"We have been provided with a way to strike. Let it be said to the Captain-General that he should gather his finest soldiers. I want each and evety damane we control to be brought back to the city. We will train them in this method of Traveling. And then we will go, in force, to the White Tower. Before, we struck them with a pinprick. Now, we will let them know the full weight of out swotd. All of the marath'damane must be leashed."
She sat back down, letting the room fall still. It was rare that the Empress made such announcements personally. But this was a time for boldness.
"You should not allow word of this to spread," Selucia said to her, voice firm. She was now speaking in her role as Truthspeaket. Yes, another would have to be chosen to be Fortuona's voice. "You would be a fool to let the enemy know for certain we have this Traveling."
Fortuona took a deep breath. Yes, that was true. She would make certain each in this room was held to secrecy. But once the White Tower was captured, they would talk of her proclamation, and would read the omens of her victory upon the skies and world around them.
We will need to strike soon, Selucia signed.
Yes, Fortuona signed back. Our previous attack will have them gathering arms.
Our next move will have to be decisive, then, Selucia signed. But think. Delivering thousands of soldiers into the White Tower through a hidden basement room. Striking with the force of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils!
Fortuona nodded.
The White Tower was doomed.
"Don't know that there's much more to say, Perrin," Thorn said, leaning back in his chair, tabac smoke curling out of his long-stemmed pipe. It was a warm night, and they didn't have a fire in the hearth. Just a few candles on the table, with some bread, cheeses and a pitcher of ale.
Perrin puffed on his own pipe. Only he, Thorn and Mat were in the room. Gaul and Grady waited out in the common room. Mat had cursed Perrin for bringing those two an Aiel and an Asha'man were rather conspicuous. But Perrin felt safer with those two than with an entire company of soldiers.
He'd shared his story with Mat and Thorn first, speaking of Maiden, the Prophet, Alliandre, and Galad. Then they had filled him in on their experiences. It stunned Perrin, how much had happened to the three of them since their parting.
"Empress of the Seanchan, eh?" Perrin said, watching the smoke twist above him in the dim room.
"Daughter of the Nine Moons," Mat said. "It's different."
"And you're married." Perrin grinned. "Matrim Cauthon. Married."
"You didn't have to share that part, you know," Mat said to Thorn.
"Oh, I assure you, I did indeed."
"For a gleeman, you seem to leave out most of the heroic parts of the things I do," Mat said. "At least you mentioned the hat."
Perrin smiled, contented. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed sitting with friends to spend the evening chatting. A carved wooden sign hung outside the window, dripping with rainwater. It depicted faces wearing strange hats and exaggerated smiles. The Happy Throng. There was probably a story behind the name.
The three of them were in a private dining chamber, paid for by Mat. They'd brought in three of the inn's large hearth chairs. They didn't fit the table, but they were comfortable. Mat leaned back, putting his feet up on the table. He took up a hunk of ewe's milk cheese and bit off a piece, then balanced the rest on his chair arm.
"You know, Mat," Perrin said, "your wife is probably going to expect you to be taught table manners."
"Oh, I've been taught," Mat said. "I just never learned."
"I'd like to meet her," Perrin said.
"She's something interesting," Thorn replied.
"Interesting," Mat said. "Yeah." He looked wistful. "Anyway, you've heard the lot of it now, Perrin. That bloody Brown brought us here. Haven't seen her in over two weeks, now."
"Can I see the note?" Perrin asked.
Mat patted a few pockets, then fished out a small white piece of paper, folded closed and sealed with red wax. He tossed it onto the table. The corners were bent, the paper smudged, but it hadn't been opened. Matrim Cauthon was a man of his word, at least when you could pry an oath out of him.
Perrin lifted the note. It smelled faintly of perfume. He turned it over, then held it up to a candle.
"Doesn't work," Mat said.
Perrin grunted. "So what do you think it says?"