Knife of Dreams

by Jordan, Robert

  “You give me your friendship. You gave me a sister.” Elayne felt a tear slide down her cheek. She essayed a laugh, but it was a weak, tremulous thing. “How can you say you have nothing to give? You’ve given me everything.”

  Tears glistened in Aviendha’s eyes, too. Despite the others watching, she put her arms around Elayne and hugged her hard. “I will miss you, sister,” she whispered. “My heart is as cold as night.”

  “And mine, sister,” Elayne whispered, hugging back equally hard. “I will miss you, too. But you will be allowed to visit me sometimes. This isn’t forever.”

  “No, not forever. But I will still miss you.”

  They might have begun weeping next, only Dorindha laid her hands on their shoulders. “It is time, Aviendha. We must go if you are to have any hope of avoiding the strap.”

  Aviendha straightened with a sigh, scrubbing at her eyes. “May you always find water and shade, sister.”

  “May you always find water and shade, sister,” Elayne replied. The Aiel way had a finality about it, so she added, “Until I see your face again.”

  And as quickly as that, they were gone. As quickly as that, she felt very alone. Aviendha’s presence had become a certainty, a sister to talk to, laugh with, share her hopes and fears with, but that comfort was gone.

  Essande had slipped from the room while she and Aviendha were hugging, and now she returned to set the coronet of the Daughter-Heir on Elayne’s head, a simple circlet of gold supporting a single golden rose on her forehead. “So these mercenaries won’t forget who they’re talking to, my Lady.”

  Elayne did not realize her shoulders had slumped until she straightened them. Her sister was gone, yet she had a city to defend and a throne to gain. Duty would have to sustain her, now.

  CHAPTER 16

  The New Follower

  The Blue Reception Room, named for its arched ceiling, painted to display the sky and white clouds, and its blue floor tiles, was the smallest reception room in the palace, less than ten paces square. The arched windows that made up the far wall, overlooking a courtyard and still filled with glassed casements against the spring weather, gave a fair light even with the rain falling outside, but despite two large fireplaces with carved marble mantels, a cornice of plaster lions and a pair of tapestries bearing the White Lion that flanked the doors, a delegation of Caemlyn’s merchants would have been insulted to be received in the Blue Room, a delegation of bankers livid. Likely that was why Mistress Harfor had put the mercenaries there, although they would not know they were being insulted. She herself was present, “overseeing” the pair of liveried young maids who were keeping the winecups full from tall silver pitchers standing on a tray atop a plainly carved sideboard, but she had the embossed leather folder used to carry her reports pressed to her bosom, as if in anticipation of the mercenaries being dealt with quickly. Halwin Norry, the wisps of white hair behind his ears as always looking like feathers, was standing in a corner, also with his leather folder clutched to his narrow chest. Their reports were a daily fixture, and seldom much in them to cheer the heart of late. Quite the opposite.

  Warned by the pair of Guardswomen who had checked the room ahead of her, everyone was on their feet when Elayne entered with another pair at her back. Deni Colford, in charge of the Guardswomen who had replaced Devore and the others, had simply ignored her order for them all to remain outside. Ignored her! She supposed they made a good show, swaggering proudly as they did, yet she could not stop grinding her teeth.

  Careane and Sareitha, formal in their fringed shawls, bowed their heads slightly in respect, but Mellar swept off his plumed hat in a flourishing bow, one hand laid over the lace-edged sash slanting across his burnished breastplate. The six golden knots brazed to that breastplate, three on each shoulder, rankled her, yet she had let them pass so far. His hatchet face offered her a smile that was much too warm, too, but then, however cold she was to him, he thought he had some chance with her because she had not denied the rumor her babes were his. Her reasons for not countering that filthy tale had changed—she no longer had need to protect her babes, Rand’s babes—yet she let it stand. Give the man time, and he would braid a rope for his own neck. And if he failed to, she would braid one for him.

  The mercenaries, all well into their middle years, were only a heartbeat behind Mellar, though not so elaborate in their courtesies. Evard Cordwyn, a tall, square-jawed Andoran, wore a large ruby in his left ear, and Aldred Gomaisen, short and slender, the front of his head shaved, had horizontal stripes of red and green and blue covering half his chest, far more than it seemed at all likely he was entitled to in his native Cairhien. Hafeen Bakuvun, graying, was ornamented with a thick gold hoop in his left ear and a jeweled ring on every finger. The Domani was very stout, but the way he moved spoke of solid muscle beneath the fat.

  “Don’t you have duties, Captain Mellar?” Elayne said coolly, taking one of the room’s few chairs. There were only five, arms and high backs simply carved with vines and leaves and lacking even a hint of gilt. Standing in a widely spaced row in front of the windows, the chairs put the light behind whoever sat in them. On a bright day, those given audience here squinted in the glare. Unfortunately, that advantage was lost today. The two Guardswomen took up positions behind her and to either side, each with a hand resting on her sword hilt, watching the mercenaries with fierce expressions that made Bakuvun smile and Gomaisen rub his chin to half-hide a sly grin. The women gave no sign of being offended; they knew the point of their uniforms. Elayne knew they would wipe away any smiles very quickly if they needed to draw their blades.

  “My first duty above all is to protect you, my Lady.” Easing his sword, Mellar eyed the mercenaries as though he expected them to attack her, or perhaps him. Gomaisen looked bitterly amused, and Bakuvun laughed aloud. All three men had empty scabbards, Cordwyn a pair on his back; no mercenary was allowed to enter the palace carrying so much as a dagger.

  “I know you have other duties,” she said levelly, “because I assigned them to you, Captain. Training the men I brought in from the countryside. You are not spending as much time with them as I expect. You have a company of men to train, Captain.” A company of old men and boys, and surely enough to occupy his hours. He spent few enough with her bodyguards in spite of commanding them. That was just as well, really. He liked to pinch bottoms. “I suggest you see to them. Now.”

  Rage flashed across Mellar’s narrow face—he actually quivered!—but he mastered himself instantly. It was all gone so fast that she might have imagined it. But she knew she had not. “As you command, my Lady,” he said smoothly. His smile had an oily smoothness, too. “My honor is to serve you well.” With another flamboyant bow, he started for the door, as near to strutting as made no difference. Little could dent Doilin Mellar’s demeanor for long.

  Bakuvun laughed again, throwing his head back. “Man wears so much lace now, I vow, I keep expecting him to offer to teach us to dance, and now he does dance.” The Cairhienin laughed, too, a nasty, guttural sound.

  Mellar’s back stiffened and his step hesitated, then quickened, so much so that he bumped into Birgitte at the doorway. He hurried on without stopping to ask pardon, and she frowned after him—the bond carried anger, quickly suppressed, and impatience, which was not—before shutting the door behind her and moving to stand beside Elayne’s chair with one hand resting on the chairback. Her thick braid was not so neatly done as usual after having been undone for drying, but the uniform of the Captain-General suited her. Taller than Gomaisen in her heeled boots, Birgitte had a commanding presence when she wanted to. The mercenaries offered her small bows, respectful though not deferential. Whatever misgivings of her they might have entertained in the beginning, few who had seen her use her bow, or expose herself to the enemy, had any remaining.

  “You speak as if you know Captain Mellar, Captain Bakuvun.” Elayne put just a hint of question in that, but kept her tone casual. Birgitte was attempting to project confidence along the bond
to equal her expression, yet wariness and worry kept intruding. And the ever-present weariness. Elayne tightened her jaw to fight a yawn. Birgitte had to get some rest.

  “I’ve seen him once or twice before, my Lady,” the Domani replied cautiously. “Not above thrice at most, I’d say. Yes, no more than that.” He tilted his head, eyeing her almost sideways. “You know he’s followed my trade in the past?”

  “He did not try to hide the fact, Captain,” she said, as if tired of the subject. Had he let anything interesting slip, she might have arranged to question him alone, but pressing was not worth the risk of Mellar discovering that questions were being asked. He might run then, before she could learn what she wanted to know.

  “Do we really have need of the Aes Sedai, my Lady?” Bakuvun asked. “The other Aes Sedai,” he added, glancing at her Great Serpent ring. He held out his silver cup, and one of the maids darted to fill it. They were both pretty women, perhaps not the best choices, but Reene had not much to choose from; most of the maids were either young or else aged and not so spry as they once had been. “All they’ve done the whole time we’ve been here is try to put us in awe of the White Tower’s might and reach. I respect Aes Sedai as much as any man, yes, I do indeed, but if you’ll forgive me, it gets tiresome when they turn to trying to browbeat a man. I vow it does, my Lady.”

  “A wise man always stands in awe of the Tower,” Sareitha said calmly, shifting her brown-fringed shawl, perhaps to draw attention to it. Her dark, square face lacked the ageless look as yet, and she admitted yearning for it.

  “Only fools fail to stand in awe of the Tower,” Careane said on Sareitha’s heels. A bulky woman, as wide in the shoulders as most men, the Green had no need for gestures. Her coppery face proclaimed what she was to anyone who knew what to look for as loudly as did the ring on her right forefinger.

  “The word I hear,” Gomaisen said darkly, “is that Tar Valon is besieged. I hear the White Tower is split, with two Amyrlins. I even hear the Tower itself is held by the Black Ajah.” A brave man, to mention that rumor to Aes Sedai, but he still flinched saying it. Flinched and went right on. “Who is it you want us to be in awe of?”

  “Do not believe everything you hear, Captain Gomaisen.” Sareitha’s voice was serene, a woman stating indisputable fact. “Truth has more shadings than you might think, and distance often distorts truth into something very different from the facts. Lies about Darkfriend sisters are dangerous to repeat, however.”

  “What you had best believe,” Careane added, just as calmly, “is that the White Tower is the White Tower, now and always. And you stand before three Aes Sedai. You should have a care with your words, Captain.”

  Gomaisen scrubbed the back of a hand across his mouth, but his dark eyes held defiance. A hunted defiance. “I am just saying what can be heard on any street,” he muttered.

  “Are we here to talk about the White Tower?” Cordwyn said, scowling. He emptied his winecup before going on, as if this talk made him uneasy. How much had he already consumed? He seemed a trifle unsteady on his feet, and there was a touch of slur in his words. “The Tower is hundreds of leagues from here, and what happens there is no business of ours.”

  “True, friend,” Bakuvun said. “True. Our business is swords, swords and blood. Which, my Lady, brings us to the sordid matter of . . .”—he waggled thick, be-gemmed fingers—“gold. Every day, we lose men, day after day with no end in sight, and there are very few suitable replacements to be found in the city.”

  “None at all that I’ve found,” Cordwyn muttered, eyeing the young maid filling his cup. She blushed at his scrutiny and finished her task quickly, spilling wine on the floor tiles and making Mistress Harfor frown. “Those that might have been are all signing up for the Queen’s Guards.” That was true enough; enlistments seemed to increase by the day. The Queen’s Guards would be a formidable force. Eventually. Unfortunately, the vast majority of those men were months from being able to handle a sword without stabbing themselves in the foot, and further from being of any use in battle.

  “As you say, friend,” Bakuvun murmured. “As you say.” He directed a wide smile at Elayne. Perhaps he meant to seem friendly, or maybe reasonable, but it minded her of a man trying to sell her a pig in a sack. “Even after we’re done here, finding new men won’t be easy, my Lady. Suitable men aren’t found under cabbage leaves, no they’re not. Fewer men means fewer coins for our next hires. An inescapable fact of the world. We think it’s only just that we receive compensation.”

  Anger surged in Elayne. They thought she was desperate to hold on to them was what they thought! Worse, they were right. These three men represented better than a thousand more between them. Even with what Guybon had brought her, that would be a grievous loss. Especially if it started other mercenaries thinking her cause was lost. Mercenaries disliked being on the losing side. They would run like rats fleeing fire to avoid that. Her anger surged, but she held it in rein. By a hair’s breadth. She could not keep the scorn from her voice, though. “Did you think you would take no casualties? Did you expect to mount guard and take gold for it without baring your swords?”

  “You signed for so much gold each day,” Birgitte put in. She did not say how much because every company had bargained for its own agreement. The last thing they needed was for the mercenary companies to grow jealous of one another. As it was, it seemed that half the common room fights the Guards broke up were between men of different companies. “A fixed amount. To put it cruelly, the more men you lose, the greater your profit.”

  “Ah, Captain-General,” the stout man said blandly, “but you forget the death-money that has to be paid to the widows and orphans.” Gomaisen made a choking noise, and Cordwyn stared at Bakuvun incredulously then tried to cover it by draining his winecup again.

  Elayne trembled, her hands tightening to fists on the arms of her chair. She would not give way to anger. She would not! “I intend to hold you to your agreements,” she said coldly. Well, at least she was not raging. “You’ll be paid what you signed for, including the usual victory gold after I gain the throne, but not a penny more. If you try to back out, I’ll assume you are turning coat and going over to Arymilla, in which case, I’ll have you and your companies arrested and put outside the gates without swords or horses.” The maid refilling Cordwyn’s winecup yet again suddenly squealed and danced away from him rubbing her hip. The anger Elayne had been holding down fountained white hot. “And if one of you ever again dares fondle one of my women, he and his company will be put out without swords, horses, or boots! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear, my Lady.” Bakuvun’s voice held a distinct chill, and his wide mouth was tight. “Very clear indeed. And now, since our . . . discussion . . . seems concluded, may we withdraw?”

  “Think carefully,” Sareitha said suddenly. “Will the White Tower choose to see an Aes Sedai on the Lion Throne, or a fool like Arymilla Marne?”

  “Count the Aes Sedai in this palace,” Careane added. “Count the Aes Sedai inside Caemlyn. There are none in Arymilla’s camps. Count and decide where the White Tower’s favor lies.”

  “Count,” Sareitha said, “and remember that the White Tower’s displeasure can be fatal.”

  It was very hard to believe that one of them must be Black Ajah, yet it must be so. Unless it was Merilille, of course. Elayne hoped that was not so. She liked Merilille. But then, she liked Careane and Sareitha, too. Not as much as she did Merilille, yet still a liking. Any way she looked at it, a woman she liked was a Darkfriend, and already under penalty of death.

  When the mercenaries had departed, making their courtesies hurriedly, and Mistress Harfor had sent the maids away with the remnants of the wine, Elayne leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I handled that very badly, didn’t I?”

  “Mercenaries require a strong hand on the reins,” Birgitte replied, but there was doubt in the bond. Doubt and worry.

  “If I may say, my Lady,” Norry said in his dry voice, “I cannot s
ee anything else you could have done. Mildness would only have emboldened them to make further demands.” He had been so still that Elayne had almost forgotten he was there. Blinking at the world, he seemed a wading bird wondering where the water had gone. In contrast to Mistress Harfor’s neatness, ink stains marked his tabard, and his fingers. She eyed the leather folder in his hands with distinct distaste.

  “Will you leave us, please, Sareitha, Careane?” she said. They hesitated slightly, but there was nothing they could do save bow their heads and glide from the room like swans. “And you two as well,” she added over her shoulder to the Guardswomen. They did not so much as twitch!

  “Outside!” Birgitte snapped with a jerk of her head that set her braid swaying. “Now!” Oh, the pair jumped for her, they did! They headed for the doors so fast they might as well have trotted!

  Elayne scowled as the door closed behind them. “Burn me, I don’t want to hear any bloody bad news, not today. I don’t want to hear how much of the food brought in from Illian and Tear is already spoiled when it arrives. I don’t want to hear about arson, or flour black with weevils, or sewers breeding rats faster than they can be killed, or flies so thick you’d think Caemlyn was a filthy stable. I want to hear some bloody good news for a change.” Burn her, she sounded petulant! Truth be told, she felt petulant. Oh, how that grated! She was trying to gain a throne, and behaving like a child in the nursery!

  Master Norry and Mistress Harfor exchanged glances, which only made matters worse. He fondled his folder with a sigh of regret. The man enjoyed droning his numbers, even when they were dire. At least they no longer balked at giving their reports in company. Well, not very far. Jealous of their own responsibilities, each was wary of the other straying and quick to point out where some imagined boundary had been crossed. Still, they managed to run the palace and the city efficiently, with few barked knuckles.