The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “I would if I had any of either.” Mother Guenna rooted in the shelves a moment and came out with a stone jar. “Since I’ve had no time to glean of late, I will give you a brew of marshwhite leaves.”

  “I am not familiar with that,” Nynaeve said slowly.

  “It works as well as chainleaf, but it has a bite to the taste some don’t care for.” The big woman sprinkled dried and broken leaves into a blue teapot and carried it over to the fireplace to add hot water. “Do you follow the craft, then? Sit.” She gestured to the table with a hand holding two blue-glazed cups she had taken from the mantel. “Sit, and we’ll talk. Which one of you has the other stomach?”

  “I am fine,” Egwene said casually as she took a chair. “Are you queasy, Caryla?” The Daughter-Heir shook her head with perhaps a touch of exasperation.

  “No matter.” The gray-haired woman poured out a cup of dark liquid for Nynaeve, then sat across the table from her. “I made enough for two, but marshwhite tea keeps longer than salted fish. It works better the longer it sits, too, but it also grows more bitter. Makes a race between how much you need your stomach settled and what your tongue can stand. Drink, girl.” After a moment, she filled the second cup and took a sip. “You see? It will not hurt you.”

  Nynaeve raised her own cup, making a small sound of displeasure at the first taste. When she lowered the cup again, though, her face was smooth. “It is just a little bitter perhaps. Tell me, Mother Guenna, will we have to put up with this rain and mud much longer?”

  The older woman frowned, parceling displeasure among the three of them before she settled on Nynaeve. “I am not a Sea Folk Windfinder, girl,” she said quietly. “If I could tell the weather, I’d sooner stick live silverpike down my dress than admit it. The Defenders take that sort of thing for next to Aes Sedai work. Now, do you follow the craft or not? You look as if you have been traveling. What is good for fatigue?” she barked suddenly.

  “Flatwort tea,” Nynaeve said calmly, “or andilay root. Since you ask questions, what would you do to ease birthing?”

  Mother Guenna snorted. “Apply warm towels, child, and perhaps give her a little whitefennel if it was an especially hard birth. A woman needs no more than that, and a soothing hand. Can’t you think of a question any country farmwife could not answer? What do you give for pains in the heart? The killing kind.”

  “Powdered gheandin blossom on the tongue,” Nynaeve said crisply. “If a woman has biting pains in her belly and spits up blood, what do you do?”

  They settled down as if testing each other, tossing questions and answers back and forth faster and faster. Sometimes the questioning lagged a moment when one spoke of a plant the other knew only by another name, but they picked up speed again, arguing the merits of tinctures against teas, salves against poultices, and when one was better than another. Slowly, all the quick questions began shifting toward the herbs and roots one knew that the other did not, digging for knowledge. Egwene began to grow irritable listening.

  “After you give him the boneknit,” Mother Guenna was saying, “you wrap the broken limb in toweling soaked in water where you’ve boiled blue goatflowers—only the blue, mind!”—Nynaeve nodded impatiently—“and as hot as he can stand it. One part blue goatflowers to ten of water, no weaker. Replace the towels as soon as they stop steaming, and keep it up all day. The bone will knit twice as fast as with boneknit alone, and twice as strong.”

  “I will remember that,” Nynaeve said. “You mentioned using sheepstongue root for eye pain. I’ve never heard—”

  Egwene could stand it no longer. “Maryim,” she broke in, “do you really believe you’ll ever need to know these things again? You are not a Wisdom any longer, or have you forgotten?”

  “I have not forgotten anything,” Nynaeve said sharply. “I remember a time when you were as eager to learn new things as I am.”

  “Mother Guenna,” Elayne said blandly, “what do you do for two women who cannot stop arguing?”

  The gray-haired woman pursed her lips and frowned at the table. “Usually, men or women, I tell them to stay away from each other. That is the best thing, and the easiest.”

  “Usually?” Elayne said. “What if there is a reason they cannot stay apart. Say they are sisters.”

  “I do have a way to make an arguer stop,” the big woman said slowly. “It is not something I urge anyone to try, but some do come to me.” Egwene thought there was a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “I charge a silver mark each for women. Two for men, because men make more fuss. There are some will buy anything, if it costs enough.”

  “But what is the cure?” Elayne asked.

  “I tell them they have to bring the other one here with them, the one they argue with. Both expect me to quiet the other’s tongue.” Despite herself, Egwene was listening. She noticed Nynaeve seemed to be paying sharp attention, as well. “When they have paid me,” Mother Guenna continued, flexing one hefty arm, “I take them out back and stick their heads in my rain barrel till they agree to stop their arguing.”

  Elayne burst out laughing.

  “I think I may have done something very like that myself,” Nynaeve said in a voice that was much too light. Egwene hoped her own expression looked nothing like Nynaeve’s.

  “I’d not be surprised if you have.” Mother Guenna was grinning openly now. “I tell them the next time I hear they’ve been arguing, I will do it for free, but I’ll use the river. It is remarkable how often the cure works, for men especially. And it is remarkable what it has done for my reputation. For some reason, none of the people I cure this way ever tells anyone else the details, so someone asks for the cure every few months. If you’ve been fool enough to eat mudfish, you do not go around telling people. I trust none of you have any wish to spend a silver mark.”

  “I think not,” Egwene said, and glared at Elayne when she went off in peals of laughter again.

  “Good,” the gray-haired woman said. “Those I cure of arguing have a tendency to avoid me like stingweed caught in their nets, unless they actually take sick, and I am enjoying your company. Most of those who come at present want something to take away bad dreams, and they grow sour when I have nothing to give them.” For a moment she slipped into a frown, rubbing her temples. “It is good to see three faces that do not look as if there is nothing left but to jump over the side and drown. If you are staying long in Tear, you must come see me again. The girl called you Maryim? I am Ailhuin. The next time, we’ll talk over some good Sea Folk tea instead of something that curdles your tongue. Light, but I hate the taste of marshwhite; mudfish would taste sweeter. In fact, if you have time to stay now, I’ll brew a pot of Tremalking black. Not long till supper, either. It’s just bread and soup and cheese, but you are welcome.”

  “That would be very nice, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve said. “Actually. . . . Ailhuin, if you have a spare bedroom, I’d like to hire it for the three of us.”

  The big woman looked at each of them without saying anything. Getting to her feet, she tucked the pot of marshwhite tea away in the herb cupboard, then fetched a red teapot and a pouch from another. Only when she had brewed a pot of Tremalking black, put four clean cups and a bowl of honeycomb on the table along with pewter spoons, and reclaimed her chair did she speak.

  “I’ve three empty bedrooms upstairs, now my daughters are all married. My husband, the Light shine on him, was lost in a storm in the Fingers of the Dragon near twenty years ago. There need be no talk of hiring, if I decide to let you have the rooms. If, Maryim.” Stirring honey into her tea, she studied them again.

  “What will make you decide?” Nynaeve asked quietly.

  Ailhuin continued to stir, as if she had forgotten to drink. “Three young women, riding fine horses. I don’t know much about horses, but those look as fine as what the lords and ladies ride, to me. You, Maryim, know enough of the craft that you ought to have hung herbs in your window already, or should be choosing where to do it. I’ve never heard of a woman practicin
g the craft too far from where she was born, but by your tongue, you are a long way.” She glanced at Elayne. “Not many places with hair that color. Andor, I’d say, by your speech. Fool men are always talking about finding a yellow-haired Andor girl. What I want to know is why? Running away from something? Or running after something? Only, you don’t look like thieves to me, and I never heard of three women chasing after a man together. So tell me why, and if I like it, the rooms are yours. If you want to pay something, you buy a bit of meat now and then. Meat is dear since the trade up to Cairhien fell away. But first the why, Maryim.”

  “We are chasing after something, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve said. “Or rather, after some people.” Egwene schooled herself to stillness and hoped she was doing as well as Elayne, who was sipping her tea as if she were listening to talk about dresses. Egwene did not believe Ailhuin Guenna’s dark eyes missed a great deal. “They stole some things, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve went on. “From my mother. And they did murder. We are here to see justice done.”

  “Burn my soul,” the large woman said, “have you no menfolk? Men are not good for much beyond heavy hauling and getting in the way, most of the time—and kissing and such—but if there’s a battle to be fought or a thief to catch, I say let them do it. Andor is as civilized as Tear. You are not Aiel.”

  “There was no one else but us,” Nynaeve said. “Those who might have come in our place were killed.”

  The three murdered Aes Sedai, Egwene thought. They could not have been Black Ajah. But if they had not been killed, the Amyrlin would not have been able to trust them. She’s trying to keep to the bloody Three Oaths, but she is skirting it close.

  “Aaah,” Ailhuin said sadly. “They killed your men? Brothers, or husbands, or fathers?” Spots of color bloomed in Nynaeve’s cheeks, and the older woman mistook the emotion. “No, don’t tell me, girl. I’ll not pull up old grief. Let it lie on the bottom till it melts away. There, there, you calm yourself.” It was an effort for Egwene not to growl with disgust.

  “I must tell you this,” Nynaeve said in a stiff voice. The red still colored her face. “These murderers and thieves are Darkfriends. They are women, but they are as dangerous as any swordsman, Ailhuin. If you wondered why we did not seek an inn, that is why. They may know we follow, and they may be watching for us.”

  Ailhuin waved it all away with a sniff. “Of the four most dangerous folk I know, two are women who never carry as much as a knife, and only one of the men is a swordsman. As for Darkfriends. . . . Maryim, when you are as old as I, you’ll learn that false Dragons are dangerous, lionfish are dangerous, sharks are dangerous, and sudden storms out of the south; but Darkfriends are fools. Filthy fools, but fools. The Dark One is locked up where the Creator put him, and no Fetches or fangfish to scare children will get him out. Fools don’t frighten me unless they’re working the boat I’m riding. I suppose you don’t have any proof you could take to the Defenders of the Stone? It would be just your word against theirs?”

  What is a “Fetch”? Egwene wondered. Or a “fangfish,” for that matter.

  “We will have proof when we find them,” Nynaeve said. “They will have the things they stole, and we can describe them. They are old things, and of little value to anyone but us, and our friends.”

  “You would be surprised what old things can be worth,” Ailhuin said dryly. “Old Leuese Mulan pulled up three heartstone bowls and a cup in his nets last year, down in the Fingers of the Dragon. Now, instead of a fishing smack, he owns a ship trading up the river. Old fool did not even know what he had till I told him. Very likely there’s more right where those came from, but Leuese couldn’t even remember the exact spot. I do not know how he ever managed to get a fish into his net. Half the fishing boats in Tear were down there for months afterwards, dragging for cuendillar, not grunts or flatfish, and some had lords saying where to pull the nets. That’s what old things can be worth, if they are old enough. Now, I’ve decided you do need a man in this, and I know just the one.”

  “Who?” Nynaeve said quickly. “If you mean a lord, one of the High Lords, remember we have no proof to offer till we find them.”

  Ailhuin laughed until she wheezed. “Girl, nobody from the Maule knows a High Lord, or any kind of lord. Mudfish don’t school with silversides. I will bring you the dangerous man I know who isn’t a swordsman, and the more dangerous of the two, at that. Juilin Sandar is a thief-catcher. The best of them. I do not know how it is in Andor, but here a thief-catcher will work for you or me as soon as for a lord or a merchant, and charge less at that. Juilin can find these women for you if they can be found, and bring your things back without you having to go near these Darkfriends.”

  Nynaeve agreed as if she were still not entirely sure, and Ailhuin tied those platforms to her shoes—clogs, she called them—and hurried out. Egwene watched her go, through one of the kitchen windows, past the horses and around the corner up the alley.

  “You are learning how to be Aes Sedai, Maryim,” she said as she turned from the window. “You manipulate people as well as Moiraine.” Nynaeve’s face went white.

  Elayne stalked across the floor and slapped Egwene’s face. Egwene was so shocked she could only stare. “You go too far,” the golden-haired woman said sharply. “Too far. We must live together, or we will surely die together! Did you give Ailhuin your true name? Nynaeve told her what we could, that we seek Darkfriends, and that was risk enough, linking us with Darkfriends. She told her they were dangerous, murderers. Would you have had her say they are Black Ajah? In Tear? Would you risk everything on whether Ailhuin would keep that to herself?”

  Egwene rubbed her cheek gingerly. Elayne had a strong arm. “I do not have to like doing it.”

  “I know,” Elayne sighed. “Neither do I. But we do have to.”

  Egwene turned back to peering through the window at the horses. I know we do. But I do not have to like it.

  CHAPTER

  49

  A Storm in Tear

  Egwene finally returned to the table and her tea. She thought perhaps Elayne was right, that she had gone too far, but she could not bring herself to apologize, and they sat in silence.

  When Ailhuin returned, she had a man with her, a lean fellow in his middle years who looked as if he had been carved from aged wood. Juilin Sandar took off his clogs by the door and hung his flat, conical straw hat on a peg. A sword-breaker, much like Hurin’s but with short slots to either side of the long one, hung from a belt over his brown coat, and he carried a staff exactly as tall as he was, but not much thicker than his thumb and made of that pale wood, like ridged joints, that the ox-drivers used for their goads. His short-cut black hair lay flat on his head, and his quick, dark eyes seemed to note and record every detail of the room. And of everyone in it. Egwene would have bet he examined Nynaeve twice, and to her, at least, Nynaeve’s lack of reaction was blatant; it was obvious she knew it, too.

  Ailhuin motioned him to a place at the table, where he turned back the cuffs of his coat sleeves, bowed to each of them in turn, and sat with his staff propped against his shoulder, not speaking until the gray-haired woman had made a fresh pot of tea and everyone had sipped from their cups.

  “Mother Guenna has told me of your problem,” he said quietly as he set his cup down. “I will help you if I can, but the High Lords may have their own business to put me to, soon.”

  The big woman snorted. “Juilin, when did you begin haggling like a shopkeeper trying to charge silk prices for linen? Do not claim you know when the High Lords will summon you before they do.”

  “I won’t claim it,” Sandar told her with a smile, “but I know when I’ve seen men on the rooftops in the night. Just out of the corner of my eye—they can hide like pipefish in reeds—but I have seen the movement. No one has reported a theft yet, but there are thieves working inside the walls, and you can buy your supper with that. Mark me. Before another week, I’ll be summoned to the Stone because a band of thieves is breaking into merchants’ houses, or even lords’
manors. The Defenders may guard the streets, but when thieves need tracking they send for a thief-catcher, and me before any other. I am not trying to drive up my price, but whatever I do for these pretty women, I must do soon.”

  “I believe he speaks the truth,” Ailhuin said reluctantly. “He’ll tell you the moon is green and water white if he thinks it will bring him a kiss, but he lies less than most men about other things. He may be the most honest man ever born in the Maule.” Elayne put a hand over her mouth, and Egwene struggled not to laugh. Nynaeve sat unmoved and obviously impatient.

  Sandar grimaced at the gray-haired woman, then apparently decided to ignore what she had said. He smiled at Nynaeve. “I will admit that I’m curious about these thieves. I’ve known women thieves, and bands of thieves, but I never heard of a band of women thieves before. And I owe Mother Guenna favors.” His eyes seemed to record Nynaeve all over again.

  “What do you charge?” she asked sharply.

  “To recover stolen goods,” he said briskly, “I ask the tenth part of the value of what I recover. For finding someone, I ask a silver mark for each person. Mother Guenna says the things stolen have little value except to you, mistress, so I suggest you take that choice.” He smiled again; he had very white teeth. “I would not take money from you at all, except that the brotherhood would frown on it, but I will take as little as I can. A copper or two, no more.”

  “I know a thief-taker,” Elayne told him. “From Shienar. A very respectful man. He carries a sword as well as a sword-breaker. Why do you not?”

  Sandar looked startled for a moment, and then upset with himself for being startled. He had not caught her hint, or else had decided to ignore it. “You are not Tairen. I have heard of Shienar, mistress, tales of Trollocs, and every man a warrior.” His smile said these were tales for children.

  “True stories,” Egwene said. “Or true enough. I have been to Shienar.”