For a moment after her feet were on the dock, all she felt was relief. This would not pitch and roll. Then she began to look at this city whose reaching had caused them such pains.
Stone warehouses backed the long docks themselves, and there seemed to be a great many ships, large and small, alongside the docks or anchored in the river. Hastily she avoided looking at the ships. Tear had been built on flat land, with barely a bump. Down muddy dirt streets between the warehouses, she could see houses and inns and taverns of wood and stone. Their roofs of slate or tile had oddly sharp corners, and some rose to a point. Beyond these, she could make out a high wall of dark gray stone, and behind it the tops of towers with balconies high around them and white-domed palaces. The domes had a squared shape to them, and the tower tops looked pointed, like some of the roofs outside the wall. All in all, Tear was easily as big as Caemlyn or Tar Valon, and if not so beautiful as either, it was still one of the great cities. Yet she found it hard to look at anything but the Stone of Tear.
She had heard of it in stories, heard that it was the greatest fortress in the world and the oldest, the first built after the Breaking of the World, yet nothing had prepared her for this sight. At first she thought it was a huge, gray stone hill or a small, barren mountain covering hundreds of hides, its length stretching from the Erinin west through the wall and into the city. Even after she saw the huge banner flapping from its greatest height—three white crescent moons slanting across a field half red, half gold; a banner waving at least three hundred paces above the river, yet large enough to be clearly seen at that height—even after she made out battlements and towers, it was difficult to believe the Stone of Tear had been built rather than carved out of a mountain already there.
“Made with the Power,” Elayne murmured. She was staring at the Stone, too. “Flows of Earth woven to draw stone from the ground, Air to bring it from every corner of the world, and Earth and Fire to make it all in one piece, without seam or joint or mortar. Atuan Sedai says the Tower could not do it, today. Strange, given how the High Lords feel concerning the Power now.”
“I think,” Nynaeve said softly, eyeing the dockmen moving around them, “that given that very thing, we should not mention certain other things aloud.” Elayne appeared torn between indignation—she had spoken very softly—and agreement; the Daughter-Heir agreed with Nynaeve too often and too readily to suit Egwene.
Only when Nynaeve is right, she admitted to herself grudgingly. A woman who wore the ring, or was even associated with Tar Valon, would be watched here. The barefoot, leather-vested dockmen were not paying the three of them any mind as they hurried about, carrying bales or crates on their backs as often as on barrows. A strong odor of fish hung in the air; the next three docks had dozens of small fishing boats clustered around them, just like those in the drawing in the Amyrlin’s study. Shirtless men and barefoot women were hoisting baskets of fish out of the boats, mounds of silver and bronze and green, and colors she had never suspected fish might be, such as bright red, and deep blue, and brilliant yellow, some with stripes or splotches of white and other colors.
She lowered her voice for Elayne’s ear alone. “She is right, Caryla. Remember why you are Caryla.” She did not want Nynaeve to hear such admissions. Her face did not change when she heard, but Egwene could feel satisfaction radiating from her like heat from a cook stove.
Nynaeve’s black stallion was just being lowered to the dock; sailors had already carried their tack off the ship and simply dumped it on the wet stones of the dock. Nynaeve glanced at the horses and opened her mouth—Egwene was sure it was to tell them to saddle their animals—then closed it again, tight-lipped, as if it had cost her an effort. She gave her braid one hard tug. Before the sling was well out of the way, Nynaeve tossed the blue-striped saddle blanket across the black’s back and hoisted her high-cantled saddle atop it. She did not even look at the other two women.
Egwene was not anxious to ride at that moment—the motion of a horse might be too close to the motion of the Darter for her stomach—but another look at those muddy streets convinced her. Her shoes were sturdy, but she would not enjoy having to clean mud off them, or having to hold her skirts up as she walked, either. She saddled Mist quickly and climbed onto her back, settling her skirts, before she could decide the mud might not be so bad after all. A little needlework on the Darter—Elayne had done it all, this time; the Daughter-Heir sewed a very fine stitch—had divided all their dresses nicely for riding astride.
Nynaeve’s face paled for a moment when she swung into her saddle and the stallion decided to frisk. She kept a tight-mouthed grip on herself and a firm hand on her reins and soon had him under control. By the time they had ridden slowly past the warehouses, she could speak. “We need to locate Liandrin and the others without them learning we are asking after them. They surely know we are coming—that someone is, at least—but I would like them not to know we are here until it is too late for them.” She drew a deep breath. “I confess I have not thought of any way to do this. Yet. Do either of you have any suggestions?”
“A thief-taker,” Elayne said without hesitation. Nynaeve frowned at her.
“You mean like Hurin?” Egwene said. “But Hurin was in the service of his king. Wouldn’t any thief-taker here serve the High Lords?”
Elayne nodded, and for a moment Egwene envied the Daughter-Heir her stomach. “Yes, they would. But thief-takers are not like the Queen’s Guards, or the Tairen Defenders of the Stone. They serve the ruler, but people who have been robbed sometimes pay them to retrieve what was stolen. And they also sometimes take money to find people. At least, they do in Caemlyn. I cannot think it is different here in Tear.”
“Then we take rooms at an inn,” Egwene said, “and ask the innkeeper to find us a thief-taker.”
“Not an inn,” Nynaeve said as firmly as she guided the stallion; she never seemed to let the animal get out of her control. After a moment she moderated her tone a little. “Liandrin, at least, knows us, and we have to assume the others do, too. They will surely be watching the inns for whoever followed the trail they sprinkled behind them. I mean to spring their trap in their faces, but not with us inside. We’ll not stay at an inn.”
Egwene refused to give her the satisfaction of asking.
“Where then?” Elayne’s brow furrowed. “If I made myself known—and could make anyone believe it, in these clothes and with no escort—we would be welcomed by most of the noble Houses, and very likely in the Stone itself—there are good relations between Caemlyn and Tear—but there would be no keeping it quiet. The entire city would know before nightfall. I cannot think of anywhere else except an inn, Nynaeve. Unless you mean to go out to a farm in the country, but we will never find them from the country.”
Nynaeve glanced at Egwene. “I will know when I see it. Let me look.”
Elayne’s frown swept from Nynaeve to Egwene and back again. “ ‘Do not cut off your ears because you do not like your earrings,’ ” she muttered.
Egwene put her attention firmly on the street they were riding along. I will be burned if I’ll let her think I am even wondering!
There were not a great many people out, not compared to the streets of Tar Valon. Perhaps the thick mud in the street discouraged them. Carts and wagons lurched past, most pulled by oxen with wide horns, the carter or wagoneer walking alongside with a long goad of some pale, ridged wood. No carriages or sedan chairs used these streets. The odor of fish hung in the air here, too, and no few of the men who hurried past carried huge baskets full of fish on their backs. The shops did not look prosperous; none displayed wares outside, and Egwene seldom saw anyone go in. The shops had signs—the tailor’s needle and bolt of cloth, the cutler’s knife and scissors, the weaver’s loom, and the like—but the paint on most of them was peeling. The few inns had signs in as bad a state, and looked no busier. The small houses crowded between inns and shops often had tiles or slates missing from their roofs. This part of Tear, at least, was poor. And fr
om what she saw on the faces, few of the people here cared to try any longer. They were moving, working, but most of them had given up. Few as much as glanced at three women riding where everyone else walked.
The men wore baggy breeches, usually tied at the ankle. Only a handful wore coats, long, dark garments that fit arms and chest tightly, then became looser below the waist. There were more men in low shoes than in boots, but most went barefoot in the mud. A good many wore no coat or shirt at all, and had their breeches held up by a broad sash, sometimes colored and often dirty. Some had wide, conical straw hats on their heads, and a few, cloth caps that sagged down one side of the face. The women’s dresses had high necks, right up to their chins, and hems that stopped at the ankle. Many had short aprons in pale colors, sometimes two or three, each smaller than the one beneath it, and most wore the same straw hats as the men, but dyed to complement the aprons.
It was on a woman that she first saw how those who wore shoes dealt with the mud. The woman had small wooden platforms tied to the soles of her shoes, lifting them two hands out of the mud; she walked along as if her feet were planted firmly on the ground. Egwene saw others wearing the platforms after that, men as well as women. Some of the women went barefoot, but not as many as the men.
She was wondering which shop might sell those platforms, when Nynaeve suddenly turned her black down an alleyway between a long, narrow two-story house and a stone-walled potter’s shop. Egwene exchanged glances with Elayne—the Daughter-Heir shrugged—and then they followed. Egwene did not know where Nynaeve was going or why—and she meant to have words with her about it—but she did not mean to become separated, either.
The alley suddenly let into a small yard behind the house, fenced in by the buildings around it. Nynaeve had already dismounted and tied her reins to a fig tree, where the stallion could not reach the green things sprouting in a vegetable patch that took up half the yard. A line of stones had been laid to make a path to the back door. Nynaeve strode to the door and knocked.
“What is it?” Egwene demanded in spite of herself. “Why are we stopping here?”
“Did you not see the herbs in the front windows?” Nynaeve knocked again.
“Herbs?” Elayne said.
“A Wisdom,” Egwene told her as she got down from her saddle and tied Mist alongside the black. Gaidin is no good name for a horse. Does she think I don’t know who she means it for? “Nynaeve has found herself a Wisdom, or Seeker, or whatever they call her here.”
A woman opened the door just enough to look out suspiciously. At first Egwene thought she was stout, but then the woman opened the door the rest of the way. She was certainly well padded, but the way she moved spoke of muscle underneath. She looked as strong as Mistress Luhhan, and some in Emond’s Field claimed Alsbet Luhhan was almost as strong as her husband. It was not true, but it was not far wrong.
“How can I help you?” the woman said in an accent like the Amyrlin’s. Her gray hair was arranged in thick curls that hung down the sides of her head, and her three aprons were in shades of green, each slightly darker than the one below, but even the topmost pale. “Which one of you needs me?”
“I do,” Nynaeve said. “I need something for a queasy stomach. And perhaps one of my companions does, too. That is, if we’ve come to the right place?”
“You’re not Tairen,” the woman said. “I should have known that by your clothes, before you spoke. I’m called Mother Guenna. I am called a Wise Woman, too, but I’m old enough not to trust that to caulk a seam. You come, and I will give you something for your stomach.”
It was a neat kitchen, though not large, with copper pots hanging on the wall, and dried herbs and sausages from the ceiling. Several tall cupboards of pale wood had doors carved with some sort of tall grass. The table had been scrubbed almost white, and the backs of the chairs were carved with flowers. A pot of fishy-smelling soup was simmering atop the stone stove, and a kettle with a spout, just beginning to steam. There was no fire on the stone hearth, for which Egwene was more than grateful; the stove added enough to the heat, though Mother Guenna seemed not to notice it at all. Dishes lined the mantel, and more were stacked neatly on shelves to either side. The floor looked as if it had just been swept.
Mother Guenna closed the door after them, and as she was crossing the kitchen to her cupboards, Nynaeve said, “Which tea will you give me? Chainleaf? Or bluewort?”
“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.”
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