The Gathering Storm

"Quickly," she said to the soldiers, releasing the ward but maintaining the globe of light. "Lurts, go to the back of the shop and watch the alley; make certain nobody escapes. Triben, with me."

Lurts moved with surprising speed for his bulk, taking his position in the back room of the shop. Her globe illuminated barrels for dipping candles and a pile of burned nubs in the corner, bought for pennies to be re-melted. A staircase mounted to the right. A small alcove in the front of the shop was the storefront, and it contained various sizes and shapes of candles, from the standard white rod to the perfumed and decorated brick. If Loral was wrong about this being the place. . . .

But any good secret operation would have a working front. Nynaeve hurried up the stairs, wood creaking beneath her weight. The building was narrow. On the upper floor, she and Triben found two rooms. One door was open a crack, so Nynaeve dimmed her globe of light and wove a ward against listeners into the room. Then she burst in, hawk-faced Triben following, his sword scraping against its scabbard as he pulled it free.

There was only one person in the room, an overweight man sleeping on a mattress on the floor, blankets in a heap around his feet. Nynaeve wove a few threads of Air, tying him up in one smooth motion. His eyes bulged open, and he opened his mouth to scream, but Nynaeve stuffed Air between his lips, gagging him.

She turned to Triben and nodded, tying off her weaves. They left the bound man there, struggling against his bonds, and crossed to the other door. She wove another weave against eavesdropping into the room before entering, and it was a good thing she did—for the two younger men in this room roused much more quickly. One sat bolt upright, letting out a yelp just as Triben headed across the floorboards. Triben punched him in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Nynaeve bound him with a thread of Air, then did the same for the other young man, who was rousing drowsily in his bunk. She towed the two toward her, brightening her globe of light, hanging the men up in the air a few inches. They were both Domani, with dark hair and crude faces, thin mustaches above their lips. Both wore only their smallclothes. They seemed too old to be apprentices.

"I think we have the right place, Nynaeve Sedai," Triben said, walking around the pair to stand beside her.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Those are no chandler's apprentices," Triben continued. He slid his sword back into its sheath. "Calluses on the palms, but no burns on their hands? Muscled arms? And they're far too old. That fellow on the left has had his nose broken at least once."

She looked closer; Triben was right. / should have seen that. Still, she had noticed the age. "Which one do you think I should ungag," she asked casually, "and which one should I kill?"

Both men began to squirm, eyes wide. They should have known that an Aes Sedai would never do anything of the sort. In fact, she probably shouldn't have implied it, but private jailers like these riled her anger.

"The one on the left seems most eager to talk, Lady," Triben said. "Perhaps he will tell you what you wish to know."

She nodded, releasing the man's gag. He began to speak immediately. "I will do whatever you say! Please, don't fill my stomach with insects! I haven't done anything wrong, I promise you, I—"

She stuffed the Air gag back in.

"Too much complaining," she said. "Perhaps the other will know to hush and speak when spoken to." She released his gag.

This man remained dangling in the air, obviously terrified, but saying nothing. The One Power could unnerve the most hardened of killers.

"How do I get into the dungeon?" she asked this man.

He looked sick, but he had probably already guessed that she'd want the dungeon. It was unlikely that an Aes Sedai would burst into the shop after midnight because she'd been sold a bad candle.

"Trapdoor," the man said, "under the rug in the shop front."

"Excellent," Nynaeve said. She tied off the weaves binding the men's hands, then replaced the gag on the one who had spoken. She didn't leave them hanging in the air—she didn't want to have to pull them along behind her—and instead let them walk on their own feet.

She had Triben fetch the overweight man from the other room, then herded all three down the stairs. Below, they met the muscular Lurts keeping careful watch on the alley out back. A youth sat on the floor in front of him, and Nynaeve's globe of light illuminated his face, a frightened Domani one with uncharacteristically light hair and hands spotted with burns.

"Now, that's a chandler's apprentice," Triben said, scratching his forehead scar. "They probably have him doing all of the work for the front."

"He was asleep under those blankets over there." Lurts nodded to a shadowed pile in the corner as he joined Nynaeve. "Tried to scramble out the front door after you went up the stairs."

"Bring him," Nynaeve said. In the small storefront, Triben pulled back the rug, then used the edge of his sword to prod through the slats until he knocked against something underneath—hinges, Nynaeve assumed. After a little careful prying, he got the trapdoor open. A ladder reached down into the darkness below.

Nynaeve stepped forward, but Triben held up a hand. "Lord Bashere would hang me up by my own stirrups if I let you go first, Lady," he said. "No telling what might be down there." He leaped into the hole, sliding down the ladder with one hand, his sword in the other. He thumped to the ground below, and Nynaeve rolled her eyes. Men! She gestured for Lurts to watch the jailers, then released their bonds so they could climb down. She gave each of them a stern look; then she proceeded down the ladder without Triben's ridiculous flair, leaving Lurts to herd the jailers after.

She raised her globe of light and surveyed the cellar. The walls were stone, which made her feel much less nervous about the weight of the building above. The floor was packed dirt, and there was a wooden doorway built into the wall across from her. Triben was listening at it.

She nodded, and he pulled it open, darting inside eagerly. The Sal-daeans seemed to be picking up some habits from the Aiel. Nynaeve followed, preparing weaves of Air, just in case. Behind her, the sullen jailers began to climb down the ladder, followed by Lurts.

There wasn't much to see in the other room. Two dungeon cells with thick wooden doors, a table with some stools beside it, and a large wooden trunk. Nynaeve sent her globe of light to the corner as hawk-faced Triben inspected the trunk. He lifted the lid, then raised an eyebrow, pulling out several glittering knives. Aids for questioning. Nynaeve shivered. She turned harsh eyes on the jailers behind her.

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."