"Hello, Perrin," the hulking man said. With his heavy-lidded eyes, Lamgwin Dorn appeared lazy despite his muscles and the scars on his face and hands. "We heard about young Rand being the Dragon Reborn, Master Gill and me. Should have figured you’d have come up in the world, too. Perrin Aybara’s a good man, Mistress Maighdin. I think you could trust him with anything you’ve a mind to." He was not lazy, and he was not stupid, either.
Aram jerked his head impatiently, and Lamgwin and the other two followed, but Tallanvor and Balwer dragged their feet, casting wondering glances back at Perrin and Master Gill. Concerned glances. And at the women. Faile had them moving again, as well, though with plenty of darted looks at Perrin and Master Gill, at the men trailing Aram. Suddenly they were not so pleased at being separated.
Master Gill mopped his forehead and smiled uneasily. Light, why did he smell afraid? Perrin wondered. Of him? Of a man tied to the Dragon Reborn, calling himself lord and leading an army, however small, threatening the Prophet. Might as well throw gagging Aes Sedai into it, too; he would take the blame for that, one way or another. No, Perrin thought wryly; nothing in that to frighten anybody. The whole lot of them were probably afraid he might murder them all.
Trying to put Master Gill at ease, he led the man to a large oak a hundred paces from the red-and-white tent. Most of the great tree’s leaves were gone and half those left were brown, but massive limbs spreading low provided a little shade, and some of the gnarled roots stood high enough to serve as benches. Perrin had used one for just that, twiddling his thumbs while camp was being set. Whenever he tried to do anything useful, there were always ten hands snatching it away from him.
Basel Gill was not eased, however much Perrin asked after the Queen’s Blessing, his inn in Caemlyn, or recalled his own visit there. But then, perhaps Gill was remembering that that visit was not the thing to calm a man, with Aes Sedai and talk of the Dark One and a flight in the night. He paced anxiously and hugged his bundle to his chest, shifted it from one arm to the other and answered in a bare handful of words, licking his lips between.
"Master Gill," Perrin told him finally, "stop calling me Lord Perrin. I’m not. It’s complicated, but I’m not a lord. You know that."
"Of course," the round man replied, at last seating himself on one of the oak roots. He appeared reluctant to set his bundled things down, drawing his hands from them slowly. "As you say, Lord Perrin. Ah, Rand… the Lord Dragon… he really means the Lady Elayne to have the throne? Not that I doubt your word, of course," he added hurriedly. Pulling off his hat, he began mopping his forehead again. Even for such a round man, he seemed to be sweating twice as much as the heat called for. "I’m sure the Lord Dragon will do just as you say." His laugh was shaky. "You wanted to talk to me. And not about my old inn, I’m sure."
Perrin exhaled wearily. He had thought nothing could be worse than old friends and neighbors bowing and scraping, but at least they forgot sometimes and spoke their minds. And none of them was afraid of him. "You’re a long way from home," he said in a gentle voice. No need to go too fast, not with a man ready to jump out of his skin. "I wondered what brought you here. Not troubles of any kind, I hope."
"You tell him right, Basel Gill," Lini said sharply, marching up to the oak. "No embroidery, mind." She had not been gone very long, yet somehow she had found time to wash her face and hands and work her hair into a neat white bun on the back of her head. And to beat most of the dust from her plain woolen dress. Bobbing a perfunctory curtsy in Perrin’s direction, she turned to shake a gnarled finger at Gill. "‘Three things annoy to distraction: a tooth that aches, a shoe that pinches, and a man that chatters.’ So you hold to the point and don’t go telling the young lord more than he wants to hear." For a moment she held the gaping innkeeper with an admonitory stare, then abruptly gave Perrin another quick curtsy. "He does love the sound of his own voice — most men do — but he’ll tell it to you properly, now, my Lord."
Master Gill glowered at her, and muttered under his breath when she waved sharply for him to speak. "Bony old…" was what Perrin heard. "What happened — the simple and straight of it—" The round man glared at Lini again, but she did not appear to notice, "was that I had some business down to Lugard. A chance to import wine. But you’re not interested in that. I took Lamgwin along, of course, and Breane, because she won’t let him out of her sight an hour she doesn’t have to. Along the way, we met Mistress Dorlain, Mistress Maighdin as we call her, and Lini, and Tallanvor. And Balwer, of course. On the road. Near to Lugard."
"Maighdin and I were in service in Murandy," Lini put in impatiently. "Until the troubles. Tallanvor was an armsman to the House, and Balwer the secretary. Bandits burned the manor, and our lady couldn’t afford to keep us, so we decided to travel together for protection."
"I was telling it, Lini," Master Gill grumbled, scratching behind his ear. "The wine merchant had left Lugard for the country, for some reason, and…" He shook his head. "It’s all too much to go into, Perrin. Lord Perrin, I mean. Forgive me. You know there’s trouble everywhere nowadays, one kind or another. Seems like every time we ran from one kind, we found another, and always getting further from Caemlyn. Till here we are, tired and grateful for a rest. And that’s the short of it."
Perrin nodded slowly. That could be simple truth, though he had learned that people had a hundred reasons for lying, or just shading the truth. Grimacing, he raked fingers through his hair. Light! He was becoming suspicious as a Cairhienin, and the deeper Rand tangled him, the worse it got. Why on earth would Basel Gill, of all people, lie to him? A lady’s maid, accustomed to privilege and fallen on hard times; that explained Maighdin. Some things were simple.
Lini’s hands were folded at her waist, but she watched with a keen eye, no little like a falcon herself, and Master Gill began fidgeting as soon as he stopped talking. He seemed to take Perrin’s grimace as a demand for more. He laughed, more on edge than amused. "I haven’t seen so much of the world since the Aiel War, and I was considerably skinnier, then. Why, we’ve been as far as Amador. Of course, we left after those Seanchan took the city, but truth, they aren’t any worse than the Whitecloaks, that I could—" He cut off as Perrin leaned forward abruptly and seized his lapel.
"Seanchan, Master Gill? Are you sure of that? Or is it one of those rumors, like the Aiel, or Aes Sedai?"
"I saw them," Gill replied, exchanging uncertain looks with Lini. "And that’s what they call themselves. I’m surprised you don’t know. Word’s been running ahead of us all the way from Amador. These Seanchan want people to know what they’re about. Strange people, with strange creatures." His voice picked up intensity. "Like Shadowspawn. Big leathery things that fly, and carry men, and these things like lizards, only they’re big as horses, and they have three eyes. I saw them! I did!"
"I believe you," Perrin said, releasing the man’s coat. "I’ve seen them, too." At Falme, where a thousand Whitecloaks died in minutes and it had taken dead heroes of legend, called by the Horn of Valere, to throw the Seanchan back. Rand had said they would return, but how could they have so soon? Light! If they held Amador, they had to have Tarabon as well, or most of it. Only a fool killed a deer when he knew there was a wounded bear behind his back. How much had they taken? "I can’t send you to Caemlyn right away, Master Gill, but if you stay with me a while longer, I’ll see you there safely." If staying with him any length of time was safe. The Prophet, Whitecloaks, and now maybe Seanchan added in.
"I think you’re a good man," Lini said suddenly. "I’m afraid we didn’t tell you the whole truth, and maybe we should."
"Lini, what are you saying?" Master Gill exclaimed, bounding to his feet. "I think the heat’s getting to her," he told Perrin. "And all the travel. She has strange fancies, sometimes. You know how old folks can get. Hush, now, Lini!"
Lini slapped away the hand he was trying to put over her mouth. "You mind yourself, Basel Gill! I’ll ‘old’ you! Maighdin was running from Tallanvor, in a manner of speaking, and he wa
s chasing her. We all were, four days now, and near killing us and the horses both. Well, it’s no wonder she doesn’t know her own mind half the time; you men snarl up a woman’s wits so she can hardly think, then you pretend you’ve done nothing at all. The lot of you ought to have your ears boxed on general principle. The girl’s afraid of her own heart! Those two should be married, and the quicker the better."
Master Gill gaped at her, and Perrin was not sure his own mouth might not be hanging open. "I’m not certain I understand what it is you want of me," he said slowly, and the white-haired woman leaped in before he was well finished.
"Don’t pretend to be dense. I won’t believe it in you for a moment. I can see you have more wits than most men. That’s the worst habit you men have, making believe you don’t see what’s plain under your noses." What had happened to all those curtsies? Folding thin arms across her chest, she eyed him sternly. "Well, if you must pretend, I’ll set it out for you. This Lord Dragon of yours does whatever he wants, the way I hear. Your Prophet picks out people and marries them on the spot. Very well; you snatch up Maighdin and Tallanvor and marry them. He’ll thank you, and so will she. When her mind settles."
Stunned, Perrin glanced at Master Gill, who shrugged and made a sickly grin. "If you will forgive me," Perrin told the frowning woman, "I have some matters I must see to." He hurried away, only looking back once. Lini was shaking a finger at Master Gill, berating him despite his protests. The breeze was wrong for Perrin to hear what they were saying. In truth, he did not want to. They were all crazy!
Berelain might have her two maids and her thief-catchers, but Faile had her own attendants, of a sort. Close on twenty young Tairens and Cairhienin were sitting cross-legged near the tent, the women in coats and breeches with swords belted on just like the men. None wore their hair longer than the shoulder, and men and women both had it tied back with a ribbon, imitating the Aiel tail. Perrin wondered where the rest were; they seldom strayed far from the sound of Faile’s voice. Not causing trouble, he hoped. She had taken them under her wing to keep them out of trouble, she said, and the Light knew they would have gotten into it, left back in Cairhien with a great lot of young fools just like them. In Perrin’s opinion, the whole lashing of them needed a swift kick in the bottom to knock some sense into them. Dueling, playing at ji’e’toh, pretending to be some sort of Aiel. Idiocy!
Lacile rose to her feet as Perrin came closer, a pale little woman with red ribbons pinned to her lapels, small gold hoops in her ears, and a challenging stare that sometimes made the Two Rivers men think she might like a kiss despite her sword. Right then, the challenge was stony hard. A moment behind her, Arrela stood too, tall and dark, with her hair cut short as a Maiden’s and her clothes plainer than most of the men’s. Unlike Lacile, Arrela made it clear she would as soon kiss a dog as any man. The pair made as if to move in front of the tent, to block Perrin’s way, but a square-chinned fellow in a puffy-sleeved coat barked an order and they sat again. Reluctantly. For that matter, Parelean thumbed that block of a chin as though he might be reconsidering. He had worn a beard the first time Perrin saw him — several of the Tairen men had had them — but Aiel did not wear beards.
Perrin muttered about foolishness under his breath. They were Faile’s to the bone, and the fact that he was her husband meant little. Aram might be jealous of his attentions, yet Aram at least shared his affections with Faile. He could feel the young idiots’ eyes on him as he strode inside. Faile would skin him if she ever learned that he hoped they would keep her from trouble.
The tent was tall and spacious, with a flowered carpet for a floor and sparse furnishings that folded for storage on a cart, most of them. The heavy stand-mirror certainly could not. Except for brass-bound chests draped with embroidered cloths and doubling as extra tables, straight lines of bright gilt decorated everything down to the washstand and its mirror. A dozen mirrored lamps made the interior nearly as bright as outside, if considerably cooler, and there were even a pair of silk hangings dangling from the roof poles, too ornate for Perrin’s taste. Too rigid, with the birds and flowers marching in lines and angles. Dobraine had set them up to travel like Cairhienin nobles, though Perrin had managed to "lose" the worst of it. The huge bed, for one, a ridiculous thing to travel with. It had taken up almost a whole cart to itself.
Faile and Maighdin were sitting alone together, worked silver cups in hand. They had the air of women feeling one another out, all smiles on the outside yet with a hint of sharpness to the eyes, a hint of listening for something behind the words, and not a clue as to whether they would hug in the next instant or draw knives. Well, he thought most women would not actually go as far as knives, but Faile could. Maighdin appeared much less travel-worn than she had, washed and combed, the dust brushed from her dress. A small mosaic-topped table between them held more cups and a tall sweating silver pitcher that gave off the minty scent of herb tea. Both women looked around at his entrance, and for an instant, they had almost exactly the same expression, coolly wondering who was barging in and not at all pleased with the interruption. At least Faile softened hers immediately with a smile.
"Master Gill told me your story, Mistress Dorlain," he said. "You’ve faced hard days, but you can be sure you’re safe here till you decide to leave." The woman murmured thanks over the rim of her cup, but she smelled wary, and her eyes tried to read him like a book.
"Maighdin also told me their story, Perrin," Faile said, "and I have an offer to make her. Maighdin, you and your friends have had trying months behind, and you tell me of no prospects ahead. Enter my service, all of you. You will still have to journey, but the circumstances will be much better. I pay well, and I am not a harsh mistress." Perrin voiced his approval immediately. If Faile wanted to indulge her fancy for taking in strays, at least he wanted to help this lot, too. Maybe they would be safer with him than wandering around alone at that.
Choking on her tea, Maighdin nearly dropped her cup. She blinked at Faile, dabbing at the damp on her chin with a lace-edged linen handkerchief, and her chair creaked faintly as she turned, strangely, to study Perrin. "I… thank you," she said at last, slowly. "I think…" Another moment’s perusal of Perrin, and her voice picked up. "Yes, I thank you, and I accept your kind offer gratefully. I must tell my companions." Rising, she hesitated in setting her cup on the tray, then straightened only to spread her skirts in a curtsy suitable for any palace. "I will try to give good service, my Lady," she said levelly. "May I withdraw?" At Faile’s assent, she curtsied again and backed away two steps before turning to go! Perrin scratched his beard. Somebody else who would be bobbing at him every time she turned around.
No sooner had the tentflap dropped behind Maighdin than Faile put her cup down and laughed, drumming her heels on the carpet. "Oh, I like her, Perrin. She has spirit! I’ll wager she would have singed your beard over those banners if I hadn’t saved you. Oh, yes. Spirit!"
Perrin grunted. Just what he needed; another woman to singe his beard. "I promised Master Gill to look after them, Faile, but… Can you guess what that Lini asked? She wanted me to marry Maighdin to that fellow Tallanvor. Just stand them up and marry them whatever they said! She claimed they want it." He filled a silver cup with tea and dropped into the chair Maighdin had vacated, ignoring its alarming groans under his sudden weight. "In any case, that nonsense is the least of my worries. Master Gill says it was the Seanchan took Amador, and I believe him. Light! The Seanchan!"
Faile tapped her fingertips together, staring across them at nothing. "That might be just the thing," she mused. "Most servants do better married than not. Perhaps I should arrange it. And for Breane, too. The way she went running out of here to check on that big fellow as soon as her face was clean, I suspect they should be already. There was a gleam in her eye. I won’t have that kind of behavior in my servants, Perrin. It just leads to tears and recriminations and sulking. And Breane will be worse than he is."
Perrin stared at her. "Did you hear me?" he said slowly. "Th
e Seanchan have captured Amador! The Seanchan, Faile!"
She gave a start — she really had been thinking about marrying off those women! — then smiled at him, amused. "Amador is long way, yet, and if we do meet with these Seanchan, I’m sure you will deal with them. After all, you taught me to perch on your wrist, didn’t you?" That was what she claimed, though he had never seen any sign of it.
"They might be a touch more difficult than you were," he said dryly, and she smiled again. She smelled extremely pleased, for some reason. "I’m thinking about sending Grady or Neald to warn Rand, no matter what he said." She shook her head fiercely, smiles evaporating, but he pushed on. "If I knew how to find him, I would. There has to be some way to get word to him without anyone learning of it." Rand had insisted on that more than he had on secrecy about Masema. Perrin had been exiled from Rand’s presence, and no one was to know anything remained between them except enmity.
"He knows, Perrin. I’m sure of it. Maighdin saw pigeoncotes everywhere in Amador, and apparently the Seanchan didn’t look at them twice. By this time, any merchant who has business with Amador has heard, and so has the White Tower. Believe me, Rand must have, too. You have to trust that he knows best. In this, he does." She was not always so certain of that.
"Maybe," Perrin muttered irritably. He tried not to worry about Rand’s sanity, but Rand made Perrin at his most suspicious look like a child skipping in a meadow. How much did Rand trust even him? Rand kept things back, had plans he never let on.
Exhaling, Perrin settled back in the chair, gulped a swallow of tea. The truth of it was, mad or sane, Rand was right. If the Forsaken caught a suspicion of what he was up to, or the White Tower did, they would find some way to overturn the anvil on his feet. "At least I can give the Tower’s eyes-and-ears less to talk about. This time, I’m burning that bloody banner." And the Wolf-head, too. He might have to play at being a lord, but he could do it without a bloody flag!
The Path of Daggers twot-8 Page 20