Simion took a step back at the booming voice. “Trolloc, good—uh—master? Why, I’m a grown man. I don’t believe in children’s tales. Uh, did you say Ogier? Why, Ogier are childr—I mean . . . that is. . . .” In desperation, he turned to bellow toward the stable next to the inn. “Nico! Patrim! Visitors! Come see to their horses!” After a moment two boys with hay in their hair tumbled out of the stable, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Simion gestured to the steps, bowing, as the boys gathered reins.
Perrin slung his saddlebags and blanketroll over his shoulder and carried his bow as he followed Moiraine and Lan inside, with Simion bowing and bobbing ahead of them. Loial had to duck low under the lintel, and the ceiling inside only cleared his head by a foot. He kept rumbling to himself about not understanding why so few humans remembered the Ogier. His voice was like distant thunder. Even Perrin, right in front of him, could only understand half of his words.
The inn smelled of ale and wine, cheese and weariness, and the aroma of roasting mutton drifted from somewhere in the back. The few men in the common room sagged over their mugs as if they would really like to lie down on the benches and go to sleep. One plump serving woman was drawing a mug of ale from one of the barrels at the end of the room. The innkeeper himself, in a long white apron, sat on a tall stool in the corner, leaning against the wall. As the newcomers entered, he lifted his head, bleary-eyed. His jaw dropped at the sight of Loial.
“Visitors, Master Harod,” Simion announced. “They want rooms. Master Harod? He’s an Ogier, Master Harod.” The serving woman turned and saw Loial, and dropped the mug with a clatter. None of the weary men at the tables even looked up. One had put his head down on the table and was snoring.
Loial’s ears twitched violently.
Master Harod got to his feet slowly, eyes fastened on Loial, smoothing his apron all the while. “At least he isn’t a Whitecloak,” he said at last, then gave a start as if surprised he had spoken aloud. “That is to say, welcome, good mistress. Good masters. Forgive my lack of manners. I can only plead tiredness, good mistress.” He darted another glance at Loial, and mouthed “Ogier?” with a look of disbelief.
Loial opened his mouth, but Moiraine forestalled him. “As your man said, good innkeeper, I wish rooms for my party for the night, and a meal.”
“Oh
! Of course, good mistress. Of course. Simion, show these good people to my best rooms, so they can put down their belongings. I’ll have a fine meal laid out for you when you return, good mistress. A fine meal.”
“If it pleases you to follow me, good mistress,” Simion said. “Good masters.” He bowed the way to stairs at one side of the common room.
Behind them, one of the men at the tables suddenly exclaimed, “What in the name of the Light is that?” Master Harod began explaining about Ogier, making it sound as if he were quite familiar with them. Most of what Perrin heard before they left the voices behind was wrong. Loial’s ears twitched without stop.
On the second floor, the Ogier’s head came near to brushing along the ceiling. The narrow corridor was growing dark, with only the sharp light of sunset through a window next to the door at the far end.
“Candles in the rooms, good mistress,” Simion said. “I should have brought a lamp, but my head is still spinning from all those weddings. I’ll send someone up to light the fire, if you wish. And you’ll want wash water, of course.” He pushed open a door. “Our best room, good mistress. We don’t have many—not many strangers, you see—but this is our best.”
“I’ll take the one next to it,” Lan said. He had Moiraine’s blanketroll and saddlebags on his shoulder as well as his own, and the bundle containing the Dragon banner, too.
“Oh, good master, that’s not a very good room at all. Narrow bed. Cramped. Meant for a servant, I suspect, as if we’d ever have anybody here who had a servant. Begging your pardon, good mistress.”
“I will take it anyway,” Lan said firmly.
“Simion,” Moiraine said, “does Master Harod dislike the Children of the Light?”
“Well, he does, good mistress. He didn’t, but he does. It isn’t good policy, disliking the Children, not so close to the border as we are. They come through Jarra all the time, like there wasn’t any border at all. But there was trouble, yesterday. A fistful of trouble. And with the weddings going on, and all.”
“What happened, Simion?”
The man looked at her sharply before answering. Perrin did not think anyone else saw how sharply, in the dimness. “There was about twenty of them, come day before yesterday. No trouble then. But yesterday. . . . Why, three of them up and announced they weren’t Children of the Light anymore. They took off their cloaks and just rode away.”
Lan grunted. “Whitecloaks swear for life. What did their commander do?”
“Why, he would have done something, you can be sure, good master, but another of them announced he was off to find the Horn of Valere. Anyway, still another said they should be hunting the Dragon. That one said he was going to Almoth Plain when he left. Then some of them started saying things to women in the streets, things they shouldn’t have, and grabbing at them. The women were screaming, and Children yelling at the ones bothering the women. I never saw such commotion.”
“Didn’t any of you try to stop them?” Perrin said.
“Good master, you carry that axe like you know how to use it, but it isn’t so easy to face up to men with swords and armor and all, when all you know how to use is a broom or a hoe. The rest of the Whitecloaks, those as hadn’t gone off, put an end to it. Almost came to drawing swords. And that wasn’t the worst. Two more just went mad—if the others weren’t. Those two started raving that Jarra was full of Darkfriends. They tried to burn the village down—said they would!—beginning with the Leap. You can see the burn marks out back, where they got it started. Fought the other Whitecloaks when they tried to stop them. The Whitecloaks that were left, they helped us put it out, tied those two up tight, and rode out of here, back toward Amadicia. Good riddance, I say, and if they never come back, it’ll be too soon.”
“Rough behavior,” Lan said, “even for Whitecloaks.”
Simion bobbed his head in agreement. “As you say, good master. They never acted like that before. Swagger around, yes. Look at you like you were dirt, and poke their noses in where they hadn’t any business. But they never caused trouble before. Not like that, anyway.”
“They are gone now,” Moiraine said, “and troubles with them. I am sure we will pass a quiet night.”
Perrin kept his mouth shut, but he was not quiet inside. All these weddings and Whitecloaks are all very well, but I’d sooner know if Rand stopped here, and which way he went when he left. That smell couldn’t have been him.
He let Simion guide him on down the hall to another room, with two beds and a washstand, a pair of stools and not much else. Loial stooped to put his head through the doorway. Only a little light came in by the narrow windows. The beds were big enough, with blankets and comforters folded at the foot, but the mattresses looked lumpy. Simion fumbled on the mantel above the fireplace until he found a candle, and a tinderbox to get it alight.
“I’ll see about getting some beds put together for you, good—uh—Ogier. Yes, just a moment, now.” He showed no sign of hurry to be about it, though, fussing with the candlestick as if he had to place it just right. Perrin thought he looked uneasy.