The Wheel of Time, page 722
Lini’s hands were folded at her waist, but she watched with a keen eye, no little like a falcon herself, and Master Gill began fidgeting as soon as he stopped talking. He seemed to take Perrin’s grimace as a demand for more. He laughed, more on edge than amused. “I haven’t seen so much of the world since the Aiel War, and I was considerably skinnier, then. Why, we’ve been as far as Amador. Of course, we left after those Seanchan took the city, but truth, they aren’t any worse than the Whitecloaks, that I could—” He cut off as Perrin leaned forward abruptly and seized his lapel.
“Seanchan, Master Gill? Are you sure of that? Or is it one of those rumors, like the Aiel, or Aes Sedai?”
“I saw them,” Gill replied, exchanging uncertain looks with Lini. “And that’s what they call themselves. I’m surprised you don’t know. Word’s been running ahead of us all the way from Amador. These Seanchan want people to know what they’re about. Strange people, with strange creatures.” His voice picked up intensity. “Like Shadowspawn. Big leathery things that fly, and carry men, and these things like lizards, only they’re big as horses, and they have three eyes. I saw them! I did!”
“I believe you,” Perrin said, releasing the man’s coat. “I’ve seen them, too.” At Falme, where a thousand Whitecloaks died in minutes and it had taken dead heroes of legend, called by the Horn of Valere, to throw the Seanchan back. Rand had said they would return, but how could they have so soon? Light! If they held Amador, they had to have Tarabon as well, or most of it. Only a fool killed a deer when he knew there was a wounded bear behind his back. How much had they taken? “I can’t send you to Caemlyn right away, Master Gill, but if you stay with me a while longer, I’ll see you there safely.” If staying with him any length of time was safe. The Prophet, Whitecloaks, and now maybe Seanchan added in.
“I think you’re a good man,” Lini said suddenly. “I’m afraid we didn’t tell you the whole truth, and maybe we should.”
“Lini, what are you saying?” Master Gill exclaimed, bounding to his feet. “I think the heat’s getting to her,” he told Perrin. “And all the travel. She has strange fancies, sometimes. You know how old folks can get. Hush, now, Lini!”
Lini slapped away the hand he was trying to put over her mouth. “You mind yourself, Basel Gill! I’ll ‘old’ you! Maighdin was running from Tallanvor, in a manner of speaking, and he was chasing her. We all were, four days now, and near killing us and the horses both. Well, it’s no wonder she doesn’t know her own mind half the time; you men snarl up a woman’s wits so she can hardly think, then you pretend you’ve done nothing at all. The lot of you ought to have your ears boxed on general principle. The girl’s afraid of her own heart! Those two should be married, and the quicker the better.”
Master Gill gaped at her, and Perrin was not sure his own mouth might not be hanging open. “I’m not certain I understand what it is you want of me,” he said slowly, and the white-haired woman leaped in before he was well finished.
“Don’t pretend to be dense. I won’t believe it in you for a moment. I can see you have more wits than most men. That’s the worst habit you men have, making believe you don’t see what’s plain under your noses.” What had happened to all those curtsies? Folding thin arms across her chest, she eyed him sternly. “Well, if you must pretend, I’ll set it out for you. This Lord Dragon of yours does whatever he wants, the way I hear. Your Prophet picks out people and marries them on the spot. Very well; you snatch up Maighdin and Tallanvor and marry them. He’ll thank you, and so will she. When her mind settles.”
Stunned, Perrin glanced at Master Gill, who shrugged and made a sickly grin. “If you will forgive me,” Perrin told the frowning woman, “I have some matters I must see to.” He hurried away, only looking back once. Lini was shaking a finger at Master Gill, berating him despite his protests. The breeze was wrong for Perrin to hear what they were saying. In truth, he did not want to. They were all crazy!
Berelain might have her two maids and her thief-catchers, but Faile had her own attendants, of a sort. Close on twenty young Tairens and Cairhienin were sitting cross-legged near the tent, the women in coats and breeches with swords belted on just like the men. None wore their hair longer than the shoulder, and men and women both had it tied back with a ribbon, imitating the Aiel tail. Perrin wondered where the rest were; they seldom strayed far from the sound of Faile’s voice. Not causing trouble, he hoped. She had taken them under her wing to keep them out of trouble, she said, and the Light knew they would have gotten into it, left back in Cairhien with a great lot of young fools just like them. In Perrin’s opinion, the whole lashing of them needed a swift kick in the bottom to knock some sense into them. Dueling, playing at ji’e’toh, pretending to be some sort of Aiel. Idiocy!
Lacile rose to her feet as Perrin came closer, a pale little woman with red ribbons pinned to her lapels, small gold hoops in her ears, and a challenging stare that sometimes made the Two Rivers men think she might like a kiss despite her sword. Right then, the challenge was stony hard. A moment behind her, Arrela stood too, tall and dark, with her hair cut short as a Maiden’s and her clothes plainer than most of the men’s. Unlike Lacile, Arrela made it clear she would as soon kiss a dog as any man. The pair made as if to move in front of the tent, to block Perrin’s way, but a square-chinned fellow in a puffy-sleeved coat barked an order and they sat again. Reluctantly. For that matter, Parelean thumbed that block of a chin as though he might be reconsidering. He had worn a beard the first time Perrin saw him—several of the Tairen men had had them—but Aiel did not wear beards.
Perrin muttered about foolishness under his breath. They were Faile’s to the bone, and the fact that he was her husband meant little. Aram might be jealous of his attentions, yet Aram at least shared his affections with Faile. He could feel the young idiots’ eyes on him as he strode inside. Faile would skin him if she ever learned that he hoped they would keep her from trouble.
The tent was tall and spacious, with a flowered carpet for a floor and sparse furnishings that folded for storage on a cart, most of them. The heavy stand-mirror certainly could not. Except for brass-bound chests draped with embroidered cloths and doubling as extra tables, straight lines of bright gilt decorated everything down to the washstand and its mirror. A dozen mirrored lamps made the interior nearly as bright as outside, if considerably cooler, and there were even a pair of silk hangings dangling from the roof poles, too ornate for Perrin’s taste. Too rigid, with the birds and flowers marching in lines and angles. Dobraine had set them up to travel like Cairhienin nobles, though Perrin had managed to “lose” the worst of it. The huge bed, for one, a ridiculous thing to travel with. It had taken up almost a whole cart to itself.
Faile and Maighdin were sitting alone together, worked silver cups in hand. They had the air of women feeling one another out, all smiles on the outside yet with a hint of sharpness to the eyes, a hint of listening for something behind the words, and not a clue as to whether they would hug in the next instant or draw knives. Well, he thought most women would not actually go as far as knives, but Faile could. Maighdin appeared much less travel-worn than she had, washed and combed, the dust brushed from her dress. A small mosaic-topped table between them held more cups and a tall sweating silver pitcher that gave off the minty scent of herb tea. Both women looked around at his entrance, and for an instant, they had almost exactly the same expression, coolly wondering who was barging in and not at all pleased with the interruption. At least Faile softened hers immediately with a smile.
“Master Gill told me your story, Mistress Dorlain,” he said. “You’ve faced hard days, but you can be sure you’re safe here till you decide to leave.” The woman murmured thanks over the rim of her cup, but she smelled wary, and her eyes tried to read him like a book.
“Maighdin also told me their story, Perrin,” Faile said, “and I have an offer to make her. Maighdin, you and your friends have had trying months behind, and you tell me of no prospects ahead. Enter my service, all of you. You will still have to journey, but the circumstances will be much better. I pay well, and I am not a harsh mistress.” Perrin voiced his approval immediately. If Faile wanted to indulge her fancy for taking in strays, at least he wanted to help this lot, too. Maybe they would be safer with him than wandering around alone at that.
Choking on her tea, Maighdin nearly dropped her cup. She blinked at Faile, dabbing at the damp on her chin with a lace-edged linen handkerchief, and her chair creaked faintly as she turned, strangely, to study Perrin. “I . . . thank you,” she said at last, slowly. “I think. . . .” Another moment’s perusal of Perrin, and her voice picked up. “Yes, I thank you, and I accept your kind offer gratefully. I must tell my companions.” Rising, she hesitated in setting her cup on the tray, then straightened only to spread her skirts in a curtsy suitable for any palace. “I will try to give good service, my Lady,” she said levelly. “May I withdraw?” At Faile’s assent, she curtsied again and backed away two steps before turning to go! Perrin scratched his beard. Somebody else who would be bobbing at him every time she turned around.
No sooner had the tentflap dropped behind Maighdin than Faile put her cup down and laughed, drumming her heels on the carpet. “Oh, I like her, Perrin. She has spirit! I’ll wager she would have singed your beard over those banners if I hadn’t saved you. Oh, yes. Spirit!”
Perrin grunted. Just what he needed; another woman to singe his beard. “I promised Master Gill to look after them, Faile, but. . . . Can you guess what that Lini asked? She wanted me to marry Maighdin to that fellow Tallanvor. Just stand them up and marry them whatever they said! She claimed they want it.” He filled a silver cup with tea and dropped into the chair Maighdin had vacated, ignoring its alarming groans under his sudden weight. “In any case, that nonsense is the least of my worries. Master Gill says it was the Seanchan took Amador, and I believe him. Light! The Seanchan!”
Faile tapped her fingertips together, staring across them at nothing. “That might be just the thing,” she mused. “Most servants do better married than not. Perhaps I should arrange it. And for Breane, too. The way she went running out of here to check on that big fellow as soon as her face was clean, I suspect they should be already. There was a gleam in her eye. I won’t have that kind of behavior in my servants, Perrin. It just leads to tears and recriminations and sulking. And Breane will be worse than he is.”
Perrin stared at her. “Did you hear me?” he said slowly. “The Seanchan have captured Amador! The Seanchan, Faile!”
She gave a start—she really had been thinking about marrying off those women!—then smiled at him, amused. “Amador is a long way, yet, and if we do meet with these Seanchan, I’m sure you will deal with them. After all, you taught me to perch on your wrist, didn’t you?” That was what she claimed, though he had never seen any sign of it.
“They might be a touch more difficult than you were,” he said dryly, and she smiled again. She smelled extremely pleased, for some reason. “I’m thinking about sending Grady or Neald to warn Rand, no matter what he said.” She shook her head fiercely, smiles evaporating, but he pushed on. “If I knew how to find him, I would. There has to be some way to get word to him without anyone learning of it.” Rand had insisted on that more than he had on secrecy about Masema. Perrin had been exiled from Rand’s presence, and no one was to know anything remained between them except enmity.
“He knows, Perrin. I’m sure of it. Maighdin saw pigeoncotes everywhere in Amador, and apparently the Seanchan didn’t look at them twice. By this time, any merchant who has business with Amador has heard, and so has the White Tower. Believe me, Rand must have, too. You have to trust that he knows best. In this, he does.” She was not always so certain of that.
“Maybe,” Perrin muttered irritably. He tried not to worry about Rand’s sanity, but Rand made Perrin at his most suspicious look like a child skipping in a meadow. How much did Rand trust even him? Rand kept things back, had plans he never let on.
Exhaling, Perrin settled back in the chair, gulped a swallow of tea. The truth of it was, mad or sane, Rand was right. If the Forsaken caught a suspicion of what he was up to, or the White Tower did, they would find some way to overturn the anvil on his feet. “At least I can give the Tower’s eyes-and-ears less to talk about. This time, I’m burning that bloody banner.” And the Wolfhead, too. He might have to play at being a lord, but he could do it without a bloody flag!
Faile’s full lips pursed judiciously, and she shook her head slightly. Slipping from her chair, she knelt beside him, took his wrist in her hands. Perrin met her level gaze warily. When she looked at him so intently, so seriously, she was about to tell him something important. That, or pull the wool over his eyes and spin him around till he did not know front from back. Her scent told him nothing. He tried to stop smelling her; it was all too easy to lose himself in that, and then she would pull the wool over his eyes. One thing he had learned since marrying: a man needed all of his wits dealing with a woman. Too often even that was not enough; women did what they wanted as surely as Aes Sedai.
“You might want to reconsider, husband,” she murmured. A tiny smile quirked her mouth as if she once again knew what he was thinking. “I doubt anyone who’s seen us since we entered Ghealdan knew what the Red Eagle is. Around a town the size of Bethal, some will, though. And the longer we have to hunt for Masema, the greater the chance.”
He did not bother with saying that was all the more reason to get rid of the banner. Faile was no fool, and she thought much faster than he. “Then why keep it,” he asked slowly, “when all it’ll do is draw eyes to the idiot everybody will think is trying to pull Manetheren out of the grave?” Men had tried that in the past, and women, too; the name of Manetheren carried powerful memories, and it was convenient for anyone who wanted to start a rebellion.
“Because it will draw eyes.” She leaned toward him intently. “To a man trying to raise up Manetheren again. Lesser folk will smile to your face, hope you ride on soon, and try to forget you as soon as you do. As for the greater, they’ve too much in front of their faces right now to look twice unless you pinch their noses. Compared to the Seanchan, or the Prophet, or the Whitecloaks, a man trying to raise Manetheren is small turnips. And I think it’s safe to say the Tower won’t look twice either, not now.” Her smile widened, and the light in her eyes said she was about to make her most telling point. “But most important, no one will think that man is doing anything else.” Abruptly her smile vanished; she stuck a finger against his nose, hard. “And don’t call yourself an idiot, Perrin t’Bashere Aybara. Not even sideways, like that. You aren’t, and I do not like it.” Her scent was tiny spikes, not true anger but definitely displeased.
Quicksilver. A kingfisher flashing by faster than thought. Certainly faster than his thoughts. It would never have occurred to him to hide so . . . flagrantly. But he could see the sense. It was like concealing the fact that you were a murderer by claiming to be a thief. Yet it might work.
Chuckling, he kissed her fingertip. “The banner stays,” he said. He supposed that meant the Wolfhead did, too. Blood and bloody ashes! “Alliandre has to know the truth, though. If she thinks Rand means to set me up as King of Manetheren and take her lands. . . .”
Faile rose so suddenly, turning away, that he was afraid he had made a mistake bringing up the Queen. Alliandre could lead to Berelain all too easily, and Faile smelled . . . prickly. Wary. But what she said, over her shoulder, was “Alliandre won’t be a bit of trouble for Perrin Goldeneyes. That bird’s as good as netted, husband, so it’s time to put our minds on how to find Masema.” Kneeling gracefully beside a small chest against the tent wall, the only chest without draperies, she lifted the lid and began removing rolled maps.
Perrin hoped she was right about Alliandre, because he did not know what to do if she was wrong. If only he were half what she thought him. Alliandre was a netted bird, the Seanchan would fall over like dolls for Perrin Goldeneyes, and he would snatch up the Prophet and take him to Rand if Masema had ten thousand men around him. Not for the first time he realized that however much her anger hurt and confused him, it was her disappointment he feared. If he ever saw that in her eyes, it would rip the heart out of his chest.
He knelt beside her and helped her spread out the largest map, covering the south of Ghealdan and the north of Amadicia, and studied it as though Masema’s name would leap off the parchment at him. He had more reason than Rand to want to succeed. Whatever else, he could not fail Faile.
Faile lay in the darkness, listening until she was sure that Perrin’s breath had the deep rhythm of sleep, then slipped out from the blankets they shared. Rueful amusement touched her as she pulled her linen nightdress up over her head. Did he really think she would not find out that he had hidden the bed deep in a copse one morning while the carts were being loaded? Not that she minded; not a great deal, at least. She was sure she had slept on the ground as often as he. She had pretended surprise, of course, and made light of it. Anything else, and he would have apologized, perhaps even gone back to fetch the bed. Managing a husband was an art, so her mother said. Had Deira ni Ghaline ever found it so difficult?
Scuffing her bare feet into slippers, she shrugged into a silk robe, then hesitated, looking down at Perrin. He would be able to see her clearly, if he woke, but to her, he was just a shadowed mound. She wished her mother were there, now, to advise her. She loved Perrin with every fiber of her being, and he confused every fiber. Actually understanding men was impossible, of course, but he was so unlike anyone she had grown up with. He never swaggered, and instead of laughing at himself, he was . . . modest. She had not believed a man could be modest! He insisted that only chance had made him a leader, claimed he did not know how to lead, when men who met him were ready to follow after an hour. He dismissed his own thinking as slow, when those slow, considering thoughts saw so deeply that she had to dance a merry jig to keep any secrets at all. He was a wonderful man, her curly-haired wolf. So strong. And so gentle. Sighing, she tiptoed from the tent. His ears had caused her difficulties before.
