The garden was in the grip of deep autumn, flower beds empty except for a few evergreen shrubs, tree branches nearly bare. The wind that rippled the banner stirred dust across the flagstone walks. For a moment Rand could not find Ingtar. Then he saw the Shienaran, flat against the back wall of the house, motioning them on with sword in hand.
Rand ran in a crouch, more conscious of the windows blankly peering down from the house than of his friends running beside him. It was a relief to press himself against the house beside Ingtar.
Mat kept muttering to himself, “It's in there. I can feel it.”
“Where is the guard?” Rand whispered.
“Dead,” Ingtar said. “The man was overconfident. He never even tried to raise a cry. I hid his body under one of those bushes.”
Rand stared at him. The Seanchan was overconfident? The only thing that kept him from going back right then was Mat's anguished murmurs.
“We are almost there.” Ingtar sounded as if he were speaking to himself, too. “Almost there. Come.”
Rand drew his sword as they started up the back steps. He was aware of Hurin unlimbering his shortbladed sword and notched swordbreaker, and Perrin reluctantly drawing his axe from the loop on his belt.
The hallway inside was narrow. A halfopen door to their right smelled like a kitchen. Several people were moving about in that room; there was an indistinguishable sound of voices, and occasionally the soft clatter of a pot lid.
Ingtar motioned Mat to lead, and they crept by the door. Rand watched the narrowing opening until they were around the next corner.
A slender young woman with dark hair came out of a door ahead of them, carrying a tray with one cup. They all froze. She turned the other way without looking in their direction. Rand's eyes widened. Her long white robe was all but transparent. She vanished around another corner.
“Did you see that?” Mat said hoarsely. “You could see right through —”
Ingtar clapped a hand over Mat's mouth and whispered, “Keep your mind on why we are here. Now find it. Find the Horn for me.”
Mat pointed to a narrow set of winding stairs. They climbed a flight, and he led them toward the front of the house. The furnishings in the hallways were sparse, and seemed all curves. Here and there a tapestry hung on a wall, or a folding screen stood against it, each painted with a few birds on branches, or a flower or two. A river flowed across one screen, but aside from rippling water and narrow strips of riverbank, the rest of it was blank.
All around them Rand could hear the sounds of people stirring, slippers scuffing on the floor, soft murmurs of speech. He did not see anyone, but he could imagine it all too well, someone stepping into the hall to see five slinking men with weapons in their hands, shouting an alarm...
“In there,” Mat whispered, pointing to a big pair of sliding doors ahead, carved handholds their only ornamentation. “At least, the dagger is.”
Ingtar looked at Hurin; the sniffer slid the doors open, and Ingtar leaped through with his sword ready. There was no one there. Rand and the others hurried inside, and Hurin quickly closed the doors behind them.
Painted screens hid all the walls and any other doors, and veiled the light coming through windows that had to overlook the street. At one end of the big room stood a tall, circular cabinet. At the other was a small table, the lone chair on the carpet turned to face it. Rand heard Ingtar gasp, but he only felt like heaving a sigh of relief. The curling golden Horn of Valere sat on a stand on the table. Below it, the ruby in the hilt of the ornate dagger caught the light.
Mat darted to the table, snatching Horn and dagger. “We have it,” he crowed, shaking the dagger in his fist. “We have both of them.”
“Not so loud,” Perrin said with a wince. “We don't have them out of here, yet.” His hands were busy on the haft of his axe; they seemed to want to be holding something else.
“The Horn of Valere.” There was sheer awe in Ingtar's voice. He touched the Horn hesitantly, tracing a finger along the silver script inlaid around the bell and mouthing the translation, then pulled his hand back with a shiver of excitement. “It is. By the Light, it is! I am saved.”
Hurin was moving the screens that hid the windows. He shoved the last out of his way and peered into the street below. “Those soldiers are all still there, looking like they've took root.” He shuddered. “Those ... things, too.”
Rand went to join him. The two beasts were grolm; there was no denying it. “How did they ...” As he lifted his eyes from the street, words died. He was looking over a wall into the garden of the big house across the street. He could see where further walls had been torn down, joining other gardens to it. Women sat on benches there, or strolled along the walks, always in pairs. Women linked, neck to wrist, by silver leashes. One of the women with a collar around her neck looked up. He was too far to make out her face clearly, but for an instant it seemed that their eyes met, and he knew. The blood drained from his face. “Egwene,” he breathed.
“What are you talking about?” Mat said. “Egwene is safe in Tar Valon. I wish I were.”
“She's here,” Rand said. The two women were turning, walking toward one of the buildings on the far side of the joined gardens. “She is there, right across the street. Oh, Light, she's wearing one of those collars!”
“Are you sure?” Perrin said. He came to peer from the window. “I don't see her, Rand. And — and I could recognize her if I did, even at this distance.”
“I am sure,” Rand said. The two women disappeared into one of the houses that faced the next street over. His stomach was twisted into a knot. She is supposed to be safe. She's supposed to be in the White Tower. “I have to get her out. The rest of you —”
“So!” The slurring voice was as soft as the sound of the doors sliding in their tracks. “You are not who I expected.”
For a brief moment, Rand stared. The tall man with the shaven head who had stepped into the room wore a long, trailing blue robe, and his fingernails were so long that Rand wondered if he could handle anything. The two men standing obsequiously behind him had only half their dark hair shaved, the rest hanging in a dark braid down each man's right cheek. One of them cradled a sheathed sword in his arms.
It was only a moment he had for staring, then screens toppled to reveal, at either end of the room, a doorway crowded with four or five Seanchan soldiers, bareheaded but armored, and swords in hand.