The Dragon Reborn twot-3

by Robert Jordan

  "Because he wants to kill Elayne," Mat said, "and Egwene and Nynaeve with her." There was nothing useful in what Gill had told him that he could see. Burn me, I don't have to know why he wants them dead. I just have to stop it. Both men were staring at him again. As if he were mad. Again.

  "Are you coming down sick again?" Gill said suspiciously. "I remember you staring crossways at everyone the last time. It's either that, or else you think this is some sort of prank. You have the look of a prankster to me. If that is it, it's a nasty one!"

  Mat grimaced. "It is no bloody prank. I overheard him telling some man called Comar to cut Elayne's head off. And Egwene's and Nynaeve's while he was about it. A big man, with a white stripe in his beard."

  "That does sound like Lord Comar," Gill said slowly. "He was a fine soldier, but it is said he left the Guard over some matter of weighted dice. Not that anyone says it to his face; Comar was one of the best blades in the Guards. You really mean it, don't you?"

  "I think he does, Basel," Thom said. "I very much think he does."

  "The Light shine on us! What did Morgase say? You did tell her, didn't you? The Light burn you, you did tell her!"

  "Of course, I did," Mat said bitterly. "With Gaebril standing right there, and her gazing at him like a lovesick lapdog! I said, 'I may be a simple village man who just climbed over your wall half an hour past, but I already happen to know your trusted advisor there, the one you seem to be in love with, intends to murder your daughter.' Light, man, she'd have cut my head off!"

  "She might have at that." Thom stared into the elaborate carvings on the bowl of his pipe and tugged one mustache. "Her temper was ever as sudden as lightning, and twice as dangerous."

  "You know it better than most, Thom," Gill said absently. Staring at nothing, he scrubbed both hands through his graying hair. "There has to be something I can do. I haven't held a sword since the Aiel War, but… Well, that would do no good. Get myself killed and do nothing by it. But I must do something!"

  "Rumor." Thom rubbed the side of his nose; he seemed to be studying the stones board and talking to himself. "No one can keep rumors from reaching Morgase's ears, and if she hears it strongly enough, she will start to wonder. Rumor is the voice of the people, and the voice of the people often speaks truth. Morgase knows that. There is not a man alive I would back against her in the Game. Love or no love, once Morgase starts examining Gaebril closely, he'll not be able to hide as much as his childhood scars from her. And if she learns he means harm to Elayne" — he placed a stone on the board; it seemed an odd placement at first glance, but Mat saw that in three more moves, a third of Gill's stones would be trapped — "Lord Gaebril will have a most elaborate funeral."

  "You and your Game of Houses," Gill muttered. "Still, it might work. "A sudden smile appeared on his face. "I even know who to tell to start it. All I need do is mention to Gilda that I dreamed it, and in three days she'll have told serving girls in half the New City that it is a fact. She is the greatest gossip the Creator ever made."

  "Just be certain it cannot be traced back to you, Basel."

  "No fear of that, Thom. Why a week ago, a man told me one of my own bad dreams as a thing he'd heard from somebody who'd had it from someone else. Gilda must have eavesdropped on me telling it to Coline, but when I asked, he gave me a string of names that led all the way to the other side of Caemlyn and vanished. Why, I actually went over there and found the last man, just out of curiosity to see how many mouths had passed it, and he claimed it was his very own dream. No fear, Thom."

  Mat did not really care what they did with their rumors — no rumors would help Egwene or the others — but one thing puzzled him. "Thom, you seem to be taking this all very calmly. I thought Morgase was the great love of your life."

  The gleeman stared into the bowl of his pipe again. "Mat, a very wise woman once told me that time would heal my wounds, that time smoothed everything over. I didn't believe her. Only she was right."

  "You mean you do not love Morgase anymore."

  "Boy, it has been fifteen years since I left Caemlyn a half step ahead of the headsman's axe, with the ink of Morgase's signature still wet on the warrant. Sitting here listening to Basel natter on" — Gill protested, and Thom raised his voice — "natter on, I say, about Morgase and Gaebril, and how they might marry, I realized the passion faded a long time gone. Oh, I suppose I am still fond of her, perhaps I even love her a little, but it is not a grand passion anymore."

  "And here I half thought you'd go running up to the Palace to warn her." He laughed, and was surprised when Thom joined him.

  "I am not so big a fool as that, boy. Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this. Men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget. Morgase might kiss my cheek and give me a cup of wine and say how she has missed me. And then she might just let the Guards haul me off to prison and the headsman. No. Morgase is one of the most capable women I've ever known, and that is saying something. I could almost pity Gaebril once she learns what he is up to. Tear, you say? Is there any chance of you waiting until tomorrow to leave? I could use a night's sleep."

  "I mean to be as far toward Tear as I can before nightfall." Mat blinked. "Do you mean to come with me? I thought you meant to stay here."

  "Did you not just hear me say I had decided not to have my head cut off? Tear sounds a safer place to me than Caemlyn, and suddenly that does not seem so bad. Besides, I like those girls." A knife appeared in his hand and was as suddenly gone again. "I'd not like anything to happen to them. But if you mean to reach Tear quickly, it's Aringill you want. A fast boat will have us there days sooner than horses, even if we rode them to death. And I don't say it just because my bottom has already taken on the shape of a saddle."

  "Aringill, then. As long as it's fast."

  "Well," Gill said, "I suppose if you are leaving, lad, I had better see about getting you that meal." He pushed back his chair and started for the door.

  "Hold this for me, Master Gill," Mat said, and tossed him the wash-leather purse.

  "What's this, lad? Coin?"

  "Stakes. Gaebril doesn't know it, but he and I have a wager." The cat jumped down as Mat picked up the wooden dice cup and spun the dice out on the table. Five sixes. "And I always win."

  Chapter 48

  (Leaf)

  Following the Craft

  As the Darter wallowed toward the docks of Tear, on the west bank of the River Erinin, Egwene did not see anything of the oncoming city. Slumped head down at the rail, she stared down at the waters of the Erinin rolling past the ship's fat hull, and the frontmost sweep on her side as it swung into her vision and back again, cutting white furrows in the river. It made her queasy, but she knew raising her head would only make the sickness worse. Looking at the shore would only make the slow, corkscrew motion of the Darter more apparent.

  The vessel had moved in that twisting roll ever since Jurene. She did not care how it had sailed before then; she found herself wishing the Darter had sunk before reaching Jurene. She wished they had made the captain put in at Aringill so they could find another ship. She wished they had never gone near a ship. She wished a great many things, most of them just to take her mind off where she was.

  The twisting was less now, under sweeps, than it had been under sail, but it had gone on too many days now for the change to make much difference to her. Her stomach seemed to be sloshing about inside her like milk in a stone jug. She gulped and tried to forget that image.

  They had not done much in the way of planning on the Darter, she and Elayne and Nynaeve. Nynaeve could seldom go ten minutes without vomiting, and seeing that always made Egwene lose whatever food she had managed to get down. The increasing warmth as they went further downriver did not help. Nynaeve was below now, no doubt with Elayne holding a basin for her again.

  Oh, Light, no! Don't think about that! Green fields. Meadows. Light, meadow, do not heave like that. Hummingbirds. No, not hummingbirds! La
rks. Larks singing.

  "Mistress Joslyn? Mistress Joslyn!"

  It took her a moment to recognize the name she had chosen to give Captain Canin, and the captain's voice. She raised her head slowly and fixed her eyes on his long face.

  "We are docking, Mistress Joslyn. You've kept saying how eager you were to be ashore. Well, we're there." His voice did not hide his eagerness to be rid of his three passengers, two of whom did little more than sick up, as he called it, and moan all night.

  Barefoot, shirtless sailors were tossing lines to men on the stone dock that thrust out into the river; the dockmen seemed to be wearing long leather vests in place of shirts. The sweeps had already been drawn in, except for a pair fending the ship off from coming against the dock too hard. The flat stones of the dock were wet; the air had a feel of rain not long gone, and that was a little soothing. The twisting motion had ceased some time since, she realized, but her stomach remembered. The sun was falling toward the west. She tried not to think of supper.

  "Very good, Captain Canin," she said with all the dignity she could summon. He'd not sound like that if I were wearing my ring, not even if I were sick on his boots. She shuddered at the picture in her mind.

  Her Great Serpent ring and the twisted ring of the ter'angreal hung on a leather cord about her neck, now. The stone ring felt cool against her skin — almost enough to counteract the damp warmth of the air — but aside from that, she had found that the more she used the ter'angreal, the more she wanted to touch it, without pouch or cloth between it and her.

  Tel'aran'rhiod still showed her little of immediate use. Sometimes there had been glimpses of Rand, or Mat, or Perrin, and more in her own dreams without the ter'angreal, but nothing of which she could make any sense. The Seanchan, who she refused to think about. Nightmares of a Whitecloak putting Master Luhhan in the middle of a huge, toothed trap for bait. Why should Perrin have a falcon on his shoulder, and what was important about him choosing between that axe he wore now and a blacksmith's hammer? What did it mean that Mat was dicing with the Dark One, and why did he keep shouting, "I am coming!" and why did she think in the dream that he was shouting at her? And Rand. He had been sneaking through utter darkness toward Callandor, while all around him six men and five women walked, some hunting him and some ignoring him, some trying to guide him toward the shining crystal sword and some trying to stop him from reaching it, appearing not to know where he was, or only to see him in flashes. One of the men had eyes of flame, and he wanted Rand dead with a desperation she could nearly taste. She thought she knew him. Ba'alzamon. But who were the others? Rand in that dry, dusty chamber again, with those small creatures settling into his skin. Rand confronting a horde of Seanchan. Rand confronting her, and the women with her, and one of them was a Seanchan. It was all too confusing. She had to stop thinking about Rand and the others and put her mind to what was right ahead of her. What is the Black Ajah up to? Why don't I dream something about them? Light, why can't I learn to make it do what I want?

  "Have the horses put ashore, Captain," she told Canin. "I will tell Mistress Maryim and Mistress Caryla." That was Nynaeve — Maryim — and Elayne — Caryla.

  "I have sent a man to tell them, Mistress Joslyn. And your animals will be on the dock as soon as my men can rig a boom."

  He sounded very pleased to be rid of them. She thought about telling him not to hurry, but rejected it immediately. The Darter's corkscrewing might have stopped, but she wanted dry land under her feet again. Now. Still, she stopped to pat Mist's nose and let the gray mare nuzzle her palm, to let Canin see she was in no great rush.

  Nynaeve and Elayne appeared at the ladder from the cabins, laden with their bundles and saddlebags, and Elayne almost as laden with Nynaeve. When Nynaeve saw Egwene watching, she pushed herself away from the Daughter-Heir and walked unaided the rest of the way to where men were setting a narrow gangplank to the dock. Two crewmen came to fasten a wide canvas sling under Mist's belly, and Egwene hurried below for her own things. When she came back up, her mare was already on the dock and Elayne's roan dangled in the canvas sling halfway there.

  For a moment after her feet were on the dock, all she felt was relief. This would not pitch and roll. Then she began to look at this city whose reaching had caused them such pains.

  Stone warehouses backed the long docks themselves, and there seemed to be a great many ships, large and small, alongside the docks or anchored in the river. Hastily she avoided looking at the ships. Tear had been built on flat land, with barely a bump. Down muddy dirt streets between the warehouses, she could see houses and inns and taverns of wood and stone. Their roofs of slate or tile had oddly sharp corners, and some rose to a point. Beyond these, she could make out a high wall of dark gray stone, and behind it the tops of towers with balconies high around them and white-domed palaces. The domes had a squared shape to them, and the tower tops looked pointed, like some of the roofs outside the wall. All in all, Tear was easily as big as Caemlyn or Tar Valon, and if not so beautiful as either, it was still one of the great cities. Yet she found it hard to look at anything but the Stone of Tear.

  She had heard of it in stories, heard that it was the greatest fortress in the world and the oldest, the first built after the Breaking of the World, yet nothing had prepared her for this sight. At first she thought it was a huge, gray stone hill or a small, barren mountain covering hundreds of hides, its length stretching from the Erinin west through the wall and into the city. Even after she saw the huge banner flapping from its greatest height — three white crescent moons slanting across a field half red, half gold; a banner waving at least three hundred paces above the river, yet large enough to be clearly seen at that height — even after she made out battlements and towers, it was difficult to believe the Stone of Tear had been built rather than carved out of a mountain already there.

  "Made with the Power," Elayne murmured. She was staring at the Stone, too. "Flows of Earth woven to draw stone from the ground, Air to bring it from every corner of the world, and Earth and Fire to make it all in one piece, without seam or joint or mortar. Atuan Sedai says the Tower could not do it, today. Strange, given how the High Lords feel concerning the Power now."

  "I think," Nynaeve said softly, eyeing the dockmen moving around them, "that given that very thing, we should not mention certain other things aloud." Elayne appeared torn between indignation — she had spoken very softly — and agreement; the Daughter-Heir agreed with Nynaeve too often and too readily to suit Egwene.

  Only when Nynaeve is right, she admitted to herself grudgingly. A woman who wore the ring, or was even associated with Tar Valon, would be watched here. The barefoot, leather-vested dockmen were not paying the three of them any mind as they hurried about, carrying bales or crates on their backs as often as on barrows. A strong odor of fish hung in the air; the next three docks had dozens of small fishing boats clustered around them, just like those in the drawing in the Amyrlin's study. Shirtless men and barefoot women were hoisting baskets of fish out of the boats, mounds of silver and bronze and green, and colors she had never suspected fish might be, such as bright red, and deep blue, and brilliant yellow, some with stripes or splotches of white and other colors.

  She lowered her voice for Elayne's ear alone. "She is right. Caryla. Remember why you are Caryla." She did not want Nynaeve to hear such admissions. Her face did not change when she heard, but Egwene could feel satisfaction radiating from her like heat from a cook stove.

  Nynaeve's black stallion was just being lowered to the dock; sailors had already carried their tack off the ship and simply dumped it on the wet stones of the dock. Nynaeve glanced at the horses and opened her mouth — Egwene was sure it was to tell them to saddle their animals — then closed it again, tight-lipped, as if it had cost her an effort. She gave her braid one hard tug. Before the sling was well out of the way, Nynaeve tossed the blue-striped saddle blanket across the black's back and hoisted her high-cantled saddle atop it. She did not even look at the other two women.


  Egwene was not anxious to ride at that moment — the motion of a horse might be too close to the motion of the Darter for her stomach — but another look at those muddy streets convinced her. Her shoes were sturdy, but she would not enjoy having to clean mud off them, or having to hold her skirts up as she walked, either. She saddled Mist quickly and climbed onto her back, settling her skirts, before she could decide the mud might not be so bad after all. A little needlework on the Darter — Elayne had done it all, this time; the Daughter-Heir sewed a very fine stitch — had divided all their dresses nicely for riding astride.

  Nynaeve's face paled for a moment when she swung into her saddle and the stallion decided to frisk. She kept a tight-mouthed grip on herself and a firm hand on her reins and soon had him under control. By the time they had ridden slowly past the warehouses, she could speak. "We need to locate Liandrin and the others without them learning we are asking after them. They surely know we are coming — that someone is, at least — but I would like them not to know we are here until it is too late for them." She drew a deep breath. "I confess I have not thought of any way to do this. Yet. Do either of you have any suggestions?"

  "A thief-taker," Elayne said without hesitation. Nynaeve frowned at her.

  "You mean like Hurin?" Egwene said. "But Hurin was in the service of his king. Wouldn't any thief-taker here serve the High Lords?"

  Elayne nodded, and for a moment Egwene envied the Daughter-Heir her stomach. "Yes, they would. But thief-takers are not like the Queen's Guards, or the Tairen Defenders of the Stone. They serve the ruler, but people who have been robbed sometimes pay them to retrieve what was stolen. And they also sometimes take money to find people. At least, they do in Caemlyn. I cannot think it is different here in Tear."

  "Then we take rooms at an inn," Egwene said, "and ask the innkeeper to find us a thief-taker."

  "Not an inn," Nynaeve said as firmly as she guided the stallion; she never seemed to let the animal get out of her control. After a moment she moderated her tone a little. "Liandrin, at least, knows us, and we have to assume the others do, too. They will surely be watching the inns for whoever followed the trail they sprinkled behind them. I mean to spring their trap in their faces, but not with us inside. We'll not stay at an inn."