He wanted to ask what would happen to his wares, his cart, and his horse, but he was familiar enough with the Fal'Borna to know already. His beast would be well cared for; his possessions were forfeit. Slowly, he climbed down off the wagon and stood before the Qirsi, his feet planted, his arms hanging at his side. He should have been terrified, but a strange calm had come over him. He had feared that he might weep, or that his legs wouldn't support him and he'd wind up groveling in the dirt. He did neither.
"Who are you?" the Fal'Borna asked Jasha.
"My name is Jasha Ziffel. I'm a merchant. I come from Tordjanne."
"What business do you have with Torgan?"
Jasha shrugged. "He's my friend."
"Have a care, Eandi. Do you know what it means to declare yourself friend to one the Fal'Borna have named an enemy?"
"Yes," Jasha said. "I know."
The Qirsi eyed him briefly, looking impressed. At last he nodded. "Very well. Off your cart, then."
Jasha climbed down and stood beside Torgan.
"That was foolish," Torgan said under his breath, as several of the Fal'Borna dismounted and began to search the carts.
"It was the truth," Jasha whispered back.
"No, it wasn't. We're not friends, Jasha. You think…" He stopped, casting a furtive look at the Fal'Borna leaders, who, at least for the moment, were ignoring them. "You think the worst of me," he went on, dropping his voice even further. "You're with me precisely because we're not friends. You don't trust me enough to leave me. That's some friendship."
"Do you have others?"
"What?"
"Other friends. Do you have any?"
Torgan opened his mouth, closed it again. After some time, he shook his head.
"Then, I'd suggest you accept my offer of friendship and keep your mouth shut."
"Be silent!" one of the leaders said, glaring at them.
Torgan could hear them rummaging through his wares, and none too gently.
"If you tell me what you're looking for, I might be able to tell you," he said. "And that way you won't have to destroy my goods."
One of the leaders, the one Torgan had recognized from afar, walked over and stood just in front of him. He was a full head shorter than Torgan, but the look in his eyes could have brought snow on the hottest day of the Growing season.
"Do you know why we've been hunting you, Torgan Plye?" he asked, his voice a match for those pale eyes.
Torgan held the man's gaze for as long as he could-no more than a heartbeat or two-before looking away. "I have some idea," he whispered.
"Then you should understand that I'm eager for your blood. All of us are. We're just waiting for you to give us an excuse to spill it. Do I make myself clear?"
He nodded, not daring to speak.
The man stood before him a moment longer, then grinned coldly and spun away. Only then did Torgan begin to breathe again.
The Fal'Borna searched the two carts for what seemed an eternity. After some time, it occurred to the merchant to wonder if the Qirsi knew about the baskets, if they were, in fact, searching for some indication that he had encountered the Mettai woman. He didn't ask, seeing danger in the question regardless of what they knew. He remained silent, staring at the ground, waiting to die. At last, when it seemed that every item Torgan carried with him must have been broken or dented or ruined in some way, the warriors walked back to their leaders and announced that they had found nothing of significance. Torgan would have laughed aloud had he not been certain that the Qirsi would kill him where he stood.
"So, what now?" Jasha asked.
"Now, they kill us, you fool!" Torgan whispered.
But Jasha was looking at the two Fal'Borna leaders, who were approaching them.
"Now, we're going to take you back to our sept, where you'll face the judgment of our a'laq."
"You're not going to kill us?" Torgan said, without thinking.
"Not yet, Torgan Plye," the Fal'Borna said. "Not yet." He started to walk away. "The two of you will ride with us," he called to them over his shoulder. "Our warriors will see to it that your carts reach the sept."
Torgan felt someone push him from behind and glancing back, found himself face to face with a young Fal'Borna warrior.
"You're to follow the Weaver," the young man told him, his voice flat.
Torgan nodded and started walking slowly after the leader. Jasha did the same.
"We should be dead by now," the old merchant said quietly. Jasha glanced at him. "Are you complaining?"
"Of course not," Torgan said, scowling at him. "I just don't understand. You heard the leader. They think I killed all those people in S'Plaed's sept. To the Fal'Borna, that's more than enough to justify a summary execution."
"Maybe they're scared," Jasha whispered.
"Scared? You mean of me?"
"Of the pestilence. Of whatever killed the Y'Qatt. They may yet kill us, Torgan. But they're going to want to understand all of this first. That's our one hope."
It made sense, and after a moment Torgan nodded. "Then, should I tell them what I know, or would I be better off keeping it to myself?"
Jasha just shrugged. "I don't know. But choose well. Our lives are most certainly at stake."
The sun had begun to set and a bank of clouds rolling in from the west had cast a grey pall over the day when the riders finally returned. Cresenne was still working and Bryntelle remained with the other children, leaving Grinsa with little to occupy his day. He'd been in the sept for only a short time, but already he had grown bored with the leisurely life afforded him because he was a Weaver. Not knowing what else to do, and unwilling simply to sit outside the a'laq's shelter, he had wandered off, following the stream that wound past the settlement.
He hadn't gone far, though, and was already on his way back to the sept, when he heard the beginnings of the commotion raised by the war party's return. He hurried on to the middle of the settlement, where he found Q'Daer and L'Norr already speaking with E'Menua. Two Eandi men sat on mounts behind them, eyed closely by several warriors, who also remained on their horses.
One of the men was young-he couldn't have been much past his twentieth year. He had yellow hair that he wore closely shorn, and a youthful freckled face. He remained watchful, but he didn't appear particularly fearful, not like the other man.
He was older than his companion, and larger as well, broad in the shoulders and thick in his middle. As a younger man he might have been formidable, but now he merely looked ponderous. He'd lost one of his eyes years before; the scars on his face were old, brown and weathered like the rest of his skin. His one good eye, which was as dark as the ocean on a stormy day, darted about as if he wasn't certain where to look and feared everything on which his gaze lingered. Based on all he had heard earlier in the day, Grinsa guessed that this older man was Torgan Plye.
When E'Menua spotted Grinsa, he gestured for him to join their discussion. Grinsa walked to where they were standing.
"Where have you been, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, sounding annoyed. "We've been waiting for you."
"You are a Weaver in this sept. I expect you to join us in discussions of matters of such great weight."
Grinsa wasn't certain what to say. A moment before he'd been lamenting his lack of responsibilities. Now it seemed that he had some, and had been shirking them. A quip leaped to mind, but he kept it to himself.
"My apologies then, A'Laq. How may I serve the sept?"
E'Menua stared at him briefly, as if wondering whether Grinsa was goading him again.
"As you can see," he said after a moment, "we've found Torgan Plye, of whom you heard us speak earlier. Q'Daer and L'Norr searched his cart and found nothing unusual. And as of yet, none of their riders have fallen ill. We intend to question them now, before putting them to death."
Both of the Eandi paled.
"You've already decided to execute them?" Grinsa asked.
"Yes, of course. They're enemies of the Fal'Borna."
"But you don't know if they did anything wrong!"