Knife of Dreams (56 page)

“Has Dyelin returned?” Elayne asked, and when the First Maid said not, added, “Then I will see these mercenaries as soon as I’ve changed clothes.” She might as well get them out of the way.

Rounding a corner, she found herself face-to-face with two of the Windfinders and barely suppressed a sigh. The Sea Folk were the last people on earth she wanted to confront right then. Lean and dark and barefoot in red brocaded silk trousers and a blue brocaded silk blouse with a green sash tied in an elaborate knot, Chanelle din Seran White Shark was aptly named. Elayne had no idea what a white shark looked like—it might well have been a little thing—but Chanelle’s big eyes were hard enough to belong on a fierce predator, especially when she took in Aviendha. There was bad blood, there. A tattooed hand raised the gold piercework scent box hanging on a chain about Chanelle’s neck, and she inhaled the sharp, spicy scent deeply, as though covering some foul odor. Aviendha laughed out loud, which made Chanelle’s full lips grow thin. Thinner, at least. Thin was beyond them.

The other was Renaile din Calon, once Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships, in blue linen trousers and a red blouse sashed with blue, tied in a much less intricate knot. Both women wore the long white mourning stoles for Nesta din Reas, yet Renaile must have felt Nesta’s death most keenly. She was carrying a carved wooden writing box with a capped ink jar set in one corner and a sheet of paper with a few scrawled lines clipped to its top. Wings of white in her black hair hid the six gold earrings in her ears, much thinner rings than the ten she had worn before learning of Nesta’s fate, and the gold honor chain crossing her dark left cheek looked stark supporting only the medallion that named her clan. After Sea Folk custom, Nesta’s death had meant starting over for Renaile, with no more rank than a woman raised from apprentice on the day she herself had put off her honors. Her face still held dignity, though much subdued now that she was acting as Chanelle’s secretary.

“I am on my way—” Elayne began, but Chanelle cut her off imperiously.

“What news do you have of Talaan? And of Merilille. Are you even trying to find them?”

Elayne took a deep breath. Shouting at Chanelle never did any good. The woman was more than willing to shout back and seldom willing to listen to reason. She would
not
engage in another screaming match. Servants slipping by to either side did not pause to offer bows or curtsies—they could sense the mood here—but they shot grim looks at the Sea Folk women. That was pleasing, though it should not have been. However upsetting they were, the Windfinders were guests. In a way, they were, bargain or no bargain. Chanelle had complained more than once of slow-footed servants and tepid bathwater. And that was pleasing, too. Still, she would maintain her dignity, and civility.

“The news is the same as yesterday,” she replied in tones of moderation. Well, she attempted tones of moderation. If traces of sharpness remained, the Windfinder would have to live with them. “The same as last week, and the week before that. Inquiries have been made at every inn in Caemlyn. Your apprentice is not to be found. Merilille is not to be found. It seems they must have managed to leave the city.” The gate guards had been warned to watch for a Sea Folk woman with tattooed hands, but they would not have tried to stop an Aes Sedai leaving, or taking anyone with her that she wanted. For that matter, the mercenaries would let anyone at all pass who offered a few coins. “And now, if you will excuse me, I am on my way—”

“That is not good enough.” Chanelle’s voice was hot enough to singe leather. “You Aes Sedai stick together as tightly as oysters. Merilille kidnapped Talaan, and I think you are hiding her. We will search for them, and I assure you, when we find them, Merilille will be punished sharply before she is sent to the ships to fulfill her part of the bargain.”

“You seem to be forgetting yourself,” Birgitte said. Her voice was mild, her face calm, but the bond quivered with anger. She held her bowstave propped in front of her with both hands as if to keep them from making fists. “You’ll withdraw your accusations, or you’ll suffer for it.” Perhaps she was not as self-controlled as she seemed. This was no way to go on with Windfinders. They were women of power among their own people, and accustomed to wielding it. But Birgitte did not hesitate. “By the bargain Zaida made, you’re under the Lady Elayne’s authority. You’re under
my
authority. Any searching you do will be when you aren’t needed. And unless I misremember badly, you’re supposed to be in Tear right now to bring back wagonloads of grain and salt beef. I strongly suggest you Travel there immediately, or you might learn a little about punishment yourself.” Oh, that was entirely the wrong way with Windfinders.

“No,” Elayne said as hotly as Chanelle, surprising herself. “Search if
you wish, Chanelle, you and all of the Windfinders. Search Caemlyn from end to end. And when you can’t find Talaan or Merilille, you
will
apologize for calling me a liar.” Well, the woman
had
. As good as, anyway. She felt a strong desire to slap Chanelle. She wanted to. . . . Light, her anger and Birgitte’s were feeding each other! Frantically she tried to soothe her fury before it burst into open rage, but the only result was a sudden longing to weep that she had to fight just as wildly.

Chanelle drew herself up, scowling. “You would claim we had reneged on the bargain. We have labored like bilge girls this past month and more. You will not cast us off without meeting your side of the bargain. Renaile, the Aes Sedai at The Silver Swan are to be told—told, mind!—that they must produce Merilille and Talaan or else pay what the White Tower owes themselves. They cannot pay all, but they can make a start.”

Renaile began unscrewing the silver cap of the ink jar.

“Not a note,” Chanelle snapped. “Go yourself and tell them. Now.”

Tightening the cap, Renaile bowed almost parallel to the floor, quickly touching fingertips to her heart. “As you command,” she murmured, her face a dark mask. She did not delay in obeying, setting out at a trot the way she had come with the writing box tucked under her arm.

Still fighting the desire to strike Chanelle and weep at the same time, Elayne winced. This was not the first time the Sea Folk had gone to The Silver Swan, nor even the second or third, but always before they had gone asking, not demanding. There were nine sisters resident at the inn at present—the number kept changing as sisters entered the city or left, and rumor said there were other Aes Sedai in the city, too—and it worried her that none had appeared at the palace. She had stayed clear of the Swan—she knew how much Elaida wanted to lay hands on her, but not who the sisters at the Swan supported, or whether they supported anyone; they had been closemouthed as mussels with Sareitha and Careane—yet she had expected some of them to come to the palace if only to learn what was behind the Sea Folk’s claim. Why were so many Aes Sedai in Caemlyn when Tar Valon itself was under siege? She herself was the first answer that came to mind, and that made her more determined to avoid any sister she did not personally know to be a supporter of Egwene. But that would not stop word of the bargain made for aid in using the Bowl of the Winds from spreading, and of the price the Tower had been committed to pay for that help. Burn her, but that news would be a bloody wagonload of fireworks going off at once when it became general knowledge among Aes Sedai. Worse. Ten wagonloads.

Watching Renaile trot away, she fought to steady her emotions. And tried to bring the tone back to something approaching civility. “She handles her change in circumstances very well, I think.”

Chanelle gave a dismissive puff. “And well she should. Every Wind-finder knows she will rise and fall many times before her body is given back to the salt.” She twisted to gaze after the other Sea Folk woman, and a touch of malice entered her voice. She seemed to be speaking to herself. “She fell from a greater height than most, and she should not have been surprised to find her landing hard after so many fingers she trod on while she was—” Her mouth snapped shut, and she jerked her head around to glare at Elayne, at Birgitte, at Aviendha and Reene, even at the Guardswomen, daring them to comment.

Elayne prudently kept her mouth closed, and, the Light be thanked, so did everyone else. For her part, she thought she almost had her temper smoothed, the desire to cry suppressed, and she did not want to say anything that might start Chanelle shouting and undo all her work. For that matter, she could not think of anything to say after hearing that. She doubted it was part of Atha’an Miere custom to take revenge on someone you believed had misused their position above you. It was very human, though.

The Windfinder stared her up and down, frowning. “You’re wet,” she said as though just noticing. “It is very bad to be wet for long in your condition. You should change your clothes right away.”

Elayne threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could, a howl of pure outrage and fury. She screamed until her lungs were empty, leaving her panting.

In the silence that followed, everyone stared at her in amazement. Almost everyone. Aviendha began laughing so hard she had to lean against a tapestry of mounted hunters confronting a leopard that had turned. She had one arm pressed across the middle as if her ribs hurt. The bond carried amusement, too—amusement!—though Birgitte’s face remained as smooth as a sister’s.

“I must Travel to Tear,” Chanelle said breathily after a moment, and she turned away without another word or any gesture toward a courtesy. Reene and Reanne offered curtsies, neither quite meeting Elayne’s eye, and pled duties before hurrying off.

Elayne stared at Birgitte and Aviendha in turn. “If one of you says a single word,” she said warningly.

Birgitte put on such an expression of innocence that it was palpably
false, and the bond carried such mirth that Elayne found herself fighting the urge to laugh. Aviendha only laughed the harder.

Gathering her skirts and such dignity as she could summon, Elayne set out for her apartments. If she walked faster than before, well, she
did
want to get out of these damp clothes. That was the only reason. The
only
reason.

To Elayne’s fury, a quiet, simmering fury that clenched her jaw, she got lost on the way to her apartments. Those rooms had been hers since she left the nursery, yet twice she took a turn only to find that it did not lead where she expected. And a sweeping flight of marble-railed stairs took her in entirely the wrong direction. Burn her, now being with child was fuzzing her wits completely! She could feel puzzlement, and increasing concern, through the bond as she retraced her way, climbed a different set of stairs. Some of the Guardswomen murmured uneasily, not quite loudly enough for her to make out the words, until the Bannerwoman in charge, a slim, cool-eyed Saldaean named Devore Zarbayan, silenced them with a sharp word. Even Aviendha began looking at her doubtfully. Well, she was not
about
to have getting lost—in the palace!—flung in her face.

“Not a word from anybody,” she said grimly. “Not one!” she added when Birgitte opened her mouth anyway.

The golden-haired woman snapped her jaws shut and gave a tug at her thick braid, almost the way Nynaeve did. She did not bother to keep disapproval from her face, and the bond still carried puzzlement, and worry. Enough that Elayne began to feel worried herself. She struggled to fight that off before she found herself wringing her hands and apologizing. It was that strong.

“I think I’ll try to find
my
rooms, if I can have just a
few
words,” Birgitte said in a tight voice. “I want to get dry before I wear out my boots. We need to talk of this later. I fear there’s nothing to be done, but. . . .” With a stiff nod, barely bending her neck, she stalked off slashing her unstrung bow from side to side.