Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time 6)

“Dismount,” Mat ordered. Elayne looked quite pleased with herself — you would never suspect the sort of woman she was from that delighted smile, asking Nynaeve and Aviendha to share her pleasure — but pleased or not, the gateway was not as large as the one Rand had made for the Band. Of course, they were not nearly so many as the Band, but the least she could have done was make it tall enough to ride through.

On the other side, low rolling brown-grass hills ran as far as Mat could see even when he climbed back onto Pips, though a darkness to the south suggested forest. Dusty hills.

“We must not press the horses too hard in this,” Adeleas said, swinging quite easily onto her round bay mare as soon as the gateway vanished. The animal looked as if it would be more at home in a barn.

“Oh, indeed not,” Vandene said. Her mount was a slab-sided black gelding that had a light step. The pair of them started south, motioning everyone to follow. The old Warder rode right at their heels.

Nynaeve and Elayne exchanged irritated looks, then booted their mares to catch the older women, hooves beating up dust until they were level. The yellow-braided Hunter dogged them the way the Warder did the other pair.

Sighing, Mat undid the black kerchief around his neck and retied it over his nose and mouth. Much as he might enjoy seeing the older Aes Sedai teach those two to sit up straight, what he really wanted was an uneventful ride, a short stay in Ebou Dar, and a quick jump back to Salidar before Egwene did anything stupid and irretrievable. Women always gave him trouble; he did not understand it.

When the gateway winked out, Egwene sighed. Maybe Elayne and Nynaeve between them could keep Mat from getting into too much trouble. Keeping him out entirely was probably too much to ask. She felt a pang of regret for using him, but he might be some use where he was, and he had had to be gotten away from the Band. Besides, he deserved it. Maybe Elayne would teach him a few manners.

Turning to the others, the Hall and Sheriam and her circle, she said, “Now we must get on with what we’re about,”

All eyes went to the Cairhienin in the dark coat just now mounting his horse near the trees. Talmanes, Egwene thought Mat had said his name was; she had not dared ask too many questions. He studied them for a moment and shook his head before riding into the forest.

“A man who means trouble if I ever saw one,” Romanda said.

Lelaine nodded. “It will be well to put miles between ourselves and that sort.”

Egwene did not let herself smile. Mat’s Band had served its first purpose, but a great deal depended on exactly what orders Mat had left with this Talmanes. She thought she could depend on Mat in this. Siuan said that man Vanin had rooted out things before she had a chance to put them under his nose. And if she was to “come to her senses” and run to the Band for protection, then the Band would have to be close to her. “Shall we go to our horses?” she said. “If we leave now, we should catch up to Lord Bryne well before sunset.”

Chapter 45

A Bitter Thought

* * *

As Vilnar led his mounted patrol through the streets of the New City, not far from the tall outer city wall, its gray stone streaked with silver and white in the midday sun, he thought about shaving his beard. Some others already had shaved; even if everyone said the heat was unnatural, it must be cooler back in Saldaea.

Letting his thoughts roam was safe enough. He could guide his horse in his sleep, and only the most foolhardy cutpurse would ply his trade anywhere near ten Saldaeans. They rode about at random so the fellows would not know where they were safe. In truth, more often than having to catch thieves, they merely arrested those who came to them. The toughest bullyboy in Caemlyn would come running for Saldaeans to take him up before the Aiel could. So Vilnar kept half an eye on the street and let his mind drift. He thought about the girl back home in Mehar he would like to marry; Teryane’s father was a merchant, and wanted a soldier for a son perhaps more than Teryane wanted one for a husband. He thought about the game those Aiel women had suggested; Maiden’s Kiss sounded innocent enough, but there had been a gleam in their eyes he did not quite trust. Most of all, though, he thought about Aes Sedai.

Vilnar had always wanted to see an Aes Sedai, and certainly there could be no better place than Caemlyn now, unless he went to Tar Valon one day. Apparently there were Aes Sedai all over Caemlyn. He had ridden to Culain’s Hound, where rumor had a hundred, but at the last moment he could not make himself go in. He was brave enough with a sword in his hand and a horse between his knees and men or Trollocs in front of him, but the thought of Aes Sedai turned him shy. Besi

des, the inn would not have accommodated a hundred women, and none of the girls he saw could possibly be Aes Sedai. He had gone to The Crown of Roses, too, and watched from across the street, but he was not sure any of the women he had seen was Aes Sedai, and that made him sure they were not.

He cocked an eye at a thin woman with a wide nose coming out of a tall house that must belong to a merchant; she stood frowning at the street before finally donning a wide-brimmed straw hat and hurrying off. Vilnar shook his head. He could not have said how old she was, but that was not enough. He knew how to recognize an Aes Sedai. Let Jidar claim they were so beautiful they could kill a man by smiling, and let Rissen insist they were all a foot taller than any man. Vilnar knew it was the face you could tell by, the timeless face of an immortal. It must be impossible to mistake that.

As the patrol came opposite the towered, vaulting arch of the Whitebridge Gate, Vilnar forgot about Aes Sedai. Outside, one of the farmer’s markets stretched alongside the road, long open stone sheds roofed in red or purple tiles, pens full of calves and pigs and sheep, chickens and ducks and geese, stalls selling everything from beans to turnips. Usually those markets were a cacophony of farmers crying their wares, but now except for the clamor of the animals silence marched along the market toward the gate, beside one of the oddest processions Vilnar had ever seen.

A long column of farmers four abreast on horseback made the bulk of it, and there seemed to be wagons behind. Farmers for sure in those rough coats, but every one of them in Vilnar’s sight had the longest bow he had ever seen slung across his back, a full quiver at one hip and a long knife or short sword at the other. Leading the procession was a white banner bordered in red with a red wolf’s head, and a mix of people as odd as the column. There were three Aiel, afoot of course, two of them Maidens, and a fellow whose bright green-striped coat and virulent yellow breeches said he was a Tinker, except he had a sword on his back. He was leading a horse as big as a Nashun draft horse, with a saddle meant for a giant. The leader seemed to be a heavy-shouldered shaggy-haired fellow with a short beard and a wicked axe on his belt, and at his side rode a Saldaean woman in dark narrow divided skirts who kept looking up at him with the fondest . . .

Vilnar sat forward in his saddle. He recognized that woman. He thought of Lord Bashere, in the Royal Palace right that moment. More, he thought of Lady Deira, and his heart sank; she was in the Palace too. If some Aes Sedai had waved her hand and turned that column into Trollocs, Vilnar would have been overjoyed. Maybe this was the price for daydreaming. Had he kept his mind on his duty, the patrol would have been long past here by now. Still, he had his orders.

Wondering whether Lady Deira would have his head for a ball, he deployed his men in the gate.

Perrin let his dun stallion walk within ten paces of the city gate before drawing rein. Stepper was as happy to stop; he did not like the heat. The mounted men blocking the gate were Saldaeans, by those bold noses and tilted eyes; some wore glossy black beards, some thick mustaches, and some were clean-shaven. Every man save one had a hand on his sword hilt. The air stirred from them, not quite a breeze; there was no fear smell. Perrin looked at Faile, but she was bent over Swallow’s arched neck, intent on fiddling with the black mare’s bridle; she smelled faintly of herbal soap and anxiety. They had heard news of Saldaeans in Caemlyn these last two hundred miles and more, led by Faile’s father supposedly. That did not seem to worry Faile, but she was certain her mother would be in Caemlyn as well. She said that did not worry her either.

“We don’t even need the bowmen,” Aram said quietly, stroking the hilt that stuck up over his shoulder. His dark eyes seemed eager; he certainly smelled eager. “There are only ten. You and I could cut through them ourselves.” Gaul had veiled himself, and almost certainly, Bain and Chiad had too, on the other side of Faile.

“No archers, and no cutting,” Perrin said. “And no spears, Gaul.” He did not say anything to Bain or Chiad; they only listened to Faile anyway. Who did not appear ready to look up or say a word any time soon. Gaul merely lowered his veil with a shrug; Aram frowned in disappointment.

Perrin kept his expression mild as he turned back to the Saldaeans. Yellow-gold eyes made some men nervous. “My name is Perrin Aybara. I think Rand al’Thor will want to see me.”

The bearded fellow who had not touched his sword gave a small bow from the saddle. “I am Vilnar Barada, Lord Aybara, Underlieutenant sword-sworn to Lord Davram Bashere.” He said that very loudly, and come to think of it, he had been avoiding looking at Faile. She sighed at mention of her father and scowled at Barada, the more so when he continued to ignore her. “Lord Bashere’s orders,” the man went on, adding as an afterthought, “and the Lord Dragon’s, are that no noble can enter Caemlyn with more than twenty armed men or fifty servants.”

Aram shifted on his horse. He was even more prickly about Perrin’s supposed honor than Faile, which was saying something, but thank the Light, he would not unsheathe his sword unless Perrin said to.