The Shadow Rising (The Wheel of Time 4)

Wondering what a shea dancer was, Elayne went to help her with her buttons. “Rendra will have something to say to you if you allow Juilin to flirt with you.”

The dark-haired woman gave

her a startled look over her shoulder. “The thief-catcher? It was Bayle Domon I meant. A properly set-up man. But a smuggler,” she sighed regretfully. “A lawbreaker.”

Elayne supposed there was no accounting for tastes—Nynaeve certainly loved Lan, and he was much too stone-faced and intimidating—but Bayle Domon? The man was half as wide as he was tall, as thick as an Ogier!

“You chatter like Rendra, Elayne,” Nynaeve snapped. She was struggling to do up her dress, both hands behind her. “If you have finished blathering about men, perhaps you won’t mind skipping over the new seamstress you’ve no doubt found? We must make plans. If we wait until we’re with the men, they will try to take it over, and I am in no mood to waste time putting them in their place. Have you finished with her yet? I could use some help myself.”

Quickly fastening Egeanin’s last small button, Elayne went coolly to Nynaeve. She did not talk about men and dresses. Not nearly as much as Rendra. Holding her braids out of the way, Nynaeve gave her a frown when she tugged sharply at the other woman’s dress to do up the buttons. The close-spaced triple row up the back was necessary, not simply ornament. Nynaeve would let Rendra talk her into the most fashionably tight bodices. And then say other people spent all their time thinking about clothes. She certainly thought of other things. “I have been thinking how we can move inside the palace unnoticed, Nynaeve. We can be all but invisible.”

As she talked, Nynaeve’s frowns smoothed out. Nynaeve herself had conceived a way to enter the palace. When Egeanin made a few suggestions, Nynaeve’s mouth tightened, but the notions were sensible, and even Nynaeve could not reject them out of hand. By the time they were ready to go down to the Chamber of Falling Blossoms, they had a plan agreed upon, and no intention of letting the men change a whit of it. Moghedien, the Black Ajah, whoever were running things in the Panarch’s Palace, were going to lose their prizes before they knew what had happened.

CHAPTER 53

The Price of a Departure

Only three candles and two lamps lit the common room of the Winespring Inn, since candles and oil both were in short supply. The spears and other weapons were gone from the walls; the barrel that had held old swords was empty. The lamps stood on two of the tables pushed together in front of the tall stone fireplace, where Marin al’Vere and Daise Congar and others of the Women’s Circle were going over lists of the scanty food remaining in Emond’s Field. Perrin tried not to listen.

At another table Faile’s honing stone made a soft, steady whisk-whisk as she sharpened one of her knives. A bow lay in front of her, and a bristling quiver hung at her belt. She had turned out to be a fairly good shot, but he hoped she never discovered that it was a boy’s bow; she could not draw a man’s Two Rivers longbow, though she refused to admit it.

Shifting his axe so it would not dig into his side, he tried to put his mind back on what he was discussing with the men around the table with him. Not that all of them were keeping their own attention where it should be.

“They have lamps,” Cenn muttered, “and we make do with tallow.” The gnarled old man glared at the pair of candles in brass candlesticks.

“Give over, Cenn,” Tam said wearily, pulling pipe and tabac pouch from behind his sword belt. “For once, give over.”

“If we had to read or write,” Abell said, his voice less patient than the words, “we’d have lamps.” A bandage was wound around his temples.

As if to remind the thatcher that he was Mayor, Bran adjusted the silver medallion hanging on his wide chest, showing a pair of scales. “Keep your mind to the business at hand, Cenn. I’ll have none of your wasting Perrin’s time.”

“I just think we should have lamps,” Cenn complained. “Perrin would tell me if I was wasting his time.”

Perrin sighed; the night tried to drag his eyelids down. He wished it were someone else’s turn to represent the Village Council, Haral Luhhan or Jon Thane or Samel Crawe, or anybody but Cenn with his carping. But then, sometimes he wished one of these men would turn to him and say, “This is business for the Mayor and the Council, young fellow. You go on back to the forge. We’ll let you know what to do.” Instead they worried about wasting his time, deferred to him. Time. How many attacks had there been in the seven days since the first? He was not sure any longer.

The bandage on Abell’s head irritated Perrin. The Aes Sedai only Healed the most serious wounds now; if a man could manage without, they let him. It was not that there were many badly wounded yet, but as Verin pointed out wryly, even as Aes Sedai only had so much strength; apparently their trick with the catapult stones took as much as Healing. For once he did not want to be reminded of limits to Aes Sedai strength. Not many badly wounded. Yet.

“How are the arrows holding out?” he asked. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about.

“Well enough,” Tam said, puffing his pipe alight from one of the candles. “We still recover most of what we shoot, in daylight at least. They drag a lot of their dead away at night—fodder for the cookpots, I suppose—and we lose those.” The other men were digging out their pipes, too, from pouches and coat pockets, Cenn muttering that he seemed to have forgotten his pouch. Grumbling, Bran passed his across, his bald pate gleaming in the candlelight.

Perrin rubbed at his forehead. What had he meant to ask next? The stakes. There was fighting at the stakes in most attacks now, especially at night. How many times had the Trollocs nearly broken through? Three? Four? “Does everyone have a spear or some sort of polearm now? What’s left to make more?” Silence answered him, and he lowered his hand. The other men were staring at him.

“You asked that yesterday,” Abell said gently. “And Haral told you then there isn’t a scythe or pitchfork left in the village that hasn’t been made into a weapon. We’ve more than we have hands for, in truth.”

“Yes. Of course. It just slipped my mind.” A snatch of conversation from the Women’s Circle caught his ear.

“ … mustn’t let the men know,” Marin was saying softly, as if repeating a caution voiced before.

“Of course not,” Daise snorted, but not much louder. “If the fools find out the women are on half rations, they’ll insist on eating the same, and we can’t … .”

Perrin closed his eyes, tried to close his ears. Of course. The men did the fighting. The men had to keep their strength up. Simple. At least none of the women had had to fight yet. Except the two Aiel women, of course, and Faile, but she was smart enough to stay back when it came to pushing spears among the stakes. That was the reason he had found the bow for her. She had the heart of a leopard, and more courage than any two men.

“I think it is time you went to bed, Perrin,” Bran suggested. “You cannot go on like this, sleeping an hour here and an hour there.”

Scrubbing his beard vigorously, Perrin tried to look alert. “I’ll sleep later.” When it was over. “Are the men getting enough sleep? I’ve seen some sitting up when they should be—”

The front door banged open to admit skinny Dannil Lewin out of the night, bow in hand and all in a lather. He wore one of the swords from the barrel on his hip; Tam had been giving classes when he had the time, and sometimes one of the Warders did as well.