So when he spotted the sept ahead and slightly to the north, he stopped, his eves fixed on the faint glow of spent cooking fires, and the small shelters illuminated by Panya's light. Then he turned and rode toward the settlement.

It was late, and no one stirred in the sept. Still, he stopped well short of the first shelters and covered the remaining distance on foot. He'd named the horse the Qirsi had given him Trey, after a farrier he'd known as a boy. The beast, like all Fal'Borna horses, was well trained and obedient. He left it behind, confident that it would stay put and keep quiet.

Torgan wasn't entirely certain what he intended to do once he reached the village, but he'd brought the scrap of Mettai basket with him. Now, as he walked, he pulled out his knife and cut away a small piece from that scrap, and tried to decide what to do with it.

He had sickened Q'Daer by hiding the piece of basket in the Fal'Borna's sleeping roll. Clearly he wouldn't be able to get that close to any of the Fal'Borna living in this settlement. Instead, he scanned the sept for a place he could leave the cutting where it wouldn't be noticed but would infect as many as possible. As soon as he spotted the grinding stones, it came to him. The grain, of course. What better way to spread the plague than through their food supply?

He stayed clear of the paddock at the west end of the sept, fearing that if he frightened the horses they'd wake the Fal'Borna. As it was, his mere presence in the settlement drew a few low whinnies from the beasts. Three wild dogs searching for food at the fringe of the sept growled at him. But though Torgan stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering as he watched for movement, no one awoke. After several moments, he went on toward the grinding stones and the large baskets of unground grain just beside them.

He didn't place the basket cutting in the largest of the grain baskets, but rather in the one nearest to the grinding stones. He didn't leave it where it could be seen, but neither did he bury it too deeply in the grain. The women who worked the stones would find it soon enough, and by the time they did it would be too late.

Satisfied that he had placed it as well as he could, Torgan began to retreat into the darkness. He slipped what was left of the basket scrap back into his pocket and sheathed his blade.

The dogs growled at him again as he slipped past them.

And that was when he heard the voices.

"There it is again!" one of them said. A man's voice, youthful, but strong. "The dogs, you mean."

"Yes. Over this way. Near the grain."

"It's probably rabbits, or something of that sort."

Torgan had to resist an urge to run, knowing that they'd hear him. He slowly backed farther into the shadows and lowered himself to the ground. He could see the men now. Both of them were broad and muscular, their white hair tied back in the way of Fal'Borna warriors. They reminded him of Q'Daer.

As they approached, one of the men shouted something at the dogs and scared the animals off.

"You see anything?" the other man asked.

The first man peered into the darkness, his gaze passing right over Torgan. After a moment he shook his head. "No, nothing."

"A rabbit or two won't eat much grain," the second man said. "We should get back to the horses in case those dogs come back."

His companion nodded, but continued to stare in Torgan's direction. A lone cloud drifted in front of Panya, darkening the plain somewhat.

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw something. Did the a'laq say anything to you about one of the horses getting loose?"

Torgan felt his mouth go dry, even as he thanked every god he could name for that stray cloud.

"Not that I remember. You see a horse?"

"I thought I did. I was probably imagining it, or looking at another dog." One of the horses whinnied again.

"Come on. Let's get back to the paddock."

Still the first man stared Torgan's way for another second or two. Then he gave up and followed his companion in the opposite direction.

Torgan closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, enjoying the smell of the plain grass and the very fact that he was still alive. At last, when he was certain that the men were far enough away, he climbed to his feet. Keeping in a low crouch, he crept back to Trey. He led the beast away on foot, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, half expecting at any moment to see a Fal'Borna war party bearing down on him.

When he could no longer see the shelters or the dim glow of the fires, he remounted and rode on.

He rested a few times, but still managed to cover another two leagues or so before the sky in front of him began to brighten with the approach of dawn. Then, as he had each of the last several nights, he began to search for a place to bed down for the day. There were few copses in the central plain, but the closer he came to the Silverwater, the more he found. On this morning he found a small, dense cluster of trees along a rill that fed into the stream he'd been following. He dismounted, walked Trey to the center of the copse, and pulled out his sleeping roll.

Before lying down, he ate a small bit of dried meat and the last of his hard cheese. He'd left the company in a rush. Grinsa and Q'Daer were sickened but alive, and the two Mettai would have used their magic against him if he'd given them the chance. So Torgan had been forced to flee without much food in his travel sack. He'd managed to salt away a bit during their journeying, but he hadn't expected that he would wind up alone on the plain. Thus far he had rationed what little he had, and supplemented it with roots that he found along the way. At this point he would have paid handsomely for some meat, if only he had some gold and somewhere to spend it. But he wasn't starving, and he actually felt himself growing leaner.

"All part of the new Torgan," he muttered to himself.

Trey shook his head and snorted.

Torgan lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and soon fell into a deep slumber. He awoke once to the sound of hoofbeats when the sun was high overhead. He heard no voices, though, and the footfalls sounded relatively light. He assumed that a herd of rilda had gone past. In moments he was asleep again.

When next he woke, the sky had begun to darken and a cold wind had risen from the west. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or did he smell a hint of smoke riding that wind? Torgan threw off his blankets, hurried out of the copse, and scrambled up the bank of the rill back onto the plain. Looking westward, back the way he had come, he saw several small smudges of smoke rising from the ground. The sept? Had he actually managed to spread the Mettai woman's plague to that small settlement?

He shivered, blaming it on the wind. Then he returned to the copse, packed up his sleeping roll, and ate a few more bites of dried meat. When the sun had set, and Torgan thought it was dark enough, he led Trey out of the trees and resumed his ride toward the Silverwater.

Over the course of the next two nights, Torgan encountered no more septs, and while he would have been willing to use another piece of the cursed basket against another settlement, a part of him was relieved that he didn't have to. He'd come too close to being found by the Fal'Borna sentries that night. He didn't want to take such risks again.

On the third night after his foray into the settlement, he woke in yet another copse, ate a small meal, and began to ride just as he had the previous nights. The sky had clouded over and a light snow had begun to fall. There was little wind, and the air was cold, but not frigid. Torgan's spirits were high-he liked snow, and though he knew he was still in danger, he knew as well that he'd covered much ground since leaving the company. He sensed that he was drawing nigh to the Silverwater.