“I will do that myself for less than this,” he protested. “And there's no need for extra rewards. I charge what I charge. Have no fear I'll take a bribe.”
“There is no fear of that,” Ailhuin agreed. “I said he is honest. Just do not believe him if he says he loves you.” Sandar glared at her.
“I pay the coin, Master Sandar,” Nynaeve said firmly, “so I choose what I am buying. Will you find these women, and no more?” She waited for him to nod, reluctantly, before going on. “They may be together, or not. The first is a Taraboner. She is a little taller than I, with dark eyes and pale, honeycolored hair that she wears in many small braids after the Tarabon fashion. Some men might think her pretty, but she would not consider it a compliment. She has a mean, sulky mouth. The second is Kandori. She has long black hair with a white streak above her left ear, and...”
She gave no names, and Sandar asked for none. Names were so easily changed. His smile was gone now that the business was at hand. Thirteen women she described as he listened intently, and when she was done, Egwene was sure he could have recited them back word for word.
“Mother Guenna may have told you this,” Nynaeve finished, “but I will repeat it. These women are more dangerous than you can believe. Over a dozen have died at their hands already, that I know of, and I would not be surprised if that was only a drop of the blood on their hands.” Sandar and Ailhuin both blinked at that. “If they discover you are asking after them, you will die. If they take you, they will make you tell where we are, and Mother Guenna will probably die with us.” The grayhaired woman looked disbelieving. “Believe it!” Nynaeve's stare demanded agreement. “Believe it, or I'll take back the silver and find another with more brains!”
“When I was young,” Sandar said, voice serious, “a cutpurse put her knife in my ribs because I thought a pretty young girl wouldn't be as quick to stab as a man. I do not make that mistake anymore. I will behave as if these women are all Aes Sedai, and Black Ajah.” Egwene almost choked, and he gave her a rueful grin as he scooped the coins into his own purse and stuck it behind his sash. “I did not mean to frighten you, mistress. There are no Aes Sedai in Tear. It may take a few days, unless they are together. Thirteen women together will be easy to find; apart, they will be harder. But either way, I will find them. And I will not frighten them away before you learn where they are.”
When he had donned his straw hat and clogs and departed by the back door, Elayne said, “I hope he is not overconfident. Ailhuin, I heard what he said but... He does understand that they are dangerous, does he not?”
“He has never been a fool except for a pair of eyes or a pretty ankle,” the grayhaired woman said, “and that is a failing of every man. He is the best thiefcatcher in Tear. Have no worry. He will find these Darkfriends of yours.”
“It will rain again before morning.” Nynaeve shivered, despite the warmth of the room. “I feel a storm gathering.” Ailhuin only shook her head and set about filling bowls with fish soup for supper.
After they ate and cleaned up, Nynaeve and Ailhuin sat at the table talking of herbs and cures. Elayne worked on a small patch of embroidery she had begun on the shoulder of her cloak, tiny blue and white flowers, then read in a copy of The Essays of Willim of Manaches that Ailhuin had on her small shelf of books. Egwene tried reading, but neither the essays, nor The Travels of Jain Farstrider, nor the humorous tales of Aleria Elffin could hold her interest for more than a few pages. She fingered the stone ter'angreal through the bosom of her dress. Where are they? What do they want in the Heart? None but the Dragon — none but Rand — can touch Callandor, so what do they want? What? What?
As night deepened, Ailhuin showed them each to a bedroom on the second floor, but after she had gone to her own, they gathered in Egwene's by the light of a single lamp. Egwene had already undressed to her shift; the cord hung 'round her neck with the two rings. The striped stone felt far heavier than the gold. This was what they had done every night since leaving Tar Valon, with the sole exception of that night with the Aiel.
“Wake me after an hour,” she told them.
Elayne frowned. “So short, this time?”
“Do you feel uneasy?” Nynaeve said. “Perhaps you are using it too often.”
“We would still be in Tar Valon scrubbing pots and hoping to find a Black sister before a Gray Man found us if I had not,” Egwene said sharply. Light, Elayne's right. I am snapping like a sulky child. She took a deep breath. “Perhaps I am uneasy. Maybe it is because we are so close to the Heart of the Stone, now. So close to Callandor. So close to the trap, whatever it is.”
“Be careful,” Elayne said, and Nynaeve said, more quietly, “Be very careful, Egwene. Please.” She was tugging her braid in short jerks.
As Egwene lay down on the lowposted bed, with them on stools to either side, thunder rolled across the sky. Sleep came slowly.
It was the rolling hills again, as always at first, flowers and butterflies under spring sunshine, soft breezes and birds singing. She wore green silk, this time, with golden birds embroidered over her breasts, and green velvet slippers. The ter'angreal seemed light enough to drift up out of her dress except for the weight of the Great Serpent ring holding it down.
By simple trial and error she had learned a little of the rules of Tel'aran'rhiod — even this World of Dreams, this Unseen World, had its rules, if odd ones; she was sure she did not know a tenth of them — and one way to make herself go where she wanted. Closing her eyes, she emptied her mind as she would have to embrace saidar. It was not as easy, because the rosebud kept trying to form, and she kept sensing the True Source, kept aching to embrace it, but she had to fill the emptiness with something else. She pictured the Heart of the Stone, as she had seen it in these dreams, formed it in every detail, perfect within the void. The huge, polished redstone columns. The ageworn stones of the floor. The dome, far overhead. The crystal sword, untouchable, slowly revolving hiltdown in midair. When it was so real she was sure she could reach out and touch it, she opened her eyes, and she was there, in the Heart of the Stone. Or the Heart of the Stone as it existed in Tel'aran'rhiod.
The columns were there, and Callandor. And around the sparkling sword, almost as dim and insubstantial as shadows, thirteen women sat crosslegged, staring at Callandor as it revolved. Honeyhaired Liandrin turned her head, looking straight at Egwene with those big, dark eyes, and her rosebud mouth smiled.
Gasping, Egwene sat up in bed so fast she almost fell off the side.
“What is the matter?” Elayne demanded. “What happened? You look frightened.”
“You only just closed your eyes,” Nynaeve said softly. “This is the first time since the very beginning that you've come back without us waking you. Something did happen, didn't it?” She tugged her braid sharply. “Are you all right?”
How did I get back? Egwene wondered. Light, I do not even know what I did. She knew she was only trying to put off what she had to say. Unfastening the cord around her neck, she held the Great Serpent ring and the larger, twisted ter'angreal on her palm. “They are waiting for us,” she said finally. There was no need to say who. “And I think they know we are in Tear.”
Outside, the storm broke over the city.
Rain drumming on the deck over his head, Mat stared at the stones board on the table between him and Thom, but he could not really concentrate on the game, even with an Andoran silver mark riding on the outcome. Thunder crashed, and lightning flashed in the small windows. Four lamps lit the captain's cabin of the Swift. Bloody ship may be as sleek as the bird, but it's still taking too bloody long. The vessel gave a small jolt, then another; the motion seemed to change. He had better not run us into the bloody mud! If he is not making the best time he can wring out of this buttertub, I will stuff that gold down his throat! Yawning — he had not slept well since leaving Caemlyn; he could not stop worrying enough to sleep well — yawning, he set a white stone on the intersection of two lines; in three moves, he would capture nearly a fifth of Thom's black stones.
“You could be a good player, boy,” the gleeman said around his pipe, placing his next stone, “if you put your mind to it.” His tabac smelled like leaves and nuts.
Mat reached for another stone from the pile at his elbow, then blinked and let it lie. In the same three moves, Thom's stones would surround over a third of his. He had not seen it coming, and he could see no escape. “Do you ever lose a game? Have you ever lost a game?”
Thom removed his pipe and knuckled his mustaches. “Not in a long while. Morgase used to beat me about half the time. It is said good commanders of soldiers and good players of the Great Game are good at stones, as well. She is the one, and I've no doubt she could command a battle, too.”
“Wouldn't you rather dice some more? Stones take too much time.”