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since the night Tuon vanished. She did not believe they were involved, though they had

been in the kennels. For one thing, she could not imagine Renna or Seta uncollaring a

damane. They certainly had reasons enough to sneak away and seek employment far off,

with someone ignorant of their filthy secret, someone like this Egeanin Tamarath who

had stolen a pair of a damane. Strange that, for one newly raised to the Blood. Strange,

but unimportant; she could see no way to tie it to the rest. Likely the woman had found

the stresses and complexities of nobility too much for a simple sailor. Well, she would be

found and arrested eventually.

The important fact, the potentially deadly fact, was that Renna and Seta were gone, and

no one could say exactly when they had left. If the wrong person noted their departure so

close to the critical time and made the wrong calculation…. She pressed the heels of her

hands against her eyes and exhaled softly, very near to a groan.

Even should she escape suspicion of murdering Tuon, if the woman was dead, then she

herself would be required to apologize to the Empress, might she live forever. For the

death of the acknowledged heir to the Crystal Throne, her apology would be protracted,

and as painful as it was humiliating; it might end with her execution, or much worse, with

being sent to the block as property. Not that it would actually come to that, though in her

nightmares it often did. Her hand slid beneath the pillows to touch the unsheathed dagger

there. The blade was little longer than her hand, yet more than sharp enough to open her

veins, preferably in a warm bath. If time came for an apology, she would not live to reach

Seandar. The dishonor to her name might even be lessened a little if enough people

believed the act was itself an apology. She would leave a letter explaining it so. That

might help.

Still, there was a chance Tuon remained alive, and Suroth clung to it. Killing her and

spiriting the body away might be a deep move ordered from Seanchan by one of her

surviving sisters who coveted the throne, yet Tuon had arranged her own disappearance

more than once. In support of the notion, Tuon’s der’sul’dam had taken all of her sul’dam

and damane into the country for exercise nine days ago, and they had not been seen since.

Exercising damane did not require nine days. And just today—no; yesterday, now, by a

good few hours—Suroth had learned that the Captain of Tuon’s bodyguard also had left

the city nine days ago with a sizable contingent of his men and not returned. That was too

much for coincidence, and very nearly proof. Near enough for hope, at least.

Each of those previous disappearances, however, had been part of Tuon’s campaign to

win the approval of the Empress, might she live forever, and be named heir. Each time,

some competitor among her sisters had been forced or emboldened to acts that lowered

her when Tuon reappeared. What need had she of such stratagems now, here? Rack her

brains how she would, Suroth could not find a worthy target outside Seanchan. She had

considered the possibility that she herself was the mark, but only briefly and only because

she could think of no one else. Tuon could have stripped her of her position in the Return

with three words. All she needed to do was remove the veil; here, the Daughter of the

Nine Moons, in command of the Return, spoke with the voice of the Empire. Bare

suspicion that Suroth was Atha’an Shadar, what those this side of the Aryth Ocean called

a Darkfriend, might have been enough for Tuon to have handed her over to the Seekers

for questioning. No, Tuon was aiming at someone else, or something else. If she did still

live. But she had to. Suroth did not want to die. She fingered the blade.

Who or what else did not matter, except as a clue to where Tuon might be, but that was

very important. Immensely so. Already, despite the announcement of an extended

inspection trip, whispers floated among the Blood that she was dead. The longer she

remained missing, the more those whispers would grow, and with them the pressure for

Suroth to return to Seandar and make that apology. She could only resist so long before

she would be adjudged sei’mosiev so deeply that only her own servants and property

would obey her. Her eyes would be ground into the dirt. Low Blood as well as High,

perhaps even commoners, would refuse to speak to her. Soon after that, she would find

herself on a ship whatever her wishes.

Without doubt Tuon would be displeased at being found, yet it seemed unlikely her

displeasure would extend so far as Suroth being dishonored and forced to slit her wrists;

therefore Tuon must be found. Every Seeker in Altara was searching for her—those

Suroth knew of, at least. Tuon’s own Seekers were not among the known, yet they must

be hunting twice as hard as any others. Unless they had been taken into her confidence.

But in seventeen days, all that had been uncovered was that ridiculous story of Tuon

extorting jewelry from goldsmiths, and that was known to every common soldier.

Perhaps….

The arched door to the anteroom began to open slowly, and Suroth snapped her right eye

shut to protect her night vision against the light of the outer room. As soon as the gap was

wide enough, a pale-haired woman in the diaphanous robes of a da’covale slipped into

the bedchamber and softly closed the door behind her, plunging the room into pitch

blackness. Until Suroth opened her eye again, and made out a shadowy form creeping

toward her bed. And another shadow, huge, suddenly looming in a corner of the room as

Almandaragal rose noiselessly to his feet. The lopar could cross the room and snap the

fool woman’s neck in a heartbeat, but Suroth still gripped the hilt of her dagger. It was

wise to have a second line of defense even when the first seemed impregnable. A pace

short of the bed, the da’covale stopped. Her anxious breathing sounded loud in the

silence.

“Working up your courage, Liandrin?” Suroth said harshly. That honey-colored hair,

worked in thin braids, had been enough to name her.

With a squeak, the da’covale dropped to her knees and bent to press her face to the

carpet. She had learned that much, at least. “I would not harm you, High Lady,” she lied.

“You know I would not.” Her voice was rushed, in a breathy panic. Learning when to

speak and when not seemed as far beyond her as learning how to speak with proper

respect. “We are both bound to serve the Great Lord, High Lady. Have I not proven I can

be useful? I removed Alwhin for you, yes? You said you wished her dead, High Lady,

and I removed her.”

Suroth grimaced and sat up in the dark, the sheet sliding down to her lap. It was so easy

to forget da’covale were there, even this da’covale, and then you let slip things you

should not have. Alwhin had not been dangerous, merely a nuisance, awkward in her

place as Suroth’s Voice. She had achieved all she had ever wanted in reaching that, and

the likelihood of her risking it by so much as the smallest betrayal had been tiny. True,

had she broken her neck falling down a flight of stairs, Suroth would have felt some

small relief from an irritant, but poison that left the woman with bulging eyes and a blue

face was another matter. Even with the search for Tuon, that had brought the Seekers’

eyes to Suroth’s household. She had been forced to insist on it, for the murder of her

Voice. That there were Listeners in her household, she accepted; every household had its

share of Listeners. Seekers did more than listen, though, and they might uncover what

must remain hidden.

Masking her anger required surprising effort, and her tone was colder than she wanted. “I

hope you did not wake me merely to plead again, Liandrin.”

“No, no!” The fool raised her head and actually looked straight at her! “An officer came

from General Galgan, High Lady. He is waiting to take you to the general.”

Suroth’s head throbbed with irritation. The woman delayed delivering a message from

Galgan and looked her in the eyes? In the dark, to be sure, yet an urge swept over her to

strangle Liandrin with her bare hands. A second death hard on the heels of the first would

intensify the Seekers’ interest in her household, if they learned of it, but Elbar could

dispose of the body easily; he was clever in such tasks.

Except, she enjoyed owning the former Aes Sedai who once had been so haughty with

her. Making her a perfect da’covale in every way would be a great pleasure. It was time

to have the woman collared, however. Already irritating rumors buzzed of an uncollared

marath’damane among her servants. It would be a twelve-day wonder when the sul’dam

discovered she was shielded in some way so she could not channel, yet that would help

answer the question of why she had not been leashed before. Elbar would need to find

some Atha’an Shadar among the sul’dam, though. That was never an easy task—

relatively few sul’dam turned to the Great Lord, oddly—and she no longer really trusted

any sul’dam, but perhaps Atha’an Shadar could be trusted more than the rest.

“Light two lamps, then bring me a robe and slippers,” she said, swinging her legs over

the side of the bed.

Liandrin scrambled to the table that held the lidded sand bowl on its gilded tripod and

hissed when she found it with a careless hand, but she quickly used the tongs to lift out a

hot coal, puffed it to a glow, and lit two of the silvered lamps, adjusting the wicks so the

flames held steady and did not smoke. Her tongue might suggest that she felt herself

Suroth’s equal rather than a possession, yet the strap had taught her to obey commands

with alacrity.

Turning with one of the lamps in her hand, she gave a start and a choked cry at the sight

of Almandaragal looming in the corner, his dark, ridge-ringed eyes focused on her. You

would think she had never seen him before! Yet he was a fearsome sight, ten feet tall and

near two thousand pounds, his hairless skin like reddish brown leather, flexing his six

toed forepaws so his claws extended and retracted, extended and retracted.

“Be at ease,” Suroth told the lopar, a familiar command, but he stretched his mouth wide,

showing sharp teeth before settling back to the floor and resting his huge round head on

his paws like a hound. He did not close his eyes again, either. Lopar were quite

intelligent, and plainly he trusted Liandrin no more than she did.

Despite fearful glances at Almandaragal, the da’covale was quick enough to fetch blue

velvet slippers and a white silk robe intricately embroidered in green, red and blue from

the tall, carved wardrobe, and she held the robe for Suroth to thrust her arms into the

sleeves, but Suroth had to tie the long sash herself, and to thrust out a foot before the

woman remembered to kneel and fit the slippers on. Her eyes, but the woman was

incompetent!

By the dim light, Suroth examined herself in the gilded stand-mirror against the wall. Her

eyes were hollow and shadowed with weariness, the tail of her crest hung down her back

in a loose braid for sleeping, and doubtless her scalp required a razor. Very well.

Galgan’s messenger would think her grief-stricken over Tuon, and that was true enough.

Before learning the general’s message, though, she had one small matter to take care of.

“Run to Rosala and beg her to beat you soundly, Liandrin,” she said.

The da’covale’s tight little mouth dropped open and her eyes widened in shock. “But

why?” she whined. “Me, I have done nothing!”

Suroth busied her hands with knotting the sash tighter to keep from striking the woman.

Her eyes would be lowered for a month if it was learned that she had struck a da’covale

herself. She certainly owed no explanations to property, yet once Liandrin did become

completely trained, she would miss these opportunities to grind the woman’s face in how

far she had fallen.

“Because you delayed telling me of the general’s messenger. Because you still call

yourself ‘I’ rather than Liandrin. Because you meet my eyes.” She could not help hissing

that. Liandrin had huddled in on herself with every word, and now she directed her eyes

to the floor, as if that would mitigate her offense. “Because you questioned my orders

instead of obeying. And last—last, but most importantly to you—because I wish you

beaten. Now, run, and tell Rosala each of these reasons so she will beat you well.”

“Liandrin hears and obeys, High Lady,” the da’covale whimpered, at last getting

something right, and flung herself at the door so fast that she lost one of her white