She untied the gag on the one who had spoken. “Keys?” she asked.
“Bottom of the trunk,” said the thug. The overweight jailer—the leader of the group, no doubt, as he didn’t share a room—shot him a furious glance. Nynaeve jerked the leader into the air. “Don’t provoke me,” she growled. “It’s already far too late at night for reasonable people to be awake.”
She nodded to Triben, and he dug out the keys and opened the cell doors. The first cell was empty; the second one held a disheveled woman, still wearing a fine Domani dress, though it was soiled. Lady Chadmar was dirty and ragged and she curled against the wall, drowsy, barely even noticing that the door was open. Nynaeve caught a whiff of a stench that, up until that moment, had been covered by the scent of rotting fish. Human excrement and an unwashed body. Likely, that was one reason for locating the dungeon here in the Gull’s Feast.
Nynaeve inhaled sharply at seeing how the woman was being treated. How could Rand allow this? The woman herself had done this very thing to others, but that didn’t make it right for him to stoop to her level.
She waved for Triben to close the door; then she sat down on one of the room’s stools, regarding the three jailers. Behind, Lurts guarded the way out, keeping an eye on the poor apprentice. The overweight jailer still hung in the air.
She needed information. She could have asked Rand for permission to visit the jail in the morning, but in doing so, she would have risked alerting these men that they were going to be visited. She was depending on surprise and intimidation to reveal what had been hidden.
“Now,” she said to the three, “I am going to ask some questions. You are going to answer. I’m not certain what I’m going to do with you yet, so realize it’s best to be very honest with me.”
The two on the ground looked up at the other man, floating in the invisible weaves of Air. They nodded.
“The man who was brought to you,” she said. “The messenger of the King. When did he first arrive?”
“Two months ago,” one of the toughs said—the one with the large chin and the broken nose. “Arrived in a sack with the candle nubs from Lady Chadmar’s mansion, just like all the prisoners.”
“Your instructions?”
“Hold him,” the other tough said. “Keep him alive. We didn’t know much, er, Lady Aes Sedai. Jorgin is the one who does all the questioning.”
She looked up at the fat man. “You’re Jorgin?”
He nodded reluctantly.
“And what were your instructions?”
Jorgin didn’t respond.
Nynaeve sighed. “Look,” she said to him. “I am Aes Sedai, and am bound by my word. If you tell me what I want to know, I will see that you are not suspected in the death. The Dragon doesn’t care about you three, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here in charge of this little . . . stopover of yours.”
“If we talk, we go free?” the fat man said, eyeing her. “Your word?”
Nynaeve glanced about the tiny room with a dissatisfied eye. They had left Lady Chadmar in the dark, and the door was packed with cloth to muffle screams. The cell would be dark, stuffy and cramped. Men who would work a place like this barely deserved life, let alone freedom.
But there was a much larger sickness to deal with. “Yes,” Nynaeve said, the word bitter in her mouth. “And you know that’s better than you deserve.”
Jorgin hesitated, then nodded. “Let me down, Aes Sedai, and I’ll answer your questions.”
She did so. The man might not know it, but she had very little authority to stand on; she wouldn’t resort to his methods of extracting answers, and she was acting without Rand’s knowledge. The Dragon probably wouldn’t react well when he discovered that she’d been prying—not unless she could present him with discoveries.
Jorgin said to the broken-nosed thug, “Mord, fetch me a stool.”
Mord glanced at Nynaeve for approval, which she gave with a curt nod. As Jorgin settled his bulk onto the stool, he leaned forward, hands clasped before him. He resembled a hulking beetle tipped up on its side.
“I don’t see what you need from me,” the man said. “You seem to know everything already. You know about my facility and about the people it has held. What more is there to know?”
Facility? Some word for it. “That is my own business,” Nynaeve said, giving him a stare which she hoped implied that the concerns of the Aes Sedai were not to be questioned. “Tell me, how did the messenger die?”
“Without dignity,” Jorgin replied. “Like all men, in my experience.”
“Give me specifics, or you’ll go back to hanging in the air.”
“I opened the cell door a few days back to feed him. He was dead.”
“How long had it been since you’d fed him, then?”
Jorgin snorted. “I don’t starve my guests, Lady Aes Sedai. I just . . . encourage them to be free with what they know.”
“And how much encouragement did you give the messenger?”
“Not enough to kill him,” the jailer said defensively.
“Oh, come now,” Nynaeve said. “The man remained for months in your possession, presumably healthy all that time. Then, the day before he is to be brought before the Dragon Reborn, he suddenly dies? You already have my promise of amnesty. Tell me who bribed you to kill him and I’ll see that you’re protected.”
The jailer shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I’m telling you, he just died. It happens sometimes.”
“I tire of your games.”
“It’s not a game, burn you!” Jorgin snarled. “You think a man could get far in my profession if it were known that he’d accept a bribe to kill one of his guests? You couldn’t trust him any further than you could a lying Aiel!”
She let that last comment slide, though a man like this one could never be “trusted.”
“Look,” Jorgin said, “that wasn’t the type of prisoner you kill, anyway. Everybody wants to know where the King is. Who’d kill the only one with information about it? That man was worth good money.”
“So he’s not dead,” Nynaeve surmised. “Who did you sell him to?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” the jailer said with a chuckle. “If I had sold him, I wouldn’t have lived long afterward. You learn that sort of thing quickly, doing what I do.”
She turned to the other two thugs. “Is he lying?” she asked of them. “A hundred gold marks to the one of you who can give me proof that he is.”
Mord glanced at his boss, then grimaced. “For a hundred in gold, I’d sell you my own mother, Lady. Burn me, but I would. Jorgin’s telling the truth, though. That body was good and dead. The Dragon’s men checked when they brought the lady to us.”
So Rand had considered that possibility. But she still had no proof that these men were telling her the truth. If there was something to hide, they’d work hard to bury it deep. She decided to try a different path.
“What did you discover, then,” she said, “about the King’s location?”
Jorgin just sighed. “Like I told the Lord Dragon’s men, and like I told Lady Chadmar before she landed here in the dungeons herself. That man knew something, but he wouldn’t speak it.”
“Come now,” Nynaeve said, shooting a glance at the chest with its sharp equipment. She had to look away again before it angered her. “A man of your . . . skill? And you couldn’t pry one simple fact out of him?”
“Dark One take me if I’m lying!” The jailer’s face flushed as if this were a matter of pride for him. “I’ve never seen a man resist like that one did! A pretty feather of a man like him should have broken without much encouragement at all. But he didn’t. He would speak on anything other than the things we wanted!” Jorgin leaned forward. “I don’t know how he did it, Lady. Burn me, but I don’t! It’s like some . . . force had ahold of his tongue. It was like he couldn’t talk. Even if he’d wanted to!”
The two thugs muttered to themselves, looking apprehensive. It seemed that Nynaeve’s questioning had hit a nerve.
/> “So you pushed him too hard,” Nynaeve guessed. “And that’s how he died.”
“Take it all, woman!” the jailer growled. “Blood and bloody ashes! I didn’t kill him! Sometimes, people just die.”
Unfortunately, she was coming to believe him. Jorgin was a wretch of a man who could use a decade doing chores beneath the eyes of a Wisdom. But he wasn’t lying.
So much for her grand plans. She sighed, standing up, realizing just how tired she really was. Light! This scheme was more likely to make Rand explode at her than persuade him to listen to her counsel. She needed to return to the mansion for some sleep. Perhaps tomorrow she’d be able to think up a better way to show Rand that she was on his side.
She waved for the guards to take the jailer and his men back up above. After that, she wove Air to shut the cell door on Milisair Chadmar. Nynaeve would see that the woman’s conditions were improved. Despicable human being or not, she should not be treated this way. Rand would have to understand that when she explained it to him. Why, Milisair looked so pale she might be coming down with the shakes! Absently, Nynaeve walked to the viewing slit at the top of the cell door, then wove a Delving of Spirit to make certain the woman was not ill.
As soon as she began the Delving, Nynaeve froze. She had expected to find Milisair’s body taxed by exhaustion. She had expected to find disease, perhaps hunger.
She had not expected to find poison.
Cursing, suddenly alert, Nynaeve threw open the cell door and rushed inside. Yes, she could see it easily through the Delving. Tarchrot leaf. Nynaeve herself had given that to a hound who had needed to be put down. It was a common enough plant, and had a very bitter flavor. Not the best poison, as it had such an unpleasant taste, and yet had to be ingested.
Yes, it was a bad poison—unless the person you were poisoning was already captive and had no choice but to eat the food you gave her. Nynaeve began a Healing, weaving all five Powers, strangling the poison and strengthening Milisair’s body. It was a relatively easy Healing, as tarchrot leaf wasn’t particularly strong. You either had to use a lot of it—as she had with the hound—or you had to administer it several times for it to take effect. But if you did it slowly like that, the person you killed with it would seem to die naturally.
Once Milisair was safe, Nynaeve burst from the cell. “Stop!” she bellowed at the men. “Jorgin!”
Lurts, at the back, turned with surprise. He grabbed the jailer Jorgin by the arm and spun him around.
“Who prepares the prisoner’s food?” Nynaeve demanded, stalking toward him.
“The food?” Jorgin asked, looking confused. “That’s one of Kerb’s jobs. Why?”
“Kerb?”
“The lad,” Jorgin said. “Nobody important. An apprentice we found among the refugees a few months back. Quite a lucky find—our last apprentice ran off on us, and this one was already trained in—”
Nynaeve hushed him with a raised hand, suddenly anxious. “The boy! Where is he?”
“He was just here . . .” Lurts said, glancing up. “Went with—”
There was a sudden scrambling from above. Nynaeve cursed, calling for Triben to catch the boy. She shoved her way to the ladder and began climbing. She darted out into the shop above, her glowing light following. The two thugs stood cowering in the center room, looking confused, and a Saldaean guard stood with a sword pulled on them. He looked at her questioningly.
“The boy!” she said.
Triben glanced toward the shop door. It was open. Preparing weaves of Air, Nynaeve dashed out onto the street.
There, she found the boy, Kerb, in the muddy street, held down by the four dice-playing workers she’d brought from the mansion. Even as she stepped off the boardwalk onto the street, they pulled the struggling, frantic boy to his feet. The last Saldaean stood at the doorway, sword out, as if he’d been rushing in to see if she was in danger.
“He bolted out of the door, Aes Sedai,” one of the workers said, “as if the Dark One himself was chasing him. Your soldier ran over to see if you were in danger, but we figured it’d be best to snatch this lad before he could get away. Just in case.”
Nynaeve let out a breath to calm herself. “You did well,” she said. The youth struggled, weakly. “You did well indeed.”
CHAPTER 33
A Conversation with the Dragon
“This,” Rand declared, “had better be important.”
Nynaeve turned to find the Dragon Reborn standing in the doorway to the sitting room. He wore a dark red robe with black dragons embroidered up the arms. His stump was hidden in the folds of the left sleeve. Though his hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes were alert.
He strode into the sitting room, ever the king—even now, long after midnight and just awakened, he walked as if he were absolutely certain of himself. Some servants had brought a pot of hot tea, and he filled a cup as Min followed him into the room. She also wore a sleeping robe; the robes were one of the fashions of the Domani, and hers was of yellow silk, the weave far thinner than Rand’s. Aiel maidens took up positions by the door, lounging in their strangely dangerous way.
Rand took a gulp from his cup. It was getting harder and harder to see in him the boy Nynaeve had known in the Two Rivers. Had his jaw always been set with those lines of determination? When had his step grown so sure, his posture so demanding? This man almost seemed an . . . interpretation of the Rand she’d once known. Like a statue, carved from rock to look like him, but exaggerated in heroic lines.
“Well?” Rand demanded. “Who is this?”
The young apprentice, Kerb, sat tied in Air upon one of the room’s cushioned benches. Nynaeve glanced at him, then Embraced the Source and wove a ward against eavesdropping. Rand looked at her sharply. “You channeled?” he asked. He could sense when she did so without taking precautions; he felt goose bumps on the flesh, according to Egwene and Elayne’s investigations.
“A ward,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “Last I checked, I didn’t need your permission to channel. You’ve grown high and mighty, Rand al’Thor, but don’t forget that I paddled your backside when you were barely as tall as a man’s shins.”
Once that would have gotten a reaction from him, if only a huff of annoyance. Now he just looked at her. Those eyes of his seemed, at times, the part of him that had changed the most.
He sighed. “Why have you wakened me, Nynaeve? Who is this spindly, terrified youth? If it had been anyone else who sent that message this time of night, I’d have sent them to Bashere for a flogging.”
Nynaeve nodded at Kerb. “I think this ‘spindly, terrified youth’ knows where the King is.”
That got Rand’s attention, and Min’s as well. She’d poured herself a cup of tea and was leaning against a wall. Why weren’t they married?
“The King?” Rand asked. “Graendal too, then. How do you know this, Nynaeve? Where did you find him?”
“At the dungeon where you sent Milisair Chadmar,” Nynaeve said, eyeing him. “It is terrible, Rand al’Thor. You have no right to treat a person in such a manner.”
He didn’t rise to that comment either. Instead, he simply walked over to Kerb. “He heard something from the interrogation?”
“No,” Nynaeve said. “But I think he killed the messenger. I know for a fact that he tried to poison Milisair. She’d have been dead by the end of the week if I hadn’t Healed her.”
Rand glanced at Nynaeve, and she could almost feel him connecting the comments to figure out what she had been doing. “You Aes Sedai,” he finally said, “share much with rats, I have come to realize. You are always in places where you are not wanted.”
Nynaeve snorted. “If I’d stayed away, then Milisair would be dying and Kerb would be free.”
“I assume you’ve asked him who ordered him to kill the messenger.”
“Not yet,” Nynaeve said. “I did find the poison among his things, however, and confirmed that he had prepared food both for Milisair and for the messenger.” She hesitated before
continuing. “Rand, I’m not certain that he’ll be able to answer our questions. I Delved him, and while he’s not sick physically, there’s . . . something there. In his mind.”
“What do you mean?” Rand asked softly.
“A block of some sort,” Nynaeve said. “The jailer seemed frustrated—even surprised—that the messenger had been able to resist his ‘questioning.’ I think there must have been some block on that man too, something to keep him from revealing too much.”
“Compulsion,” Rand said. He spoke offhandedly, raising his tea to his lips.
Compulsion was dark, evil. She’d felt it herself; she still shivered when she considered what Moghedien had done to her. And that had been only a small thing, removing some memories.
“Few are as skilled with Compulsion as Graendal,” Rand said musingly. “Perhaps this is the confirmation I’ve been looking for. Yes . . . this could be a great discovery indeed, Nynaeve. Great enough to make me forget how you obtained it.”
Rand rounded the bench and leaned down to meet the young man’s eyes.
“Release him,” Rand commanded her.
She complied.
“Tell me,” Rand said to Kerb, “who told you to poison those people?”
“I don’t know anything!” the boy squeaked. “I just—”
“Stop,” Rand said softly. “Do you believe that I can kill you?”
The boy fell silent and—though Nynaeve wouldn’t have thought it possible—his blue eyes opened wider.
“Do you believe that if I simply said the word,” Rand continued in his eerie, quiet voice, “your heart would stop beating? I am the Dragon Reborn. Do you believe that I can take your life, or your soul itself, if I so much as will it to happen?”
Nynaeve saw it again, the patina of darkness around Rand, that aura that she couldn’t quite be certain was there. She raised her tea to her lips—and found that it had suddenly grown bitter and stale, as if it had been left to sit too long.
Kerb slouched down and began to cry.
“Speak,” Rand commanded.
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