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.

"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.