The Shadow Rising

## Chapter 46

#### Veils

The crowds were thick in the confined winding streets of the Calpene near the Great Circle; the smoke of countless cook fires rising above the high white walls gave the reason. Sour smells of smoke and cooking and long unwashed sweat hung heavy in the humid morning air with the crying of children and the vague murmurs that always clung to large masses of people, together enough to muffle the shrill caws of the gulls sailing overhead. The shops in this area had long since locked the iron grilles over their doors for good.

Disgusted, Egeanin threaded her way through the throng afoot. It was dreadful that order had broken down enough for penniless refugees to take over the circles, sleeping among the stone benches. It was as bad as their rulers letting them starve. Her heart should have been gladdened—this dispirited rabble could never resist the Corenne, and then proper order would be restored—but she hated looking at it.

Most of the ragged people around her seemed too apathetic to wonder at a woman in their midst in a clean, well-tended blue riding dress, silk if plainly cut. Men and women in once fine garb, soiled and wrinkled now, speckled the crowd, so perhaps she did not stand out enough for contrast. The few who seemed to wonder whether her clothes meant coins in her purse were dissuaded by the competent way she carried her stout staff, as tall as she was. Guards and chair and bearers had had to be left behind today. Floran Gelb would surely have realized he was being followed by that array. At least this dress with its divided skirts gave her a little freedom of movement.

Keeping the weasely little man in sight was easy even in this mass of people, despite having to dodge oxcarts or the occasional wagon, hauled by sweating bare-chested men more often than animals. Gelb and seven or eight companions, burly rough-faced men all, shoved through in a knot, an eddy of curses following them. Those fellows angered her. Gelb meant to try kidnapping again. He had found three women since she sent him the gold he had asked for, none more than casually resembling any on her list, and had whined over every one she rejected. She should never have paid him for that first woman he snatched off the street. Greed and the memory of gold had apparently washed out the hide-flaying tongue-lashing she had given him along with the purse.

Shouts from behind pulled her head around and tightened her hands on the staff. A small space had opened up, as it always did around trouble. A bellowing man in a torn, once-fine yellow coat was on his knees in the street, clutching his right arm where it bent the wrong way. Huddling over him protectively, a weeping woman in a tattered green gown was crying at a veiled fellow already melting into the crowd. “He only asked for a coin! He only asked!” The crowd swirled in around them again.

Grimacing, Egeanin turned back. And stopped with an oath that drew a few startled glances. Gelb and his fellows had vanished. Pushing her way to a small stone fountain where water gushed from the mouth of a bronze fish on the side of a flat-roofed wineshop, she roughly displaced two of the women filling pots and leaped up onto the coping, ignoring their indignant curses. From there she could see over the heads of the crowd, Cramped streets ran off in every direction, twisting around the hills. Bends and white-plastered buildings cut her view to less than a hundred paces at best, but Gelb could not have gone farther than that in those few moments.

Abruptly she found him, hiding in a deep doorway thirty paces on, but up on his toes to peer down the street. The others were easy enough to locate then, leaning against buildings to either side of the street, trying not to be noticed. They were not the only ones lining the walls, but where the rest huddled dispiritedly, their scared, broken-nosed faces held expectation.

So it was to be here, their abduction. Certainly no one would interfere, any more than people had when that fellow’s arm was broken. But who? If Gelb had finally found someone on the list, she could go away and wait for him to sell her the woman, wait her chance to see if an a’dam truly could hold other sul’dam besides Bethamin. However, she did not mean to face again the choice between slitting some unfortunate woman’s throat and sending her off to be sold.

There were plenty of women climbing up the street toward Gelb, most in those transparent veils, their hair braided. Without a second glance Egeanin ruled out two in sedan chairs, with bodyguards marching alongside; Gelb’s street toughs would not tangle with near their own number, nor face swords with their fists. Whoever they were after would have no more than two or three men for company if that, and none armed. That seemed to include all the other women in her view, whether in rags of drab country dresses or the more clinging styles Taraboner women favored.

Suddenly two of those women, talking together as they rounded a far bend, seized Egeanin’s eye. With their hair in slender braids and transparent veils across their faces, they appeared to be Taraboners, but they were out of place here. Those thin, scandalously draped dresses, one green, the other blue, were silk, not linen or finespun wool. Women clothed like that rode in sedan chairs; they did not walk, especially not here. And they did not carry barrel staves on their shoulders like clubs.

Dismissing the one with red-gold hair, she studied the other. Her dark braids were unusually long, nearly to her waist. At this distance, the woman looked very much like a sul’dam named Surine. Not Surine, though. This woman would have come no higher than Surine’s chin.

Muttering under her breath, Egeanin jumped down and began pushing through the jostling mass between her and Gelb. With luck she could reach him in time to call him off. The fool. The greedy, weasel-brained fool!

“We should have hired chairs, Nynaeve,” Elayne said again, wondering for the hundredth time how Taraboner women talked without catching the veils in their mouths. Spitting it out, she added, “We are going to have to use these things.”

A weedy-faced fellow stopped drifting toward them through the crowd when Nynaeve hefted her barrel stave threateningly. “That is what they are for.” Her glare might have encouraged the man’s loss of interest. She fumbled at the dark braids hanging over her shoulders and made a disgusted sound; Elayne did not know when she would become used to not having that one thick braid to tug. “And feet are for walking. How could we look or ask questions being carried around like pigs to sale? I would feel a complete fool in one of those idiot chairs. In any case, I’d rather trust to my own wits than men I do not know.”

Elayne was sure Bayle Domon could have provided trustworthy men. The Sea Folk certainly would have; she wished Wavedancer had not sailed, but the Sailmistress and her sister had been eager to spread word of the Coramoor to Dantora and Cantorin. Twenty bodyguards would have suited her very well.

She sensed as much as felt something brushing the purse at her belt; clutching at the purse with one hand, she spun around, raising her own stave. The throng flowing by spread a little around her, people barely glancing her way as they elbowed one another, but there was no sign of the would-be cutpurse. At least she could still feel the coins inside: She had taken to wearing her Great Serpent ring and the twisted stone ter’angreal on a cord around her neck in imitation of Nynaeve after the first time she had nearly lost a purse. In their five days in Tanchico she had lost three. Twenty guards would be just about right. And a carriage. With curtains at the windows.

Resuming the slow climb up the street beside Nynaeve, she said, “Then we should not be wearing these dresses. I can remember a time when you stuffed me into a farmgirl’s dress.”

“They make a good disguise,” Nynaeve replied curtly. “We blend in.”

Elayne gave a small sniff. As if plainer dresses would not have blended even better. Nynaeve would not admit she had come to enjoy wearing silks and pretty dresses. Elayne simply wished she had not taken it so far. True, everyone took them for Taraboners—until they spoke, at least—but even with a lace-trimmed neck right up under her chin, this close-draped green silk at least felt more revealing than anything she had ever worn before. Certainly anything she had ever worn in public. Nynaeve, on the other hand, strode along the cramped street as if no one was looking at them at all. Well, maybe no one was—not because of how their dresses fit, anyway—but it surely seemed they were.

Their shifts would have been almost as decent. Cheeks heating, she tried to stop thinking of how the silk molded itself to her. Stop that! It is perfectly decent. It is!

“Didn’t this Amys tell you anything that might help us?”

“I told you what she said.” Elayne sighed. Nynaeve had kept her up until the small hours talking about the Aiel Wise One who had been with Egwene in Tel’aran’rhiod last night, and then started in again before they sat down to breakfast. Egwene, with her hair in two braids for some reason and shooting sullen frowns at the Wise One, had said almost nothing beyond that Rand was well and Aviendha was looking after him. White-haired Amys had done all the talking, a stern lecture on the dangers of the World of Dreams that had nearly made Elayne feel as if she were ten again, and Lini, her old nurse, had caught her sneaking out of bed to steal candies, followed by cautions about concentration and controlling what she thought if she must enter Tel’aran’rhiod. How could you control what you thought? “I truly did think Perrin was with Rand and Mat.” That had been the biggest surprise, after Amys’s appearance. Egwene apparently had thought he was with Nynaeve and her.

“He and that girl have probably gone somewhere he can be a blacksmith in peace,” Nynaeve said, but Elayne shook her head.

“I do not think so.” She had strong suspicions about Faile, and if they were even half right, Faile would not settle for being a blacksmith’s wife. She spat out the veil once more. Idiotic thing.

“Well, wherever he is,” Nynaeve said, fumbling with her braids again, “I hope he is safe and well, but he is not here, and he cannot help us. Did you even ask Amys if she knew any way to use Tel’aran’rhiod to—?”

A bulky, balding man in a worn brown coat shoved through the crowd and tried to throw thick arms around her. She whipped the barrel stave from her shoulder and gave him a crack across his broad face that sent him staggering back, clutching a nose that had surely been broken for at least the second time.

Elayne was still gathering breath for a startled scream when a second man, just as big and with a thick mustache, pushed her aside to reach for Nynaeve. She forgot about being afraid. Her jaw tightened furiously, and just as his hands touched the other woman, she brought her own stave down on top of his head with every bit of strength she could muster. The fellow’s legs folded, and he toppled on his face in a most satisfactory fashion.

The crowd scattered back, no one wanting to be caught up in someone else’s trouble. Certainly no one offered to help. And they needed it, Elayne realized. The man Nynaeve had hit was still on his feet, mouth twisted in a snarl, licking away the blood that ran down from his nose, flexing thick hands as if he wanted to squeeze a throat. Worse, he was not alone. Seven more men were fanning out with him to cut off any escape, all but one as large as he, with scarred faces and hands that looked as if they had been hammered on stone for years. A scrawny, narrow-cheeked fellow, grinning like a nervous fox, kept panting, “Don’t let her get away. She’s gold, I tell you. Gold!”

They knew who she was. This was no try for a purse; they meant to dispose of Nynaeve and abduct the Daughter-Heir of Andor. She felt Nynaeve embracing saidar—if this had not made her angry enough to channel, nothing ever would—and opened herself to the True Source as well. The One Power rushed into her, a sweet flood filling her from toes to hair. A few woven flows of Air from either of them could deal with these ruffians.

But she did not channel, and neither did Nynaeve. Together they could drub these fellows as their mothers should have. Yet they did not dare, unless there was no other choice.

If one of the Black Ajah was close enough to see, they had already betrayed themselves with the glow of saidar. Channeling enough for those few flows of Air could betray them to a Black sister on another street a hundred paces or more away, depending on her strength and sensitivity. That was most of what they themselves had been doing the last five days, walking through the city trying to sense a woman channeling, hoping the feeling would draw them to Liandrin and the others.

The crowd itself had to be considered, too. A few people still went by to either side, brushing tight against the walls. The rest milled about, beginning to find other ways to go. Only a handful acknowledged the two women in danger with as much as shamefully averted eyes. But if they saw big men flung about by nothing visible . . . ?

Aes Sedai and the One Power itself were not in particularly good odor in Tanchico at the moment, not with old rumors from Falme still floating about and newer tales claiming that the White Tower supported the Dragonsworn in the countryside. Those people might run if they saw the Power wielded. Or they might turn into a mob. Even if she and Nynaeve managed to avoid being torn limb from limb where they stood—which she was not certain they could—there was no way to cover it up after. The Black Ajah would hear of Aes Sedai in Tanchico before the sun set.

Setting herself back-to-back with Nynaeve, Elayne gripped her stave tightly. She felt like laughing hysterically. If Nynaeve even mentioned going out alone again— walking—she would see who liked having her head dunked in a bucket of water. At least none of these louts looked eager to be the first to have his head cracked like the fellow lying still on the paving stones.

“Go on,” the narrow-faced man urged, waving his hands forward. “Go on! It’s only two women!” He made no move to rush in himself, though. “Go on, I say. We just need the one. She’s gold, I tell you.”

Suddenly there was a loud thunk, and one of the ruffians staggered to his knees, clutching groggily at a split scalp, and a dark-haired, stern-faced woman in a blue riding dress flung herself past him, twisted sharply to backhand another fellow in the mouth with her fist, knocked his legs out from under him with a staff, then kicked him in the head as he fell.

That there was help at all was startling, much less the source, but Elayne was of no mind to pick and choose. Nynaeve left her back with a wordless roar, and she dashed out shouting, “Forward the White Lion!” to belabor the nearest lout as hard and fast as she could. Flinging his arms up to defend himself, he looked shocked out of his wits. “Forward the White Lion!” she shouted again, the battle cry of Andor, and he turned tail and ran.

Laughing in spite of herself, she whirled about seeking another to drub. Only two had not yet fled or fallen. That first broken-nosed fellow turned to run, and Nynaeve gave him a final full-armed thwack across the backside. The stern-faced woman somehow tangled the other’s arm and shoulder with her staff, pulling him close and up on his toes at the same time; he would have overtopped her by a head flat-footed and he weighed twice what she did, but she coolly slammed the heel of her free hand up into his chin three times in rapid succession. His eyes rolled up in his head, but as he sagged, Elayne saw the narrow-faced man picking himself up off the street; his nose dripped blood and his eyes looked half-glazed, yet he pulled a knife from his belt and lunged at the woman’s back.

Without thinking, Elayne channeled. A fist of Air hurled the man and his knife into a backflip. The stern-faced woman spun, but he was already scrambling away on all fours until he could get his feet under him and burrow into the crowd farther up the street. People had stopped to watch the odd battle, though none had raised a hand to help except the dark-haired woman. She herself was staring from Elayne to Nynaeve uncertainly. Elayne wondered whether she had noticed the scrawny fellow being knocked down apparently by nothing.

“I give you my thanks,” Nynaeve said a touch breathlessly as she approached the woman, straightening her veil. “I think we should leave here. I know the Civil Watch doesn’t come out in the streets much, but I’d not like to explain this if they do happen by. Our inn is not far. Will you join us? A cup of tea is the least we can offer someone who actually lifts a hand to help someone in this Light-forsaken city. My name is Nynaeve al’Meara and this is Elayne Trakand.”

The woman hesitated visibly. She had noticed. “I . . . I would . . . like that. Yes. I would.” She had a slurred way of speaking, difficult to understand, but somehow vaguely familiar. She was quite a lovely woman, really, seeming even fairer than she was because of her dark hair, worn almost to the shoulder. A bit too hard to be called a beauty. Her blue eyes had a strong look, as if she were used to giving orders. A merchant, perhaps, in that dress. “I am called Egeanin.”

Egeanin showed no hesitation in leaving with them down the nearest side street. The crowds were already gathering around the fallen men. Elayne expected those fellows would wake to find themselves stripped of anything of value, even clothes and boots. She wished she knew how they had discovered her identity, but there was no way to bring one along to find out. They were definitely going to have bodyguards from now on, no matter what Nynaeve said.

Egeanin might not have been hesitant, but she was uneasy. Elayne could see it in her eyes as they wove through the crowd. “You saw, didn’t you?” she asked. The woman missed a step, all the confirmation Elayne needed, and she added hurriedly, “We won’t harm you. Certainly not after you came to our rescue.” Again she had to spit out her veil. Nynaeve did not seem to have that problem. “You needn’t frown at me, Nynaeve. She saw what I did.”

“I know that,” Nynaeve said dryly. “And it was the right thing to do. But we are not snug in your mother’s palace tucked away from prying ears.” Her gesture took in the people around them. Between Egeanin’s staff and their staves, most were giving them a wide berth. To Egeanin she said, “The larger part of any rumors you may have heard are not true. Few of them are. You need not be afraid of us, but you can understand there are matters we do not care to speak of here.”

“Afraid of you?” Egeanin looked startled. “I had not thought I should be. I will keep silent until you wish to speak.” She was as good as her word; they walked on in silence through the murmurs of the crowd all the way back down the peninsula to the Three Plum Court. All this walking was making Elayne’s feet ache.

A handful of men and women sat in the common room despite the early hour, nursing their wine or ale. The woman with her hammered dulcimer was being accompanied by a thin man playing a flute that sounded as reedy as he was. Juilin sat at a table near the door, smoking a short-stemmed pipe. He had not returned from his nightly foray when they left. Elayne was glad to see that for once he did not have a new bruise or cut; what he called the underside of Tanchico seemed even rougher than the face the city presented to the world. His one concession to Tanchican dress had been to replace his flat straw hat with one of those dark conical felt caps, which he wore perched on the back of his head.

“I have found them,” he said, popping up from his bench and snatching off his cap, before he saw they were not alone. He gave Egeanin a hooded look and a small bow; she returned it with an inclination of her head and a look just as guarded.

“You’ve found them?” Nynaeve exclaimed. “Are you sure? Speak, man. Have you swallowed your tongue?” And her with her warnings about talking in front of other people.

“I should have said I found where they were.” He did not look at Egeanin again, but he chose his words carefully. “The woman with the white stripe in her hair led me to a house where she was staying with a number of other women, though few were ever seen outside. The locals thought they were rich escapees from the countryside. Little remains now save a few scraps of food in the pantry—even the servants are gone—but from one thing and another I would say they left late yesterday or early last night. I doubt they have any fear of the night in Tanchico.”

Nynaeve had a fistful of her narrow braids in a white-knuckled grip. “You went inside?” she said in a very level voice. Elayne thought she was an inch from raising the stave dangling at her side.

Juilin seemed to think so, too. Eyeing the stave, he said, “You know very well I take no risks with them. An empty house has a look about it, a feel, no matter how big. You cannot chase thieves as long as I have without learning to see as they do.”

“And if you had triggered a trap?” Nynaeve almost hissed the words. “Does your grand talent for feeling things extend to traps?” Juilin’s dark face went a little gray; he wet his lips as if to explain or defend himself, but she cut him off. “We will talk of this later, Master Sandar.” Her eyes shifted slightly toward Egeanin; finally she had remembered there were other ears there to hear. “Tell Rendra we will take tea in the Falling Blossoms Room.”

“Chamber of Falling Blossoms,” Elayne corrected softly, and Nynaeve shot her a look. Juilin’s news had left the older woman in a bad humor.

He bowed deeply with his hands spread. “As you command, Mistress al’Meara, so I obey from the heart,” he said wryly, then stuck his dark cap back on top of his head and stalked off, his back eloquently indignant. It must be uncomfortable to find yourself taking orders from someone with whom you had once tried to flirt.

“Fool man!” Nynaeve growled. “We should have left both of them on the dock in Tear.”

“He is your servant?” Egeanin said slowly.

“Yes,” Nynaeve snapped, just as Elayne said, “No.”

They looked at each other, Nynaeve still frowning.

“Perhaps he is, in a way,” Elayne sighed, right on top of Nynaeve’s muttered, “I suppose he is not, at that.”

“I . . . see,” Egeanin said.

Rendra came bustling between the tables with a smile on her rosebud lips behind her veil. Elayne wished she did not look so much like Liandrin. “Ah. You are so pretty this morning. Your dresses, they are magnificent. Beautiful.” As if the honey-haired woman had not had as much to do with choosing the fabric and cut as they. Her own was red enough for a Tinker and definitely not suitable for public. “But you have been foolish again, yes? That is why the fine Juilin, he wears the large scowl. You should not worry him so.” A twinkle in her big brown eyes said Juilin had found someone for his flirting. “Come. You will take your tea in the cool and the privacy, and if you must go out again, you will allow me to provide the bearers and the guards, yes? The pretty Elayne would not have lost so many purses if you were properly guarded. But we will not talk of such things now. Your tea, it is nearly prepared. Come.” It had to be a learned skill, that was how Elayne saw it; you must have to learn how to talk without eating your veil.

The Chamber of Falling Blossoms, located down a short corridor off the common room, was a small, windowless room with a low table and carved chairs with red seat cushions. Nynaeve and Elayne took their meals there with Thom or Juilin or both, when Nynaeve was not in a taking at them. The plastered brick walls, painted with a veritable grove of plum trees and a namesake shower of flowers were thick enough to preclude any eavesdropping. Elayne practically tore her veil off and tossed the filmy scrap on the table before sitting; even Taraboner women did not try to eat or drink wearing the things. Nynaeve merely unfastened hers from her hair on one side.

Rendra kept up her chatter while they were being served, her topics bouncing from a new seamstress who could sew them dresses in the newest style from the thinnest imaginable silk—she suggested Egeanin try the woman, getting a level look for reply; it did not faze her even a trifle—to why they should listen to Juilin since the city was just too dangerous for a woman to go out alone now even in daylight, to a scented soap that would put the finest sheen on their hair. Elayne sometimes wondered how the woman ran such a successful inn when she seemed to think of nothing but her hair and her clothes. That she did was obvious; it was the how that puzzled Elayne. Of course, she did wear pretty clothes; just not entirely suitable. The servant who brought the tea and blue porcelain cups and tiny cakes on a tray was the slender, dark-eyed young man who had kept filling Elayne’s winecup on that very embarrassing night. And had tried again more than once, though she had privately vowed never again to drink more than a single cup. A handsome man, but she gave him her coolest stare, so that he hurried from the room gladly.

Egeanin watched quietly until Rendra left, too. “You are not what I expected,” she said then, balancing her cup on her fingertips in an odd way. “The innkeeper babbles of frivolities as if you were her sisters and as foolish as she, and you allow it. The dark man—he is a servant of sorts, I think—mocks you. That serving boy stares with open hunger in his eyes, and you allow it. You are . . . Aes Sedai, are you not?” Without waiting for an answer, she shifted her sharp blue eyes to Elayne. “And you are of the . . . You are nobly born. Nynaeve spoke of your mother’s palace.”

“Such things do not count for very much in the White Tower,” Elayne told her ruefully, hastily brushing cake crumbs from her chin. It was very spicy cake; almost sharp. “If a queen went there to learn, she would have to scrub floors like any other novice and jump when she was told.”

Egeanin nodded slowly. “So that is how you rule. By ruling the rulers. Do . . . many . . . queens go to be trained so?”

“None that I know of.” Elayne laughed. “Though it is our tradition in Andor for the Daughter-Heir to go. A good many noblewomen go, really, though they usually do not want it known and most leave having failed to even sense the True Source. It was only an example.”

“You are also of the . . . a noble?” Egeanin asked, and Nynaeve snorted.

“My mother was a farmwife, and my father herded sheep and farmed tabac. Few where I come from can make do without wool and tabac both to sell. What of your parents, Egeanin?”

“My father was a soldier, my mother the . . . an officer on a ship.” For a moment she sipped her unsweetened tea, studying them. “You are searching for someone,” she said at last. “For these women the dark man spoke of. I do some small trade in information, among other things. I have sources who tell me things. Perhaps I can help. I would not charge, except to ask you to tell me more of Aes Sedai.”

“You have helped too much already,” Elayne said hastily, remembering Nynaeve telling almost everything to Bayle Domon. “I am grateful, but we could not accept more.” Letting this woman know about the Black Ajah and letting her become involved without knowing were equally out of the question. “Truly we could not.”

Caught with her mouth half-open, Nynaeve glared at her. “I was about to say the same,” she said in a flat voice, then went on more brightly. “Our gratitude certainly extends to answering questions, Egeanin. As much as we can.” She surely meant there were a good many questions for which they had no answers, but Egeanin took it differently.

“Of course. I will not pry into the secret affairs of your White Tower.”

“You seem very interested in Aes Sedai,” Elayne said. “I cannot sense the ability in you, but perhaps you can learn to channel.”

Egeanin almost dropped her porcelain cup. “It . . . can be learned? I did not . . . No. No, I do not want to . . . to learn.”

Her agitation made Elayne sad. Even among people not fearful of Aes Sedai, too many still feared anything to do with the One Power. “What do you want to know, Egeanin?”

Before the woman could speak, a rap at the door was followed by Thom, in the rich brown cloak he had taken to wearing when he went out. It certainly attracted less notice than the gleeman’s patch-covered garment. In fact, it made him appear quite dignified, with that mane of white hair, though he should brush it more. Imagining him younger, Elayne thought she could see what had first attracted her mother. That did not absolve him of leaving, of course. She smoothed her face before he could see her frown.

“I was told you were not alone,” he said, giving Egeanin a guarded look almost identical to Juilin’s; men were always suspicious of anyone they did not know. “But I thought you might like to hear that the Children of the Light surrounded the Panarch’s Palace this morning. The streets are beginning to buzz over it. It seems the Lady Amathera is to be invested as Panarch tomorrow.”

“Thom,” Nynaeve said wearily, “unless this Amathera is really Liandrin, I do not care if she becomes Panarch, King, and Wisdom of the whole Two Rivers all rolled together.”

“The interesting thing,” Thom said, limping to the table, “is that rumor says the Assembly refused to choose Amathera. Refused. So why is she being invested? Things this odd are worth noting, Nynaeve.”

As he started to lower himself into a chair, she said quietly, “We are having a private conversation, Thom, I am sure you will find the common room more congenial.” She took a sip of tea, eyeing him over the cup in clear expectation of his departure.

Flushing, he levered himself back up without ever having actually sat, but he did not leave immediately. “Whether the Assembly has changed its mind or not, this will likely cause riots. The streets still believe Amathera has been rejected. If you must insist on going out, you cannot go alone.” He was looking at Nynaeve, but Elayne had the impression that he almost put a hand on her shoulder. “Bayle Domon is mired in that little room down near the docks, tying up his affairs in case he has to run, but he has agreed to provide fifty picked men, tough fellows used to a brawl and handy with knife or sword.”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, but Elayne cut her off. “We are grateful, Thom, to you and Master Domon both. Please tell him we accept his kind and generous offer.” Meeting Nynaeve’s flat stare, she added meaningfully, “I would not want to be kidnapped on the streets in broad daylight.”

“No,” Thom said. “We would not want that.” Elayne thought she heard a half-said “child” at the end of that, and this time he did touch her shoulder, a swift brush of fingers. “Actually,” he went on, “the men are already waiting in the street outside. I am trying to find a carriage; those chairs are too vulnerable.” He seemed to know he had gone too far, bringing Domon’s men before they agreed, not to mention this talk of a carriage without a hint of asking first, but he faced them like an old wolf at bay, bushy eyebrows drawn down. “I would . . . regret . . . personally, if anything happened to you. The carriage will be here as soon as I can find a team. If there is one to be found.”

Eyes wide, Nynaeve was obviously teetering on the edge of whether or not to give him an upbraiding he would never forget, and Elayne would not have minded adding a gentler admonishment. Somewhat gentler; child, indeed!

He took advantage of their hesitation to sweep a bow that would have graced any palace and departed while he had the chance.

Egeanin had set down her cup and was staring at them in consternation. Elayne supposed they had not given a very good appearance of being Aes Sedai, letting Thom bully them. “I must go,” the woman said, rising and taking her staff from against the wall.

“But you have not asked your questions,” Elayne protested. “We owe you answers to them, at the very least.”

“Another time,” Egeanin said after a moment. “If it is permitted, I will come another time. I need to learn about you. You are not what I expected.” They assured her she could come any time they were there and tried to convince her to stay long enough to finish her tea and cakes, but she was adamant that she had to leave now.

Turning from seeing the woman to the door, Nynaeve put her fists on her hips: “Kidnap you? If you have forgotten, Elayne, it was me those men tried to grab!”

“To take you out of the way so they could seize me,” Elayne said. “If you have forgotten, I am the Daughter-Heir of Andor. My mother would have made them wealthy to have me back.”

“Perhaps,” Nynaeve muttered doubtfully. “Well, at least they were nothing to do with Liandrin. That lot wouldn’t send a pack of louts to try stuffing us in a sack. Why do men always do things without asking? Does growing hair on their chests sap their brains?”

The sudden change did not confuse Elayne. “We do not have to worry about finding bodyguards, at any rate. You do agree they are necessary, even if Thom did overstep himself?”

“I suppose so.” Nynaeve had a remarkable dislike for admitting she was wrong. Thinking those men had been after her, for instance. “Elayne, do you realize we still have nothing except an empty house? If Juilin—or Thom—slips and lets himself be found out . . . We must find the Black sisters without them suspecting, or we will never have a chance of following them to whatever this thing is that’s dangerous to Rand.”

“I know,” Elayne said patiently. “We have discussed it.”

The older woman frowned at nothing. “We still have not a glimmer as to what it is, or where.”

“I know.”

“Even if we could bag Liandrin and the rest right this minute, we cannot leave it floating about out there, waiting for someone else to find.”

“I know that, Nynaeve.” Reminding herself to be patient, Elayne softened her tone. “We will find them. They must make some sort of slip, and between Thom’s rumors, and Juilin’s thieves, and Bayle Domon’s sailors, we will learn of it.”

Nynaeve’s frown became thoughtful. “Did you notice Egeanin’s eyes when Thom mentioned Domon?”

“No. Do you think she knows him? Why would she not say so?”

“I do not know,” Nynaeve said vexedly. “Her face did not change, but her eyes . . . She was startled. She knows him. I wonder what—” Someone tapped softly on the door. “Is everyone in Tanchico going to march in on us?” she growled, jerking it open.

Rendra gave a start at the look on Nynaeve’s face, but her ever-present smile returned immediately. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but there is the woman below who asks for you. Not by name, but she describes you as you stand. She says that she believes she knows you. She is . . . ” That rosebud mouth tightened in a slight grimace. “I forgot to ask her name. This morning I am the witless goat. She is a well-dressed woman, not yet to her middle years. Not of Tarabon.” She gave a little shiver. “A stern woman, I think. When first she saw me, she looked at me as my older sister did when we were children and she was thinking of tying my braids to the bush.”

“Or have they found us first?” Nynaeve said softly.

Elayne embraced the True Source before she thought of it, and felt a shudder of relief that she could, that she had not been shielded unaware. If the woman below was Black Ajah . . . But if she was, why announce herself? Even so, she wished the glow of saidar surrounded Nynaeve, too. If only the woman could channel without anger.

“Send her in,” Nynaeve said, and Elayne realized she was very much aware of her lack, and afraid. As Rendra turned to go, Elayne began weaving flows of Air, thick as cables and ready to bind, flows of Spirit to shield another from the Source. If this woman so much as resembled one on their list, if she tried to channel a spark . . .

The woman who stepped into the Chamber of Falling Blossoms, in a shimmering black silk gown of unfamiliar cut, was no one Elayne had ever seen before, and surely not on the list of the women who had gone with Liandrin. Dark hair spilling loose to her shoulders framed a sturdily handsome face with large, dark eyes and smooth cheeks, but not with Aes Sedai agelessness. Smiling, she closed the door behind her. “Forgive me, but I thought you were—” The glow of saidar surrounded her, and she . . .

Elayne released the True Source. There was something very commanding in those dark eyes, in the halo around her, the pale radiance of the One Power. She was the most regal woman Elayne had ever seen. Elayne found herself hurriedly curtsying, flushing that she had considered . . . What had she considered? So hard to think.

The woman studied them for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod and swept to the table, taking the carved chair at its head. “Come here where I can see you both more closely,” she said in a peremptory voice. “Come. Yes. That’s it.”

Elayne realized she was standing beside the table, looking down at the dark-eyed, glowing woman. She did hope that was all right. On the other side of the table Nynaeve had a tangle of her long, thin braids gripped in her fist, but she stared at the visitor with a foolishly rapt expression. It made Elayne want to giggle.

“About what I have come to expect,” the woman said. “Little more than girls, and obviously not close to half-trained. Strong, though; strong enough to be more than troublesome. Especially you.” She fixed Nynaeve with her eyes. “You might become something one day. But you’ve blocked yourself, haven’t you? We would have had that out of you though you howled for it.”

Nynaeve still had that tight hold on her braids, but her face went from a pleased, girlish smile at praise to shamed lip-trembling. “I am sorry I blocked myself,” she almost whimpered. “I’m afraid of it . . all that power . . . the One Power . . . how can I—?”

“Be silent unless I ask a question,” the woman said firmly. “And do not start crying. You are joyful at seeing me, ecstatic. All you want is to please me and answer my questions truthfully.”

Nynaeve nodded vigorously, smiling even more rapturously than before. Elayne realized that she was, too. She was sure she could answer the questions first. Anything to please this woman.

“Now. Are you alone? Are there any other Aes Sedai with you?”

“No,” Elayne said quickly in answer to the first question, and just as fast, to the second, “There are no Aes Sedai with us.” Perhaps she should tell that they were not really Aes Sedai either. But she had not been asked that. Nynaeve glared at her, knuckles white on her braids, furious at being beaten to the answer.

“Why are you in this city?” the woman said.

“We are hunting Black sisters,” Nynaeve burst out, shooting Elayne a triumphant look.

The handsome woman laughed. “So that is why I have not felt you channel before today. Wise of you to keep low when it is eleven to two. I have always followed that policy myself. Let other fools leap about in full view. They can be brought low by a spider hiding in the cracks, a spider they never see until it is too late. Tell me all you have discovered about these Black sisters, all you know of them.”

Elayne spilled out everything, battling with Nynaeve to be first. It was not very much. Their descriptions, the ter’angreal they had stolen, the murders in the Tower and the fear of more Black sisters still there, aiding one of the Forsaken in Tear before the Stone fell, their flight here seeking something dangerous to Rand. “They were all staying in a house together,” Elayne finished up, panting, “but they left last night.”

“It seems you came very close,” the woman said slowly. “Very close. Ter’angreal. Turn out your purses on the table, your pouches.” They did, and she fingered quickly through coins and sewing kits and handkerchiefs and the like. “Do you have any ter’angreal in your rooms? Angreal or sa’angreal?”

Elayne was conscious of the twisted stone ring hanging between her breasts, but that was not the question. “No,” she said. They had none of those things in their room.

Pushing everything away, the woman leaned back, speaking half to herself. “Rand al’Thor. So that is his name now.” Her face crumpled in a momentary grimace. “An arrogant man who stank of piety and goodness. Is he still the same? No, do not bother to answer that. An idle question. So Be’lal is dead. The other sounds like Ishamael, to me. All his pride at being only half-caught, whatever the price—there was less human left in him than any of us when I saw him again; I think he half-believed he was the Great Lord of the Dark—all his three thousand years of machinations, and it comes to an untaught boy hunting him down. My way is best. Softly, softly, in the shadows. Something to control a man who can channel. Yes, it would have to be that.” Her eyes turned sharp, studying them in turn. “Now. What to do with you.”

Elayne waited patiently. Nynaeve wore a silly smile, her lips parted expectantly; it looked especially foolish with the way she was gripping her braids.

“You are too strong to waste; you may be useful one day. I would love to see Rahvin’s eyes the day he meets you unblocked,” she told Nynaeve. “I would put you off this hunt of yours, if I could. A pity compulsion is so limited. Still, with the little you have learned, you are too far behind to catch up now. I suppose I must collect you later and see to your . . . retraining.” She stood, and suddenly Elayne’s entire body tingled. Her brain seemed to shiver; she was conscious of nothing but the woman’s voice, roaring in her ears from a great distance. “You will pick up your things from the table, and when you have replaced them where they belong, you will remember nothing of what happened here except that I came thinking you were friends I knew from the country. I was mistaken, I had a cup of tea, and I left.”

Elayne blinked and wondered why she was tying her purse back beside her belt pouch. Nynaeve was frowning at her own hands, adjusting her pouch.

“A nice woman,” Elayne said, rubbing her forehead. She had a headache coming on. “Did she give her name? I don’t remember.”

“Nice?” Nynaeve’s hand came up and gave a sharp tug to her braids; she stared as if it had moved of its own accord. “I . . . do not think she did.”

“What were we talking of when she came in?” Egeanin had just gone. What had it been?

“I remember what I was about to say.” Nynaeve’s voice firmed. “We must find the Black sisters without them suspecting, or we will never have a chance of following them to whatever this thing is that’s dangerous to Rand.”

“I know,” Elayne said patiently. Had she said that already? Of course not. “We have discussed it.”

At the arched gates leading from the inn’s small courtyard, Egeanin paused, studying the hard-faced men who lounged, barefoot and often bare-chested, among the idlers on this side of the narrow street. They looked as if they could use the curved boarding swords hanging at their belts or thrust through their sashes, but none of those faces looked familiar. If any of them had been on Bayle Demon’s ship when she took him and it to Falme, she did not remember. If any had been, it was to be hoped none connected a woman in a riding dress to the woman in armor who had captured their vessel.

Suddenly she realized her palms were damp. Aes Sedai. Women who could wield the Power, and not decently leashed. She had sat at the same table with them, talked with them. They were not at all what she had expected; she could not dig that thought out of her head. They could channel, therefore they were dangerous to proper order, therefore they must be safely leashed—and yet . . . Not at all what she had been taught. It could be learned. Learned! As long as she could avoid Bayle Domon—he would surely recognize her—she should be able to return. She had to learn more. More than ever, she had to.

Wishing she had a hooded cloak, she took a firm grip on her staff and started up the street, threading her way into the passing throng. None of the sailors looked at her twice, and she watched them to be sure.

She did not see the pale-haired man in filthy Tanchican garb huddled against the front of a white-plastered wineshop on the other side of the street. His eyes, blue above a dingy veil and a thick mustache held in place with glue, followed her before sliding back to the Three Plum Court. Standing, he crossed the street, ignoring the disgusting way people brushed against him. Egeanin had nearly spotted him when he had forgotten himself enough to break that fool’s arm. One of the Blood, as such things were reckoned in these lands, reduced to begging and without enough honor to open his veins. Disgusting. Perhaps he could learn more of what she was up to, in this inn, once they realized he had more coin than his clothes suggested.