The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,253

on their hands? Muscled arms? And they’re far too old. That fellow on the left has had his nose broken at least once.”

She looked closer; Triben was right. I should have seen that. Still, she had noticed the age. “Which one do you think I should ungag,” she asked casually, “and which one should I kill?”

Both men began to squirm, eyes wide. They should have known that an Aes Sedai would never do anything of the sort. In fact, she probably shouldn’t have implied it, but private jailers like these riled her anger.

“The one on the left seems most eager to talk, Lady,” Triben said. “Perhaps he will tell you what you wish to know.”

She nodded, releasing the man’s gag. He began to speak immediately. “I will do whatever you say! Please, don’t fill my stomach with insects! I haven’t done anything wrong, I promise you, I—”

She stuffed the Air gag back in.

“Too much complaining,” she said. “Perhaps the other will know to hush and speak when spoken to.” She released his gag.

This man remained dangling in the air, obviously terrified, but saying nothing. The One Power could unnerve the most hardened of killers.

“How do I get into the dungeon?” she asked this man.

He looked sick, but he had probably already guessed that she’d want the dungeon. It was unlikely that an Aes Sedai would burst into the shop after midnight because she’d been sold a bad candle.

“Trapdoor,” the man said, “under the rug in the shop front.”

“Excellent,” Nynaeve said. She tied off the weaves binding the men’s hands, then replaced the gag on the one who had spoken. She didn’t leave them hanging in the air—she didn’t want to have to pull them along behind her—and instead let them walk on their own feet.

She had Triben fetch the overweight man from the other room, then herded all three down the stairs. Below, they met the muscular Lurts keeping careful watch on the alley out back. A youth sat on the floor in front of him, and Nynaeve’s globe of light illuminated his face, a frightened Domani one with uncharacteristically light hair and hands spotted with burns.

“Now, that’s a chandler’s apprentice,” Triben said, scratching his forehead scar. “They probably have him doing all of the work for the front.”

“He was asleep under those blankets over there.” Lurts nodded to a shadowed pile in the corner as he joined Nynaeve. “Tried to scramble out the front door after you went up the stairs.”

“Bring him,” Nynaeve said. In the small storefront, Triben pulled back the rug, then used the edge of his sword to prod through the slats until he knocked against something underneath—hinges, Nynaeve assumed. After a little careful prying, he got the trapdoor open. A ladder reached down into the darkness below.

Nynaeve stepped forward, but Triben held up a hand. “Lord Bashere would hang me up by my own stirrups if I let you go first, Lady,” he said. “No telling what might be down there.” He leaped into the hole, sliding down the ladder with one hand, his sword in the other. He thumped to the ground below, and Nynaeve rolled her eyes. Men! She gestured for Lurts to watch the jailers, then released their bonds so they could climb down. She gave each of them a stern look; then she proceeded down the ladder without Triben’s ridiculous flair, leaving Lurts to herd the jailers after.

She raised her globe of light and surveyed the cellar. The walls were stone, which made her feel much less nervous about the weight of the building above. The floor was packed dirt, and there was a wooden doorway built into the wall across from her. Triben was listening at it.

She nodded, and he pulled it open, darting inside eagerly. The Saldaeans seemed to be picking up some habits from the Aiel. Nynaeve followed, preparing weaves of Air, just in case. Behind her, the sullen jailers began to climb down the ladder, followed by Lurts.

There wasn’t much to see in the other room. Two dungeon cells with thick wooden doors, a table with some stools beside it, and a large wooden trunk. Nynaeve sent her globe of light to the corner as hawk-faced Triben inspected the trunk. He lifted the lid, then raised an eyebrow, pulling out several glittering knives. Aids for questioning. Nynaeve shivered. She turned harsh eyes on the jailers behind her.

She untied the gag on the one who had spoken. “Keys?” she asked.

“Bottom of the trunk,” said the thug. The overweight