“Was that the reason for the attack, then?” Nynaeve said. “All that to kill them? Or perhaps to kill them if they could not be freed. I’ve been sure Joiya was so confident because she expected rescue. She must have been lying after all. I never trusted her repentance.”
“Not the main purpose, perhaps,” Moiraine replied. “The captain very wisely kept his men to their posts in the dungeons during the attack. They never saw a single Trolloc or Myrddraal. But they found the pair dead, after. Each with her throat rather messily cut. After her tongue had been nailed to her cell door.” She might as well have been speaking of having a dress mended.
Elayne’s stomach heaved leadenly at the detached description. “I would not have wanted that for them. Not like that. The Light illumine their souls.”
“They sold their souls to the Shadow long ago,” Egwene said roughly. She had both hands pressed to her stomach, though. “How … . How was it done? Gray Men?”
“I doubt even Gray Men could have managed that,” Moiraine said dryly. “The Shadow has resources beyond what we know, it seems.”
“Yes.” Egwene smoothed her dress, and her voice. “If there was no attempt at rescue, it must mean they were both telling the truth. They were killed because they talked.”
“Or to stop them from it,” Nynaeve added grimly. “We can hope they do not know that those two told us anything. Perhaps Joiya did repent, but I’ll not believe it.”
Elayne swallowed, thinking of being in a cell, having your face pressed to the door so your tongue could be pulled out and … . She shivered, but made herself say, “They might have been killed simply to punish them for being captured.” She left out her thought that the killing might have been to make them believe whatever Joiya and Amico had said; they had enough doubts about what to do as it was. “Three possibilities, and only one says the Black Ajah knows they revealed a word. Since all three are equal, the chances are that they do not know.”
Egwene and Nynaeve looked shocked. “To punish them?” Nynaeve said incredulously.
They were both tougher than she in many ways—she admired them for it—but they had not grown up watching the maneuverings at court in Caemlyn, hearing tales of the cruel way Cairhienin and Tairens played the Games of Houses.
“I think the Black Ajah might be less than gentle with failure of any kind,” she told them. “I can imagine Liandrin ordering it. Joiya surely could have done it easily.” Moiraine eyed her briefly, a reassessing look.
“Liandrin,” Egwene said, her tone absolutely flat. “Yes, I can imagine Liandrin or Joiya giving that command.”
“You did not have much longer to question them in any case,” Moiraine said. “They would have been shipbound by midday tomorrow.” A hint of anger touched her voice; Elayne realized Moiraine must see the Black sisters’ deaths as an escape from justice. “I hope you reach some decision soon. Tanchico or the Tower.”
Elayne met Nynaeve’s eyes and gave a slight nod.
Nynaeve nodded back, more assertively, before turning to the Aes Sedai. “Elayne and I will be going to Tanchico as soon as we can find a ship. A fast ship, I hope. Egwene and Aviendha will be going to Cold Rocks Hold, in the Aiel Waste.” She gave no reasons, and Moiraine’s eyebrows rose.
“Jolien can take her,” Aviendha said into the momentary silence. She avoided looking at Egwene. “Or Sefela, or Bain and Chiad. I … I have a thought to go with Elayne and Nynaeve. If there is war in this Tanchico, they have need of a sister to watch their backs.”
“If that is what you want, Aviendha,” Egwene said slowly.
She looked surprised and hurt, but no more surprised than Elayne. She had thought the two of them were becoming friends. “I am glad you want to help us, Aviendha, but you should be the one to take Egwene to Cold Rocks Hold.”
“She is going neither to Tanchico nor Cold Rocks Hold,” Moiraine said, taking a letter from her pouch and unfolding the pages. “This was placed in my hand an hour gone. The young Aielman who brought it told me it was given to him a month ago, before any of us reached Tear, yet it is addressed to me by name, at the Stone of Tear.” She glanced at the last sheet. “Aviendha, do you know Amys, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel; Bair, of the Haido sept of the Shaarad Aiel; Melaine, of the Jhirad sept of the Goshien Aiel; and Seana, of the Black Cliff sept of the Nakai Aiel? They signed it.”
“They are all Wise Ones, Aes Sedai. All dreamwalkers.” Aviendha’s stance had shifted to wariness, though she did not seem aware of it. She looked ready to fight or flee.
“Dreamwalkers,” Moiraine mused. “Perhaps that explains it. I have heard of dreamwalkers.” She turned to the second page of the letter. “Here is what they say about you. What they said perhaps before you had even decided to come to Tear. ‘There is among the Maidens of the Spear in the Stone of Tear a willful girl called Aviendha, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel. She must now come to us. There can be no more waiting or excuses. We will await her on the slopes of Chaendaer, above Rhuidean.’ There is more about you, but mainly telling me that I must see you come to them without delay. They issue commands like the Amyrlin, these Wise Ones of yours.” She made a vexed sound, which brought Elayne to wonder if the Wise Ones had tried issuing commands to the Aes Sedai, too. Not very likely. And unlikely to be successful if tried. Still, something about that letter irritated the Aes Sedai.
“I am Far Dareis Mai,” Aviendha said angrily. “I do not go running like a child when someone calls my name. I will go to Tanchico if I wish.”
Elayne pursed her lips thoughtfully. This was something new from the Aiel woman. Not the anger—she had seen Aviendha angry before, if not quite to this degree—but the undertone. She could call it nothing but sulkiness. That seemed as unlikely as Lan being sulky, but there it was.
Egwene heard it, too. She patted Aviendha’s arm. “It’s all right. If you want to go to Tanchico, I’ll be pleased that you are protecting Elayne and Nynaeve.” Aviendha gave her a truly miserable look.
Moiraine shook her head, only slightly, but still deliberate. “I showed this to Rhuarc.” Aviendha opened her mouth, her face irate, but the Aes Sedai raised her voice and went on smoothly. “As the letter asks me to. Only the part concerning you, of course. He seems quite determined that you will do as the letter asks. As it orders. I think it wisest to do as Rhuarc and the Wise Ones wish, Aviendha. Do you not agree?”
Aviendha stared around the room wildly, as at a trap. “I am Far Dareis Mai,” she muttered, and strode for the door without another word.
Egwene took a step, half-raising a hand to stop her, then let it fall as the door banged shut. “What do they want with her?” she demanded of Moiraine. “You always know more than you let on. What are you holding back this time?”
“Whatever the Wise Ones’ reason,” Moiraine said coolly, “it is surely a matter between Aviendha and them. If she wished you to know, she would have told you.”
“You cannot stop trying to maneuver people,” Nynaeve said bitterly. “You’re maneuvering Aviendha into something now, aren’t you?”
“Not I. The Wise Ones. And Rhuarc.” Moiraine folded the letter, returning it to her belt pouch with a touch of acerbity in her manner. “She can always say no to him. A clan chief is not the same as a king, as I understand Aiel ways.”
“Can she?” Elayne asked. Rhuarc reminded her of Gareth Bryne. The Captain-General of her mother’s Royal Guards had seldom put his foot down, but when he did, not even Morgase could bring him around, short of a royal command. There would be no command from the throne this time—not that Morgase had ever issued one to Gareth Bryne when he had decided he was right, now that Elayne thought of it—and without one, she expected that Aviendha was going to the slopes of Chaendaer, above Rhuidean. “At least she can journey with you, Egwene. Amys can hardly meet you at Cold Rocks Hold if she plans to wait for Aviendha at Rhuidean. You can go to Amys together.”
“But I do not want her to,” Egwene said sadly. “Not if she doesn�
�t want to.”
“Whatever anyone wants,” Nynaeve said, “we have work to do. You will need many things for a trip into the Waste, Egwene. Lan will tell me what. And Elayne and I must make preparations to sail for Tanchico. I suppose we can find a ship tomorrow, but that means deciding what to pack tonight.”
“There is a ship of the Atha’an Miere at the docks in the Maule,” Moiraine told them. “A raker. There are no ships faster. You did want a fast ship.” Nynaeve gave a grudging nod.
“Moiraine,” Elayne said, “what is Rand going to do now? After this attack … . Will he start the war you want?”
“I do not want a war,” the Aes Sedai replied. “I want what will see him alive to fight Tarmon Gai’don. He says he will tell us all what he means to do tomorrow.” The smallest frown creased her smooth forehead. “Tomorrow, we will all know more than we do tonight.” Her departure was abrupt.
Tomorrow, Elayne thought. What will he do when I tell him? What will he say? He has to understand. Determinedly, she joined the other two to discuss their preparations.
CHAPTER 13
Rumors
The tavern’s business rocked along like any in the Maule, a wagon-load of geese and crockery careering downhill through the night. The babble of voices fought with the musicians’ offerings on three assorted drums, two hammered dulcimers, and a bulbous semseer that produced whining trills. The serving maids in dark, ankle-length dresses with necks up to the chin and short white aprons hustled between crowded tables, holding clusters of pottery mugs overhead so they could squeeze through. Barefoot leather-vested dockmen mixed with fellows in coats tight to the waist and bare-chested men with broad, colorful sashes to hold up their baggy breeches. So close to the docks, vestments of outlanders were everywhere among the crowd; high collars from the north and long collars from the west, silver chains on coats and bells on vests, knee-high boots and thigh-high boots, necklaces or earrings on men, lace on coats or shirts. One man with wide shoulders and a big belly had a forked yellow beard, and another had smeared something on his mustaches to make them glisten in the lamplight and curl up on either side of his narrow face. Dice rolled and tumbled in three corners of the room and on a number of tabletops, silver changing hands briskly to shouts and laughter.
Mat sat alone with his back to the wall where he could see all the doors, though mostly he peered into a still untouched mug of dark wine. He did not go near the dice games, and he never glanced at the serving girls’ ankles. With the tavern so crowded, men occasionally thought to share his table, but a good look at his face made them sheer away and crowd onto a bench elsewhere.
Dipping a finger in his wine, he sketched aimlessly on the tabletop. These fools had no idea what had happened in the Stone tonight. He had heard a few Tairens mention some kind of trouble, quick words that trailed off into nervous laughter. They did not know and did not want to. He almost wished he did not know himself. No, he wished he had a better idea of what had happened. The images kept flashing in his head, flashing through the holes in his memory, making no real sense.
The din of fighting somewhere in the distance echoed down the corridor, dulled by the wall hangings. He retrieved his knife from the Gray Man’s corpse with a shaking hand. A Gray Man, and hunting him. It had to have been after him. Gray Men did not wander about killing at random; they had targets as surely as an arrow. He turned to run, and there was a Myraddraal striding toward him like a black snake on legs, its pasty-faced, eyeless stare sending shivers into his bones. At thirty paces he hurled the knife straight at where an eye should have been; at that distance he could hit a knothole no larger than an eye four times in five.
The Fade’s black sword blurred as it knocked the dagger away, almost casually; it did not even break stride. “Time to die, Hornsounder.” Its voice was a red adder’s dry hiss, warning of death.
Mat backed away. He had a knife in either hand, now, though he did not remember drawing them. Not that knives would be much good against a sword, but running meant that black blade in his back as sure as five sixes beat four threes. He wished he had a good quarterstaff. Or a bow; he would like to see this thing try to deflect a shaft from a Two Rivers longbow. He wished he were somewhere else. He was going to die, here.
Suddenly a dozen Trollocs roared out of a side hallway, piling onto the Fade in a frenzy of chopping axes and stabbing swords. Mat stared in amazed disbelief. The Halfman fought like a black-armored whirlwind. More than half the Trollocs were dead or dying before the Fade lay in a twitching heap; one arm flexed and thrashed like a dying snake three paces away from the body, still with that black sword in its fist.
A ram-horned Trolloc peered toward Mat, snout lifted to sniff the air. It snarled at him, then whined and began licking a long gash that had laid open mail and hairy forearm. The others finished cutting the throats of their wounded, and one barked a few harsh, guttural words. Without another glance at Mat, they turned and trotted away, hooves and boots making hollow sounds on the stone floor.
Away from him. Mat shivered. Trollocs to the rescue. What had Rand gotten him into now? He saw what he had drawn with the wine—an open door—and scrubbed it out angrily. He had to get away from here. He had to. And he could also feel that urge in the back of his head, that it was time to go back to the Stone. He pushed it away angrily, but it kept buzzing at him.
He caught a snatch of talk from the table to his right, where the lean-faced fellow with the curling mustaches was holding forth in a heavy Lu-garder accent. “Now this Dragon of yours is a great man no doubt, I’ll not be denying it, but he’s not a patch on Logain. Why, Logain had all of Ghealdan at war, and half of Amadicia and Altara, as well. He made the earth swallow whole towns that resisted him, he did. Buildings, people and all entire. And the one up in Saldaea, Maseem? Why, they say he made the sun stand still till he defeated the Lord of Bashere’s army. ’Tis a fact, they do say.”
Mat shook his head. The Stone fallen and Callandor in Rand’s hand, and this idiot still thought he was another false Dragon. He had sketched that doorway again. Rubbing a hand through it, he grabbed up the mug of wine, then stopped with it halfway to his mouth. Through the commotion his ear had picked out a familiar name spoken at a nearby table. Scraping back his bench, he made his way to that table, mug in hand.
The people around it were the sort of odd mixture made in taverns in the Maule. Two barefoot sailors wearing oiled coats over bare chests, one with a thick gold chain close around his neck. A once fat man with sagging jowls, in a dark Cairhienin coat with slashes of red and gold and green across his chest which might have indicated that he was a noble, though one sleeve was torn at the shoulder; a good many Cairhienin refugees had come down far in the world. A gray-haired woman all in subdued dark blue, with a hard face and a sharp eye and heavy gold rings on her fingers. And the speaker, the fork-bearded fellow, with a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg in his ear. The three silver chains looped across the straining chest of his dark, reddish coat named him a Kandori master merchant. They had a guild for merchants in Kandor.
The talk ceased and all eyes swung to Mat when he stopped at their table. “I heard you mention the Two Rivers.”
Forkbeard ran a quick eye over him, the unbrushed hair, the tight expression on his face and the wine in his fist, the gleaming black boots, the green coat with its gold scrollwork, open to the waist to reveal a snowy linen shirt, but both coat and shirt heavily wrinkled. In short, the very image of a young noble sporting himself among the commoners. “I did, my Lord,” he said heartily. “I was saying there’ll be no tabac out of there this year, I’ll wager. I have twenty casks of the finest Two Rivers leaf, though, than which there is none finer. Fetch an excellent price later in the year. If my Lord wishes a cask for his own stock …” He tugged one point of his yellow beard and laid a finger alongside his nose. “ … I am certain I could manage to—”
“You’ll wager that, will you?” Mat said softly, cutting him short. “Why would there be no tabac out of the Tw
o Rivers?”
“Why, the Whitecloaks, my Lord. The Children of the Light.”
“What about Whitecloaks?”
The master merchant peered around the table for help; there was a dangerous note in that quiet tone. The sailors looked as if they would leave if they dared. The Cairhienin was glaring at Mat, sitting up too straight and smoothing his worn coat as he swayed; the empty mug in front of him was obviously not his first. The gray-haired woman had her mug to her mouth, her sharp eyes watching Mat over the rim in a calculating way.
Managing a seated bow, the merchant put on an ingratiating tone. “The rumor is, my Lord, that the Whitecloaks have gone into the Two Rivers. Hunting the Dragon Reborn, it’s said. Though of course, that cannot be, since the Lord Dragon is here in Tear.” He eyed Mat to see how that had been taken; Mat’s face did not change. “These rumors can run very wild, my Lord. Perhaps it’s only wind in a bucket. The same rumor claims the Whitecloaks are after some Darkfriend with yellow eyes, too. Did you ever hear of a man with yellow eyes, my Lord? No more have I. Wind in a bucket.”
Mat set his mug on the table and leaned closer to the man. “Who else are they hunting? According to this rumor. The Dragon Reborn. A man with yellow eyes. Who else?”
Beads of sweat formed on the merchant’s face. “No one, my Lord. No one that I heard. Only rumor, my Lord. Straws in the wind; no more. A puff of smoke, soon vanished. If I might have the honor of presenting my Lord a cask of Two Rivers tabac? A gesture of appreciation … the honor of … to express my … .”
Mat tossed an Andoran gold crown onto the table. “Buy your drink on me till that runs out.”
As he turned away he heard mutters from the table. “I thought he’d cut my throat. You know these lordlings when they’re full of wine.” That from the fork-bearded merchant. “An odd young man,” the woman said. “Dangerous. Do not try your ploys on that kind, Paetram.” “I do not think he is a lord at all,” another man said petulantly. The Cairhienin, Mat supposed. His lip curled. A lord? He would not be a lord if it was offered to him. Whitecloaks in the Two Rivers. Light! Light help us!
Shadow Rising, The Page 26
