The Gathering Storm

As soon as she began the Delving, Nynaeve froze. She had expected to find Milisair's body taxed by exhaustion. She had expected to find disease, perhaps hunger.

She had not expected to find poison.

Cursing, suddenly alert, Nynaeve threw open the cell door and rushed inside. Yes, she could see it easily through the Delving. Tarchrot leaf. Nynaeve herself had given that to a hound who had needed to be put down. It was a common enough plant, and had a very bitter flavor. Not the best poison, as it had such an unpleasant taste, and yet had to be ingested.

Yes, it was a bad poison—unless the person you were poisoning was already captive and had no choice but to eat the food you gave her. Nynaeve began a Healing, weaving all five Powers, strangling the poison and strengthening Milisair's body. It was a relatively easy Healing, as tarchrot leaf wasn't particularly strong. You either had to use a lot of it— as she had with the hound—or you had to administer it several times for it to take effect. But if you did it slowly like that, the person you killed with it would seem to die naturally.

Once Milisair was safe, Nynaeve burst from the cell. "Stop!" she bellowed at the men. "Jorgin!"

Lurts, at the back, turned with surprise. He grabbed the jailer Jorgin by the arm and spun him around.

"Who prepares the prisoner's food?" Nynaeve demanded, stalking toward him.

"The food?" Jorgin asked, looking confused. "That's one of Kerb's jobs. Why?"

"Kerb?"

"The lad," Jorgin said. "Nobody important. An apprentice we found among the refugees a few months back. Quite a lucky find—our last apprentice ran off on us, and this one was already trained in—"

Nynaeve hushed him with a raised hand, suddenly anxious. "The boy! Where is he?"

"He was just here . . ." Lurts said, glancing up. "Went with—"

There was a sudden scrambling from above. Nynaeve cursed, calling for Triben to catch the boy. She shoved her way to the ladder and began climbing. She darted out into the shop above, her glowing light following. The two thugs stood cowering in the center room, looking confused, and a Saldaean guard stood with a sword pulled on them. He looked at her questioningly.

"The boy!" she said.

Triben glanced toward the shop door. It was open. Preparing weaves of Air, Nynaeve dashed out onto the street.

There, she found the boy, Kerb, in the muddy street, held down by the four dice-playing workers she'd brought from the mansion. Even as she stepped off the boardwalk onto the street, they pulled the struggling, frantic boy to his feet. The last Saldaean stood at the doorway, sword out, as if he'd been rushing in to see if she was in danger.

odded 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.

"And what were your instructions?"

Jorgin didn't respond.