“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 from 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 twostory house and a stonewalled potter's shop. Egwene exchanged glances with Elayne — the DaughterHeir 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 fishysmelling 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 blueglazed cups shed 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 DaughterHeir shook her head with perhaps a touch of exasperation.
“No matter.” The grayhaired 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.”