for the old nag to fail him now, when he was this far north. When he halted for the night and made his camp, he was no more than a league south of S'Plaed's sept.
So when the first burst of fire arced into the night sky, Torgan saw it clearly. He was holding a half-eaten piece of dried meat, which he promptly dropped.
Coincidence. That was the word that came to him. It had to be a coincidence, a random act of magic that had nothing to do with what had happened in the Neck.
Then a second burst of flame lit the night, and a third. Torgan thought he heard cries coming from the settlement, though surely he was too far away for that to be possible. He stood, as if to go somewhere, but he didn't take a step. He just watched as the night came alive. Streaks of yellow fire stabbed up into the darkness like blades. Smoke began to rise from the plain. And yes, those were cries he heard. And screams. And the whinnying of horses.
He still had a mouthful of meat that he'd been chewing, and he spit that out now, though he didn't look away.
Pestilence, the Fal'Borna had said. Worst he'd ever heard of. Men and women driven mad, Y'Qatt destroying their own homes with magic. And now it was happening again.
Coincidence.
Surely, that's what it had to be.
He felt his stomach heave, and he bit back the bile rising in his throat. He'd been fine a moment before. But seeing what was happening at the sept, knowing with the certainty of a condemned man that this was the pestilence come again, he knew that he should have been sick.
He'd escaped the disease once; how could he possibly expect to do so again? His stomach heaved again and he gagged. But that was all.
I'm not sick.
"I'm not sick." Saying it aloud calmed him, and he said it again. "I'm not sick."
Trili looked at him and stamped.
More shafts of flame carved through the night. Smoke rose into the sky, obscuring the stars. He could smell it now: burning wood and grass, the bitter smell of charred flesh.