"Yes, I lied," she said, sitting up straighter. "It was too late for all of you. I told you what you wanted to hear."
"And now you've condemned thousands to a death as terrible as mine."
"He said he was going to the Y'Qatt! It's not my fault that he lied to me!"
"Isn't it?"
"No!" She launched herself at the dark form, trying to take it by the neck. But there was nothing. She was grappling with air, flailing about in the dirt and leaves. Lici stopped herself and sat up again, her chest heaving, tears on her face. "Mama?"
Nothing.
"I didn't mean it."
She heard whispers coming from nearby, and, forcing herself to her feet, she started toward them.
"Mama?" she called. "Papa?"
The whispers seemed to fade, as if to draw her deeper into the gloom.
She halted, refusing to play their game. "Baet? Kytha?"
Was that a giggle? Were they teasing her?
"Come here!" she said, trying to sound stern.
She heard them on her right now, closer to the house, and she hurried after them.
"Let me see you! Show yourselves!"
Now they were to her left. Not in the house, but on the far side of it. She strode toward them, tripped on something, pulled herself to her feet, and trod on. It was so dark. Lici could barely make out the houses and trees, and soon found herself walking with her arms outstretched, to keep from walking into anything. But the voices continued, gentle and elusive, coaxing her on. The lane was behind her and to the left. Or perhaps it was more directly to the left. She wasn't quite certain.
But there was laughter before her, not playful anymore. Mocking.
"Stand still! Who are you?"
No one answered, but Lici thought she heard footsteps on the dry leaves. Slightly to her right now, and still ahead, always ahead. Arms reaching, fingers splayed, eyes wide, sightless, straining in the dark, she followed.
He had long since crossed the bridge and had put nearly a league be- tween himself and the wash when he finally slowed, allowing his horse to graze on the long grasses. His hands still trembled, though not as they had before.
"Damn crazy woman."
The horse looked back at him for an instant, chewing loudly.
He had forty-seven baskets to sell. Fine ones-quite possibly the best he'd ever seen. He'd gotten them at a good price, and would probably manage to sell each at twice what they had cost him. That was what mattered. The rest was nothing more or less than the ranting of a mad witch.
Death and ruin. It was laughable. These were baskets, not blades or spears.
But they come from a Mettai.
He'd been searching for her people. Isn't that what he told her? Blood magic. It sounded strange and dangerous, and just slightly alluring. Selling Mettai goods, even things as harmless as blankets or baskets, was always profitable in Tordjanne. People there didn't quite believe in blood magic-most of them had never seen a Mettai. But they wanted the goods. They wanted to be able to point to something in their home and say, "That was made with blood magic." Here on the plains, merchants paid less for Mettai goods that they suspected had been made with magic rather than by hand. But in the Eandi sovereignties, especially those that were farther south, items made by magic often sold for more, simply because people there wanted to believe that they were buying something… well, magical.
But what was blood magic, really? Was there blood on these baskets? Is that what she was saying?
"She was mad," he said, scolding himself. "That's all."
Brint snapped the reins, forcing his horse into motion, though he sensed that the beast would gladly have eaten more.
He'd sell the baskets at his first opportunity. There were septs all around here and Qirsi villages along the wash. He wouldn't get as much for them in these lands as he would in Tordjanne, but he'd get enough. And then they'd be gone, and with them the memory of that old woman.
He absently rubbed his arm where she'd grabbed him. For an old woman, she had been uncommonly strong. Or simply desperate.
Fifty-seven sovereigns. He should have just done as she asked and given her the baskets back. Probably she was just deluded, but at this point he wanted nothing to do with her or her wares.
Brint was headed toward a bend in a narrow tributary of the Silver- water. He often met other Eandi merchants there to share what food they had, to speak of prices in the various marketplaces, to share tidings from other parts of the land, or simply to swap tales and sing songs. It was here that he first met Torgan Plye several years before. For all Brint knew, Torgan was there tonight. He never was sure who he might encounter at the bend, but usually at least a few merchants gathered there on any given night. And this evening was no different. Topping a small rise as the sun stood balanced on the horizon, he saw that there were already five carts in the bend, and as many figures seated around a small fire.
At first opportunity. He made the decision in that moment, with a clean conscience. Surely the woman was insane. That was why she said all the things she did. He would remember the crazed look in her dark eyes for as long as he lived. He'd recall the smell of her breath and the feel of her bony fingers digging into his arm and then his leg. That was why he couldn't keep these baskets for even one night. But for other merchants, men and women who hadn't encountered the old hag, they were simple baskets-beautiful, brilliantly made, and reasonably priced. He'd be doing them a favor, even if he did manage to turn some profit.
As he drew nearer to the bend and the merchants' fire, he recognized a few of the people there-a woman from Stelpana who was known simply as Lark, for her fine singing voice; another man from Tordjanne, whose name he'd forgotten, and Stam Corfej, who came from Aelea, but now spent more time in Qirsi lands than in the sovereignties. Good people all, successful merchants. They'd know the quality of the baskets, and they'd have no trouble selling them in the Fal'Borna septs that roamed these plains.
Stam turned at the sound of Brint's cart and raised a hand in greeting.
"If it isn't Young Red," the man called, removing his pipe from his mouth. "You'd better have food to share. We're a bit spare tonight."
Brint grinned. "I've plenty," he answered, halting by the other carts and climbing down out of his seat. "And wine, too."
Lark nodded. "Then you're certainly welcome."
"I've wares for you to see as well," Brint said. "Fine ones and at a good price."
"Offering bargains, are you?" Stam said skeptically, winking at the others. "And which one of us will be fortunate enough to be giving you gold?"
Brint pushed aside the cloth that covered the back of his cart and began gathering baskets in his hands.
"I imagine it will be all of you," he said. "There's plenty to go around."
Chapte 21
So, if you don't go with them, they'll simply be executed?"
Grinsa nodded, afraid even to look at her. He'd left her once before to save the life of a man falsely accused, and it had nearly destroyed them both. Now they were the parents of a baby girl, trying to make sense of a strange land, held captive by a hostile people. How could he consider such a thing? That's what she would ask him; that's what he was asking himself.
Cresenne sat beside him, her eyes locked on his, and she asked, her voice as even as the plain, "What are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" he said. "I'm going to let them die. I can't leave you and Bryntelle. Not here; not now."
She raised an eyebrow. "So you'll just stand by while two men are put to death without cause?"
"They're strangers to us. Innocent people die every day. I can't be expected to put our lives at risk for every one of them, can I?"
Cresenne took his hand in her own, and lifted it to her lips. "Not every one, no."
He looked away, his gaze wandering the shelter until at last it came to rest on Bryntelle, asleep in a cradle by their pallet. "That's right. There's only so much one man can do."