The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,235

buying one another wine. Fights were common; bloodshed infrequent. Injuries were bad for business.

Quillin approached, bearing a cup of wine—it would be one of his finest vintages. She never requested such from him, but never complained either.

“Mistress Shore,” he said with his affable voice, “I wish I’d known earlier that you were back in town! The first I heard of it was your letter!”

Cadsuane took the offered cup. “I am not accustomed to giving reports on my whereabouts to every acquaintance, Master Tasil.”

“Of course not, of course not,” he said, and seemed completely unoffended at her sharp response. She’d never been able to get a rise out of him. That had always made her curious.

“The inn seems to be doing well,” she said politely, causing him to turn and look over his few patrons. They seemed uncomfortable to be sitting at immaculate tables atop a gleaming floor. Cadsuane wasn’t certain if it was the intimidating cleanliness that kept people away from The Wind’s Favor, or if it was Quillin’s insistence on never hiring gleemen or musicians to perform. He claimed they spoiled the atmosphere. As she watched, he noticed that a new patron entered, tracking in mud. She could see Quillin’s fingers itching to go scrub the floor.

“You there,” Quillin called to the man. “Scrape your shoes before coming in, if you please.”

The man froze, frowning, but went back to do as instructed. Quillin sighed and moved over to sit at her table. “Frankly, Mistress Shore, it gets a little too busy here lately for my tastes. Can’t keep track of all my patrons sometimes! People go without drink, waiting for me to get to them.”

“You could hire help,” she noted. “A serving girl or two.”

“What? And let them have all the fun?” He said it in all seriousness.

Cadsuane took a sip of her wine. An excellent vintage indeed, perhaps expensive enough that an inn—no matter how splendid—shouldn’t have had it readily available behind the bar. She sighed. Quillin’s Domani wife was one of the most accomplished silk merchants in the city; many Sea Folk vessels sought her out personally to trade with her. Quillin had kept accounts for his wife’s business for some twenty years before he had retired, both of them wealthy.

And what did he do with it? Open an inn. It had apparently always been a dream of his. Cadsuane had learned long ago to stop questioning the odd penchants of people with too much free time.

“What news of the city, Quillin?” she asked, sliding a small bag of coins across the table toward him.

“Mistress, you offend,” he said, raising his hands. “I couldn’t take your coin!”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have little patience for games today, Master Tasil. If you don’t want it yourself, then give it to the poor. Light knows there are enough of those in the city these days.”

He sighed, but reluctantly pocketed the purse. Perhaps that was why his common room was often empty; an innkeeper who had no regard for money was a strange beast. Many of the common men would find Quillin as discomforting as the immaculate floor and tasteful decorations.

Quillin was, however, very good for information. His wife shared her gossip with him. With her face, he obviously knew she was Aes Sedai. Namine—his eldest daughter—had gone to the White Tower, eventually choosing the Brown and settling into the library there. A Domani librarian was nothing unusual—the Terhana library in Bandar Eban was one of the greatest in the world. However, Namine’s casual, yet keen, understanding of current events had been enough of a curiosity that Cadsuane had followed the connection, hoping to discover well-placed parents. Ties such as a daughter in the White Tower often made people amiable toward other Aes Sedai. That had led her to Quillin. Cadsuane didn’t trust him entirely, but she was fond of him.

“What news of the city?” Quillin asked. Honestly, what innkeeper wore a silk embroidered vest beneath his apron? No wonder people found the inn strange. “Where should I start? There has almost been too much to keep track of lately!”

“Start with Alsalam,” Cadsuane said, sipping her wine. “When was he last seen?”

“By credible witnesses, or by hearsay?”

“Tell me both.”

“There have been lesser windborn and merchants who claim to have received personal communication from the King as recently as a week ago, my Lady, but I regard such claims with skepticism. Very soon after the King’s . . . hiatus began you could find forged letters claiming to dictate his wishes.