"Convinced that what, Torgan?" Jenoe asked.

"That the Relics Bridge is your best route across the river," the merchant said.

Fayonne was certain that he'd intended to say something else; probably he was going to mention the cursed basket.

Jenoe eyed him briefly, seemingly trying to decide whether the merchant was an annoyance or an asset. "Do I understand you correctly? You're saying that we should bypass Sivralna, that it's already defeated. And that this Relics Bridge offers us the quickest path to Deraqor."

"That's right." Torgan looked around, appearing to mark their position in relation to the mountains that were barely visible on the northern horizon. "The nearest span would be White Bridge, which lies south of here, maybe two leagues. But Relics Bridge is the broader span, and it's to the north. Five leagues. No more. That'll be the easier crossing for an army this size."

"And all of you knew about this?" Jenoe asked, looking at Tirnya, Enly, and Gries.

For several moments none of them answered.

"I asked a question," the marshal said, his voice hardening.

"Torgan mentioned it to us," Enly said.

Gries took a breath. "And to me."

"I see." Jenoe turned back to the merchant. "Why would you choose to speak of this with my captains, but not with me?"

Torgan looked at Enly and the marshal's daughter, but his gaze came to rest on Gries. Fairlea's lord heir stared back at him, but didn't say anything.

"Answer me, Torgan! I want to know what's going on here."

"I've been waiting for your decision, Marshal. I want to know if you're going to use the plague against the Fal'Borna. You've refused to speak with me, and you've seemed content to let me wonder what you'll eventually decide to do. So I went to the captains, hoping they'd help me convince you."

"And you thought that telling them this tale about Sivralna would do that.

Torgan's face reddened. "It's no tale! It's the truth! If you want to waste two or three days marching down there, go ahead! You'll find exactly what I've told you! They were destroyed by the plague! Twice, actually. The survivors returned to their city, and when they found some of these baskets, half burned and buried in the rubble, they got sick. For all I know there's nothing left of the walls or gates or buildings. It might just be a pile of rock now."

Fayonne thought that Jenoe might argue further, but he seemed to hear the truth in Torgan's words. Just as she did.

"Why would you keep this from me?" the marshal asked Tirnya. "Don't you think I should have been told?"

"I'm sorry, Father. I thought that if you simply heard this-if you thought that we could take the city without losing a man-you'd use the plague as a weapon to take back Deraqor. But I hoped that if you actually saw Sivralna lying in ruins it would show you how dangerous this plague could be."

"This was your thinking as well?" he asked Enly.

Qalsyn's lord heir nodded.

Jenoe turned to Gries. "And yours?"

Gries didn't hesitate for long, but it seemed to be enough for Tirnya to discern the truth.

"You wanted him to use it," she said.

"Of course he did," Torgan broke in before the Fairlea captain could answer.

"Torgan-" Gries began.

But the merchant cut him off. "They're being fools! We both know it!" He faced Jenoe again. "The Mettai can help us with this. They have a way of spreading the plague over the entire city. I could only reach a few white-hairs with this basket. But with their magic, they can reach every one of them."

"You knew of this, too?" Jenoe asked, fixing Fayonne with a hard glare.

The eldest straightened. "Captain Ballidyne asked for my help," she said. "All I did was tell him what our magic was capable of doing."

Jenoe shook his head. "So let me see if I understand this. My daughter, and the lord heir of Qalsyn, both of them captains in my army, knew that Sivralna had been destroyed and failed to tell me, in the hope that my shock at seeing the damage would keep me from using a weapon I hadn't even decided to use. And the lord heir of Fairlea, also a captain under my command, has conspired with this merchant and the eldest to use that weapon without my consent. Is that about right?"

"No, Marshal," Gries said. "I didn't conspire to do anything. I spoke with them both. I tried to determine if we could in fact spread this plague to the Fal'Borna. But I never would have done anything without your approval. You have my word on that."

"I'm not sure what your word is worth right now, Captain," Jenoe told him. "But I'll consider what you've said."

The Fairlea captain's cheeks colored, but he nodded.

Jenoe turned to Fayonne. "You and I will speak later, Eldest," he said, with more courtesy than he'd shown to the captain.

"You're not going to use it, are you?" Torgan said.

They all looked at him, the captains wearing angry expressions, the marshal looking proud to the point of haughtiness.

"This was never your decision to make, Torgan," Jenoe said.

"Without the plague, you'll lose this war," Torgan said. "They'll shatter your army and run you down as you retreat. Without me, you're doomed."

"I want you gone," Jenoe told him. "I want you to get on your horse and ride away from here, and I never want to see your face again."

The merchant regarded them all with disgust. "This is why we lost the Blood Wars. We're weak. We're not willing to do what's necessary to win, and so we lose, again and again. You'll be no different." He shook his head and gave a harsh laugh. "Very well, Marshal. I'll leave. Good riddance to you all."

He turned on his heel and started to walk away. But before he'd gone far, he stopped again, staring eastward.

An instant later, Fayonne heard it, too: voices shouting at the edge of the camp. The sound was growing by the minute, and there was a note of panic in every voice she heard. Men were running toward them, shouting for the marshal.

The first to reach them was a young man with black hair and dark eyes. He was out of breath, and his face, damp with melted snow, looked pale except for red spots high on each cheek.

"What's happened, Crow?" the marshal's daughter asked.

"There's a white-hair army," he said, looking back and forth between the woman and her father. "It's headed this way. They're on horseback an' they're close."

"How many?" Jenoe asked.

"Hundr'ds," the man said. "Maybe a thousand."

The marshal looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Damn," he whispered. "And we're backed up against this river." He looked at the captains. "Muster your men," he said, his voice suddenly crisp. "There's nothing to do but fight." He turned to Fayonne. "Eldest, we'll need every bit of magic you can give us."

She nodded. "You'll have it, Marshal." And she ran to find Mander.