Lord of Chaos

by Robert Jordan

  He hated more than her tone. She was right, and he hated that too. He was not about to admit she was, though, not to her, and searching for a way to retreat, he saw Egwene coming out of the village with two dozen or more Aes Sedai, most wearing fringed shawls. Or rather, she came, and they followed. Head held high, she looked straight ahead, that striped stole hanging about her neck. The others strolled along behind her in little clumps. Sheriam, wearing the blue Keeper’s stole, was talking with Myrelle and a bluff-faced Aes Sedai who managed to look motherly. Except for Delana, he recognized none of the others — one had gray hair in a bun; how old did Aes Sedai have to be for their hair to go completely gray or white? — but they were all talking among themselves, ignoring the woman they had named Amyrlin. Egwene might as well have been alone; she looked alone. Knowing her, she was trying very hard to be what they had named her, and they let her walk alone, with everybody watching.

  To the Pit of Doom with them if they think they can treat a Two Rivers woman that way, he thought grimly.

  Striding to meet Egwene, he swept off his hat and bowed, making the best leg he knew how, and he could flourish with the best when he had to. “Good morning, Mother, and the Light shine on you,” he said, loud enough to be heard in the village. Kneeling, he seized her right hand and kissed her Great Serpent ring. A quick glare and a grimace directed at Talmanes and the others, and hidden by Egwene from those behind her, had them all scrambling to kneel and call out, “The Light illumine you, Mother,” or some variation. Even Thom and Juilin.

  Egwene looked startled at first, though she hid it quickly. Then she smiled, and said softly, “Thank you, Mat.”

  For a moment he stared up at her, then cleared his throat and stood, brushing off his knees. Sheriam and all those others behind Egwene were staring at him. “I didn’t expect you out here,” he said in a low voice, “but then, it seems there are all sorts of things I didn’t expect. Does the Amyrlin always see people off on trips? You wouldn’t by any chance want to tell me what it’s all about now, would you?”

  At first he thought she might; then her mouth tightened for an instant and she gave a slight shake of her head. “I will always see friends off, Mat. I’d have spoken with you before this if I was not so busy. Mat, do try to stay out of trouble in Ebou Dar.”

  He stared indignantly. Here he went kneeling and kissing rings, and she told him to stay out of trouble, when the whole point was for him to keep Elayne and Nynaeve with whole skins. “I will try, Mother,” he said wryly, but not too. Sheriam and some of those might be close enough to hear. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my men.”

  Another bow, and he backed away a few steps before stalking over to where Talmanes and the rest were still on their knees. “Do you mean to stay there till you take root?” he growled. “Mount up.” He followed his own order, and everyone but Talmanes scrambled into their saddles.

  Egwene passed a few words with Elayne and Nynaeve, while Vandene and Adeleas went to speak to Sheriam, and then it was time, as quick as that after all their dawdling. Mat half-expected some sort of ceremony, with Egwene there in the Amyrlin’s stole, but she and the others who were not going merely withdrew a little distance. Elayne stepped out, and suddenly there was a slash of light in front of her, widening into a hole, the view through it, what seemed to be a low hilltop covered in brown grass, rotating to a halt. Just like when Rand did it. Almost.

  “Dismount,” Mat ordered. Elayne looked quite pleased with herself — you would never suspect the sort of woman she was from that delighted smile, asking Nynaeve and Aviendha to share her pleasure — but pleased or not, the gateway was not as large as the one Rand had made for the Band. Of course, they were not nearly so many as the Band, but the least she could have done was make it tall enough to ride through.

  On the other side, low rolling brown-grass hills ran as far as Mat could see even when he climbed back onto Pips, though a darkness to the south suggested forest. Dusty hills.

  “We must not press the horses too hard in this,” Adeleas said, swinging quite easily onto her round bay mare as soon as the gateway vanished. The animal looked as if it would be more at home in a barn.

  “Oh, indeed not,” Vandene said. Her mount was a slab-sided black gelding that had a light step. The pair of them started south, motioning everyone to follow. The old Warder rode right at their heels.

  Nynaeve and Elayne exchanged irritated looks, then booted their mares to catch the older women, hooves beating up dust until they were level. The yellow-braided Hunter dogged them the way the Warder did the other pair.

  Sighing, Mat undid the black kerchief around his neck and retied it over his nose and mouth. Much as he might enjoy seeing the older Aes Sedai teach those two to sit up straight, what he really wanted was an uneventful ride, a short stay in Ebou Dar, and a quick jump back to Salidar before Egwene did anything stupid and irretrievable. Women always gave him trouble; he did not understand it.

  When the gateway winked out, Egwene sighed. Maybe Elayne and Nynaeve between them could keep Mat from getting into too much trouble. Keeping him out entirely was probably too much to ask. She felt a pang of regret for using him, but he might be some use where he was, and he had had to be gotten away from the Band. Besides, he deserved it. Maybe Elayne would teach him a few manners.

  Turning to the others, the Hall and Sheriam and her circle, she said, “Now we must get on with what we’re about,”

  All eyes went to the Cairhienin in the dark coat just now mounting his horse near the trees. Talmanes, Egwene thought Mat had said his name was; she had not dared ask too many questions. He studied them for a moment and shook his head before riding into the forest.

  “A man who means trouble if I ever saw one,” Romanda said.

  Lelaine nodded. “It will be well to put miles between ourselves and that sort.”

  Egwene did not let herself smile. Mat’s Band had served its first purpose, but a great deal depended on exactly what orders Mat had left with this Talmanes. She thought she could depend on Mat in this. Siuan said that man Vanin had rooted out things before she had a chance to put them under his nose. And if she was to “come to her senses” and run to the Band for protection, then the Band would have to be close to her. “Shall we go to our horses?” she said. “If we leave now, we should catch up to Lord Bryne well before sunset.”

  Chapter 45

  A Bitter Thought

  * * *

  As Vilnar led his mounted patrol through the streets of the New City, not far from the tall outer city wall, its gray stone streaked with silver and white in the midday sun, he thought about shaving his beard. Some others already had shaved; even if everyone said the heat was unnatural, it must be cooler back in Saldaea.

  Letting his thoughts roam was safe enough. He could guide his horse in his sleep, and only the most foolhardy cutpurse would ply his trade anywhere near ten Saldaeans. They rode about at random so the fellows would not know where they were safe. In truth, more often than having to catch thieves, they merely arrested those who came to them. The toughest bullyboy in Caemlyn would come running for Saldaeans to take him up before the Aiel could. So Vilnar kept half an eye on the street and let his mind drift. He thought about the girl back home in Mehar he would like to marry; Teryane’s father was a merchant, and wanted a soldier for a son perhaps more than Teryane wanted one for a husband. He thought about the game those Aiel women had suggested; Maiden’s Kiss sounded innocent enough, but there had been a gleam in their eyes he did not quite trust. Most of all, though, he thought about Aes Sedai.

  Vilnar had always wanted to see an Aes Sedai, and certainly there could be no better place than Caemlyn now, unless he went to Tar Valon one day. Apparently there were Aes Sedai all over Caemlyn. He had ridden to Culain’s Hound, where rumor had a hundred, but at the last moment he could not make himself go in. He was brave enough with a sword in his hand and a horse between his knees and men or Trollocs in front of him, but the thought of Aes Sedai turned him shy. Besi
des, the inn would not have accommodated a hundred women, and none of the girls he saw could possibly be Aes Sedai. He had gone to The Crown of Roses, too, and watched from across the street, but he was not sure any of the women he had seen was Aes Sedai, and that made him sure they were not.

  He cocked an eye at a thin woman with a wide nose coming out of a tall house that must belong to a merchant; she stood frowning at the street before finally donning a wide-brimmed straw hat and hurrying off. Vilnar shook his head. He could not have said how old she was, but that was not enough. He knew how to recognize an Aes Sedai. Let Jidar claim they were so beautiful they could kill a man by smiling, and let Rissen insist they were all a foot taller than any man. Vilnar knew it was the face you could tell by, the timeless face of an immortal. It must be impossible to mistake that.

  As the patrol came opposite the towered, vaulting arch of the Whitebridge Gate, Vilnar forgot about Aes Sedai. Outside, one of the farmer’s markets stretched alongside the road, long open stone sheds roofed in red or purple tiles, pens full of calves and pigs and sheep, chickens and ducks and geese, stalls selling everything from beans to turnips. Usually those markets were a cacophony of farmers crying their wares, but now except for the clamor of the animals silence marched along the market toward the gate, beside one of the oddest processions Vilnar had ever seen.

  A long column of farmers four abreast on horseback made the bulk of it, and there seemed to be wagons behind. Farmers for sure in those rough coats, but every one of them in Vilnar’s sight had the longest bow he had ever seen slung across his back, a full quiver at one hip and a long knife or short sword at the other. Leading the procession was a white banner bordered in red with a red wolf’s head, and a mix of people as odd as the column. There were three Aiel, afoot of course, two of them Maidens, and a fellow whose bright green-striped coat and virulent yellow breeches said he was a Tinker, except he had a sword on his back. He was leading a horse as big as a Nashun draft horse, with a saddle meant for a giant. The leader seemed to be a heavy-shouldered shaggy-haired fellow with a short beard and a wicked axe on his belt, and at his side rode a Saldaean woman in dark narrow divided skirts who kept looking up at him with the fondest . . .

  Vilnar sat forward in his saddle. He recognized that woman. He thought of Lord Bashere, in the Royal Palace right that moment. More, he thought of Lady Deira, and his heart sank; she was in the Palace too. If some Aes Sedai had waved her hand and turned that column into Trollocs, Vilnar would have been overjoyed. Maybe this was the price for daydreaming. Had he kept his mind on his duty, the patrol would have been long past here by now. Still, he had his orders.

  Wondering whether Lady Deira would have his head for a ball, he deployed his men in the gate.

  Perrin let his dun stallion walk within ten paces of the city gate before drawing rein. Stepper was as happy to stop; he did not like the heat. The mounted men blocking the gate were Saldaeans, by those bold noses and tilted eyes; some wore glossy black beards, some thick mustaches, and some were clean-shaven. Every man save one had a hand on his sword hilt. The air stirred from them, not quite a breeze; there was no fear smell. Perrin looked at Faile, but she was bent over Swallow’s arched neck, intent on fiddling with the black mare’s bridle; she smelled faintly of herbal soap and anxiety. They had heard news of Saldaeans in Caemlyn these last two hundred miles and more, led by Faile’s father supposedly. That did not seem to worry Faile, but she was certain her mother would be in Caemlyn as well. She said that did not worry her either.

  “We don’t even need the bowmen,” Aram said quietly, stroking the hilt that stuck up over his shoulder. His dark eyes seemed eager; he certainly smelled eager. “There are only ten. You and I could cut through them ourselves.” Gaul had veiled himself, and almost certainly, Bain and Chiad had too, on the other side of Faile.

  “No archers, and no cutting,” Perrin said. “And no spears, Gaul.” He did not say anything to Bain or Chiad; they only listened to Faile anyway. Who did not appear ready to look up or say a word any time soon. Gaul merely lowered his veil with a shrug; Aram frowned in disappointment.

  Perrin kept his expression mild as he turned back to the Saldaeans. Yellow-gold eyes made some men nervous. “My name is Perrin Aybara. I think Rand al’Thor will want to see me.”

  The bearded fellow who had not touched his sword gave a small bow from the saddle. “I am Vilnar Barada, Lord Aybara, Underlieutenant sword-sworn to Lord Davram Bashere.” He said that very loudly, and come to think of it, he had been avoiding looking at Faile. She sighed at mention of her father and scowled at Barada, the more so when he continued to ignore her. “Lord Bashere’s orders,” the man went on, adding as an afterthought, “and the Lord Dragon’s, are that no noble can enter Caemlyn with more than twenty armed men or fifty servants.”

  Aram shifted on his horse. He was even more prickly about Perrin’s supposed honor than Faile, which was saying something, but thank the Light, he would not unsheathe his sword unless Perrin said to.

  Perrin spoke over his shoulder. “Dannil, take everybody back to that meadow we passed about three miles back and make camp. If a farmer shows up to complain, give him some gold and smooth him down. Let him know he’ll be paid for any damage. Aram, you go with them.”

  Dannil Lewin, a beanpole of a man with a thick mustache that almost hid his mouth, knuckled his forehead despite all the times Perrin had told him a simple “all right” would do, and immediately began giving orders to turn everyone around. Aram stiffened, of course — he never liked being far from Perrin — but he said nothing, equally of course. Sometimes Perrin thought he had acquired a wolfhound in the former Tinker. Not good for a man to be that way, but he did not know what to do about it.

  He expected Faile to say a good deal about sending everyone back — he expected her to bring up what was due his so-called position and insist on the twenty Barada had mentioned, and as close to the fifty as they could manage as well — but she was leaning out of her saddle to speak in whispers with Bain and Chiad. He made a point of not listening, though he could still make out parts of words. Something about men, sounding amused; women always seemed either amused or angry when they talked of men. Faile was the reason he had all these people trailing after him, and the banner to boot, though he had not yet figured out exactly how she had done it. There were servants back in the wagons, men and women wearing livery with a wolf’s head on the shoulder. Even the Two Rivers folk had not complained; they seemed as proud of it as any of the refugees.

  “Does that satisfy?” he asked Barada. “You can escort the rest of us to Rand, if you don’t want us running loose.”

  “I think . . . ” Barada’s dark eyes darted to Faile and away. “I think that would be best.”

  As Faile straightened, Bain and Chiad trotted to the line of horsemen and pushed through as if they were not there. The Saldaeans did not even look surprised, but then, they must be used to Aiel; all the rumors said Caemlyn was full of Aiel already.

  “I must find my spear-brothers,” Gaul said abruptly. “May you always find water and shade, Perrin Aybara.” And away he darted after the women. Faile hid an amused smile behind a gray-gloved hand.

  Perrin shook his head. Gaul wanted Chiad to marry him, but by Aiel custom, she had to ask him, and though according to Faile she was willing to become his lover, she would not give up the spear and marry. He seemed as affronted as a Two Rivers girl would have been in the same circumstance. Bain seemed to be part of it too, somehow; Perrin did not understand how. Faile professed not to know, if a bit too quickly, and Gaul grew sullen when asked. An odd people.

  The Saldaeans made a way through the crowds, but Perrin paid little mind to crowds or city. He had seen Caemlyn once, some of it, and he did not much like cities anymore. Wolves seldom came close to a city; he had not sensed one for two days. What he did do was study his wife with sideways looks, trying not to let her notice. He might as well have stared. She always rode erect, but now she was stiff in her saddle, glaring a
t Barada’s back. The man’s shoulders were hunched as if he could feel her eyes. A falcon could not glare as well as Faile.

  Perrin expected she was thinking of the same thing as he, though maybe not along the same lines. Her father. She might have a few explanations to make — she had run away, after all, to become a Hunter for the Horn — but Perrin was the one who had to face the Lord of Bashere, Tyr and Sidona and tell the man a blacksmith had married his daughter and heir. It was not something Perrin looked forward to. He did not think he was particularly brave — doing what you had to do was not bravery — but he had never really thought he might be a coward until now. The thought of Faile’s father dried his mouth. Maybe he should see to setting up the camp. A letter sent to Lord Bashere could explain everything. A carefully composed letter might take two or three days to write. Maybe more. He was no hand with words.

  A glimpse of the crimson banner waving lazily above the Royal Palace brought him back with a thump. The rumors had spoken of that. Perrin knew it was not the Dragon banner, whatever the rumors said — some claimed it meant the Aes Sedai served Rand; others that he served them — and he wondered why Rand was not flying the Dragon banner itself. Rand. He could still feel Rand pulling at him, greater ta’veren tugging at lesser. It did not tell him where Rand was; it was not that kind of pull. He had left the Two Rivers expecting to ride to Tear or maybe the Light alone knew where, and only a river of rumors and tales flowing west across Andor had brought him here. Some very disturbing tales and rumors. No, what he felt was more a need to be near Rand, or maybe Rand’s need for him, like an itch between his shoulders he could not scratch. Now it was close to being scratched, and he almost wished it was not. He had a dream, one that Faile would laugh at, adventurous as she was. He dreamed of living in a small house with her, somewhere in the country, far from cities and strife. There was always strife around Rand. But Rand needed him, and he would do what he had to.