The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  All that ran through his mind in the time it took Vandene to turn her slab-sided bay gelding toward the palace. “I’ll take rooms at one of these inns for my men,” he said loudly. “If you or Elayne mean to go out in the streets, Nynaeve, you can send word, and I’ll bring a few men to walk you about.” They probably would not—nobody could top a woman for thinking she could take care of herself in a bear pit with her bare hands—but he would wager Vanin could figure out a way to know when they went out. And if not, then Juilin; a thief-catcher should know how. “That one will do.” Choosing at random, he pointed to a wide building across the square. A sign he could not make out swung over the arched doorway.

  Vandene looked at Adeleas. Elayne looked at Nynaeve. Aviendha frowned at him.

  He gave none of them a chance to speak, though. “Thom, Juilin, what do you say to a few mugs of punch?” Maybe water would be better; he had never drunk that much before in his life.

  Thom shook his head. “Later perhaps, Mat. I should stay close in case Elayne needs me.” The almost fatherly smile he directed at her faded when he saw her staring nonplussed at Mat. Juilin did not smile—he seldom did anymore—but he too said he should stay close, maybe later.

  “As you wish,” Mat said, replacing his hat. “Vanin. Vanin!” The fat man gave a start and stopped staring worshipfully at Elayne. He actually blushed! Light, the woman was a bad influence.

  As Mat turned Pips, Elayne’s voice hit him in the back, even more prim than that morning. “You are not to let them drink to excess, Master Cauthon. Some men do not know when to stop. You should certainly not allow a young boy to see men in drink.”

  He gritted his teeth and rode on across the square without looking back. Olver was looking at him. He was going to have to warn the men about getting drunk in front of the boy, especially Mendair. Light, but he hated her telling him what he should do!

  The inn turned out to be called The Wandering Woman, but the sign over the door, and the common room, promised everything that Mat wanted. The high-ceilinged room was certainly cooler than outside, with its wide, arched windows screened behind wooden shutters carved into arabesques. There seemed to be more hole than wood, but they shaded the room. Outlanders sat among the locals, a lanky Murandian with curling mustaches, a stout Kandori with two silver chains across the chest of his coat, others Mat did not recognize offhand. A faint haze of pipe smoke filled the air, and two women playing shrill flutes and a fellow with a drum between his knees provided an odd sort of music. Best of all, the serving women were pretty, and men were tossing dice at four tables. The Kandori merchant was playing at cards.

  The stately innkeeper introduced herself as Setalle Anan, though her hazel eyes had never been born in Ebou Dar. “Good my Lords . . .” Large gold hoops in her ears swayed as she bowed her head equally to Mat and Nalesean. “. . . may The Wandering Woman offer you her humble accommodation?”

  She was pretty despite a touch of gray in her hair, but Mat watched her eyes. She wore a marriage knife hanging from a close-fitting necklace, the hilt set with red and white stones nestling in her generous cleavage, and she also had one of those curving knives in her belt. Still, he could not help grinning. “Mistress Anan, I feel like I’ve come home.”

  The odd thing was, the dice had stopped rolling in his head.

  CHAPTER

  48

  Leaning on the Knife

  Climbing out of the big copper tub with a length of white toweling wrapped around her head, Nynaeve dried slowly. The plump gray-haired serving woman tried to dress her, but Nynaeve sent her away, ignoring the startled looks and protests, and did it herself, with great care, examining the dark green dress with its wide collar of pale Merada lace in the tall narrow stand-mirror. Lan’s heavy gold ring lay in her pouch—best not to think of that—alongside one of the twisted ring ter’angreal, and the Great Serpent gleamed golden around the third finger of her right hand. Her right hand. Best not to think of that either.

  The high ceiling was quite pleasantly painted in blue sky and white clouds, and if the furnishings stood on disconcertingly large gilded lion feet and the slim bedposts and chair legs and everything else vertical had too much fluting and gilding for her taste, it was still a more comfortable room than she had stayed in for some considerable time. A pleasant room. Moderately cool. What she was trying to do was calm herself.

  It did not work, of course. She had felt saidar being woven, and as soon as she stepped from her bedchamber she saw the ward against eavesdropping Elayne had made and tied off around the sitting room. Birgitte and Aviendha were already there as well, all of them freshly scrubbed and dressed.

  In what Birgitte claimed was a rather ordinary arrangement here, four bedchambers flanked the one sitting room, which also had a ceiling painted as sky and clouds. Four tall arched windows opened onto a long balcony of white-painted wrought iron, so intricate they could peer down from it unseen at the Mol Hara Square in front of the palace. A faint breeze stirred through the windows, carrying the salt scent of the sea, and for a wonder it actually was a little cool. Anger interfered with her concentration, and Nynaeve had been feeling the heat since shortly after arriving in the Tarasin Palace.

  Thom and Juilin had been given a room somewhere deep in the servants’ quarters, which in truth seemed to irritate Elayne more than it did either of the men. Thom had actually laughed. But then, he could afford to.

  “Have some of this excellent tea, Nynaeve,” Elayne said, laying a white napkin across gleaming blue silk skirts. Like everything else in the sitting room, her wide chair had gilded balls for feet, and more standing along the tall back above her head. Aviendha sat by her side, but on the floor, legs folded beneath the skirt of a high-necked dress that almost matched the pale green tile. Her labyrinthine silver necklace went very well with the dress. Nynaeve did not think she had seen the Aiel woman sit in a chair once. People had certainly stared at her in those two inns.

  “Mint and cloudberries,” Birgitte added to Elayne’s offer, filling another delicate golden porcelain cup without waiting. Birgitte wore wide gray trousers and a short blue coat. She did wear dresses occasionally, but her taste made Nynaeve glad it was seldom. All three of them dressed and primped, and no one wanted them.

  The silver pitcher glistened damply, and the tea was cool and refreshing. Nynaeve admired Elayne’s face, cool and dry. She herself already felt moist again despite the breeze. “I must say,” she muttered, “I expected a different reception.”

  “Did you really?” Elayne asked. “After the way Vandene and Adeleas treated us?”

  Nynaeve sighed. “Very well, then, I hoped. I am finally Aes Sedai, really Aes Sedai, and nobody seems to believe it. I truly hoped leaving Salidar would make a difference.”

  Their meeting with Merilille Ceandevin had not gone well. Their presentation to her, in truth. Vandene’s introduction had been almost perfunctory, and then they were dismissed, sent away so the real Aes Sedai could talk. Merilille had said she was sure they wanted to freshen up, but it was a dismissal, with a choice of going like obedient Accepted or refusing like sulky children. Just remembering ruined all Nynaeve’s attempts at calm; sweat began to run down her face.

  Being sent away was not the worst of it, really. Merilille was a slender, palely elegant Cairhienin with glossy black hair and large liquid eyes, a Gray who looked as if nothing had ever surprised her and nothing ever could. Only those dark eyes had gone wide when told Nynaeve and Elayne were Aes Sedai, and wider still on learning Egwene was the Amyrlin Seat. Birgitte as a Warder clearly astounded her, though by that time she managed to hold her reaction to one stare and a brief tightening of her lips. Aviendha came out of it the easiest; Merilille gave her only a murmur about how much she would enjoy being a novice. Then came the dismissal. And a suggestion, more in the nature of a command, that they spend several days recuperating from the rigors of their journey.

  Nynaeve plucked her handkerchief from her sleeve and fanned her face uselessly with the la
cy square. “I still think they’re hiding something.”

  “Really, Nynaeve,” Elayne said, shaking her head. “I do not like how we’re treated any more than you, but you are trying to make a bull out of a mouse. If Vandene and Adeleas want to look for runaways, let them. Would you rather have them trying to take over looking for the bowl?” During the whole journey they had hardly mentioned the ter’angreal they sought, for fear the pair would do just that.

  Whether they would have or not, Nynaeve still thought they were hiding things. Elayne just did not want to admit it. Adeleas had not realized that Nynaeve had overheard that remark about looking for runaways once they reached Ebou Dar, and when Nynaeve asked whether they really expected to find any, Vandene replied just a bit too quickly that they always kept an eye out for young women who had run from the Tower. It did not make sense. No one had ran away from Salidar, but novices did run sometimes—the life was hard, especially with years of obedience to look forward to before you could even think of thinking for yourself—and an occasional Accepted who had begun to despair of ever reaching the shawl tried to slip away, yet even Nynaeve knew that few made it off the island of Tar Valon and almost all were dragged back. You could be put out at any time, for not being strong enough to go on, for refusing or failing your test for Accepted or the test for Aes Sedai that she and Elayne had slipped by, but leaving was never your decision unless you wore the shawl.

  So if successful runaways were so rare, why did Vandene and Adeleas think they might find one in Ebou Dar, and why had they shut up like mussels when she asked? She was afraid she knew the answer to the last, anyway. Not tugging her braid required considerable self-control. She thought she was becoming better at that.

  “At least Mat finally knows we’re Aes Sedai,” she growled. At least she could deal with him now. Let him try anything, and he would see what it was like being thumped with everything she could wrap a flow around. “He had better.”

  “Is that why you’ve been avoiding him like a Cheltan flinching from the tax collector?” Birgitte asked with a grin, and Nynaeve felt her face coloring. She thought she had hidden her feelings better than that.

  “He is very irritating, even for a man,” Aviendha murmured. “You must have traveled very far, Birgitte. You often speak of places I have never heard of. One day I would like to travel the wetlands and see all these strange places. Where is this . . . Cheltan? Chelta?”

  That wiped Birgitte’s grin right off; wherever it was, it might be dead a thousand years, or since an earlier Age altogether. Her and her slipping ancient places and things into the conversation. Nynaeve wished she had been there to see her admit to Egwene what Egwene already knew. Egwene had grown impressively forceful in her time with the Aiel, and put up with little she considered nonsense. Birgitte had actually come back looking chastened.

  Even so, Nynaeve liked Birgitte rather better than she did Aviendha, who made her very uneasy at times with her hard stares and bloodthirsty talk. And however irritating Birgitte could be, Nynaeve had promised to help her keep her secret.

  “Mat . . . threatened me,” she said hurriedly. It was the first way that came to mind to divert Aviendha and the last thing she wanted anyone else to know. Her cheeks heated all over again. Elayne actually smiled, though she had the grace to hide it in her teacup. “Not like that,” Nynaeve added when Aviendha began frowning and fingering her belt knife. The Aiel woman seemed to think the proper response to everything was a violent one. “It was just. . . .” Aviendha and Birgitte looked at her, all ears and interest. “He just said. . . .” As she had rescued Birgitte, Elayne rescued her.

  “I really think that is enough about Master Cauthon,” Elayne said firmly. “He is only here to pull him out of Egwene’s hair, and I can puzzle out what to do about the ter’angreal later.” Her lips compressed for a moment. She had not been happy when Vandene and Adeleas began channeling at Mat without so much as a by-your-leave, and even less when he slipped off to that inn. There had been nothing she could do, of course. She claimed that by only telling him to do what he had to do anyway in the beginning, she could bring him into the habit. Well, good luck to her. “He is the least important part of this trip,” she said, even more firmly.

  “Yes.” Nynaeve just kept the relief out of her voice. “Yes, the bowl is what’s important.”

  “I suggest I scout about first,” Birgitte said. “Ebou Dar seems rougher than I remember, and the district you describe could be rougher than . . .” She did not quite glance at Aviendha. “. . . Than the rest of the city,” she finished with a sigh.

  “If there is scouting to be done,” Aviendha put in eagerly, “I wish to be part of it. I have a cadin’sor.”

  “A scout is supposed to blend in,” Elayne said gently. “I think we should find Ebou Dari dress for all of us; then we can all search together from the start, and none of us will stand out. Though Nynaeve will have the easiest time of it,” she added, smiling at Birgitte and Aviendha. The Ebou Dari they had seen so far all had dark hair, and most seemed to have nearly black eyes.

  Aviendha exhaled glumly, and Nynaeve felt like echoing her, thinking of those deep necklines. Very deep, however narrow. Birgitte actually grinned; the woman had no shame at all.

  Before the discussion could go any further, a woman with short black hair, in the livery of House Mitsobar, entered without knocking, which Nynaeve thought rude no matter what Elayne said was proper for servants. Her dress was white, the skirt sewn up to the knee on the left side to expose a green petticoat, with a snug bodice embroidered on the left breast with a green Anchor and Sword. Even the livery’s narrow neckline plunged as far as Nynaeve recalled. Plump and somewhere in her middle years, the woman hesitated, then curtsied and addressed herself to everyone. “Queen Tylin wishes to see the three Aes Sedai, if it pleases them.”

  Nynaeve exchanged wondering looks with Elayne and the others.

  “There are only two of us Aes Sedai here,” Elayne said after a moment. “Perhaps you meant to go to Merilille?”

  “I was directed to this apartment . . . Aes Sedai.” The pause was barely long enough to notice, and the woman just missed turning the title into a question.

  Elayne rose, smoothing her skirts; no stranger would suspect that that smooth face hid anger, but there was a hint of tightness at the corners of eyes and mouth. “Shall we go, then? Nynaeve? Aviendha? Birgitte?”

  “I am not Aes Sedai, Elayne,” Aviendha said, and the serving woman put in hurriedly, “I was told only the Aes Sedai.”

  “Aviendha and I could have a look around the city while you see the Queen,” Birgitte said before Elayne could open her mouth. Aviendha’s face lit up.

  Elayne gave the pair of them a sharp look, then sighed. “Well, at least be careful. Nynaeve, are you coming, or do you want to see the city too?” That last was in a dry tone, with another glance at Birgitte.

  “Oh, I would not miss it,” Nynaeve told her. “It will be good to finally meet someone who thinks. . . .” She could not finish it with the maid there. “We should not keep the Queen waiting.”

  “Oh, no,” the liveried woman said. “It’d be as much as my ears are worth.”

  However much her ears were worth, it took some time to walk through the palace corridors. As though to make up for all the white outside, the palace was full of color. In one corridor the ceiling was painted green and the walls blue, in another the walls were yellow and the ceiling pale rose. The floor tiles were diamonds of red and black and white, or blue and yellow, or almost any combination in any shade. There were very few tapestries, usually scenes of the sea, but a good many tall vases of golden Sea Folk porcelain stood in arched niches, and also large pieces of carved crystal, statuettes and vases and bowls, that caught Elayne’s eye as well as Nynaeve’s.

  Of course servants scurried about everywhere, the men’s version of the livery entailing white breeches and a long green vest over a white shirt with wide, pleated sleeves, but before they had gone very far Nynaeve saw so
meone striding toward them who made her stop and catch Elayne’s arm. It was Jaichim Carridin. She did not take her eyes off the tall graying man as he strode on past them, those cruel deep-set eyes never turning in their direction, white cloak spreading behind him. Sweat covered his face, but he ignored it as he ignored them.

  “What is he doing here?” Nynaeve demanded. That man had unleashed slaughter in Tanchico, and the Light only knew where else.

  The serving woman looked at her quizzically. “Why, the Children of the Light sent an embassy too, months gone. The Queen . . . Aes Sedai?” Again, that hesitation.

  Elayne managed to nod graciously, but Nynaeve could not blank the asperity from her own voice. “Then we should not keep her waiting.” One thing Merilille had let slip about this Tylin was that she was a punctilious woman, stiffly formal. But if she too started doubting they were Aes Sedai, Nynaeve was in just the mood to prove it.

  The serving woman left them in a large room with a pale blue ceiling and yellow walls, where a row of tall triple-arched windows gave onto a long wrought-iron balcony and let in a quite comfortable salty breeze, and before the Queen Nynaeve and Elayne made their curtsies, proper for Aes Sedai to ruler, a slight dip, a tiny bow of the head.