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."
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.