Knife of Dreams

Chapter Sixteen The New Follower

The Blue Reception Room, named for its arched ceiling, painted to display the sky and white clouds, and its blue floor tiles, was the smallest reception room in the palace, less than ten paces square. The arched windows that made up the far wall, overlooking a courtyard and still filled with glassed casements against the spring weather, gave a fair light even with the rain falling outside, but despite two large fireplaces with carved marble mantels, a cornice of plaster lions and a pair of tapestries bearing the White Lion that flanked the doors, a delegation of Caemlyn’s merchants would have been insulted to be received in the Blue Room, a delegation of bankers livid. Likely that was why Mistress Harfor had put the mercenaries there, although they would not know they were being insulted. She herself was present “overseeing” the pair of liveried young maids who were keeping the winecups full from tall silver pitchers standing on a tray atop a plainly carved sideboard, but she had the embossed leather folder used to carry her reports pressed to her bosom, as if in anticipation of the mercenaries being dealt with quickly. Halwin Norry, the wisps of white hair behind his ears as always looking like feathers, was standing in a corner, also with his leather folder clutched to his narrow chest. Their reports were a daily fixture, and seldom much in them to cheer the heart of late. Quite the opposite.

Warned by the pair of Guards women who had checked the room ahead of her, everyone was on their feet when Elayne entered with another pair at her back. Deni Colford, in charge of the Guardswomen who had replaced Devore and the others, had simply ignored her order for them all to remain outside. Ignored her! She supposed they made a good show, swaggering proudly as they did, yet she could not stop grinding her teeth.

Careane and Sareitha, formal in their fringed shawls, bowed their heads slightly in respect, but Mellar swept off his plumed hat in a flourishing bow, one hand laid over the lace-edged sash slanting across his burnished breastplate. The six golden knots brazed to that breastplate, three on each shoulder, rankled her, yet she had let them pass so far. His hatchet face offered her a smile that was much too warm, too, but then, however cold she was to him, he thought he had some chance with her because she had not denied the rumor her babes were his. Her reasons for not countering that filthy tale had changed—she no longer had need to protect her babes, Rand’s babes—yet she let it stand. Give the man time, and he would braid a rope for his own neck. And if he failed to, she would braid one for him.

The mercenaries, all well into their middle years, were only a heartbeat behind Mellar, though not so elaborate in their courtesies. Evard Cordwyn, a tall, square-jawed Andoran, wore a large ruby in his left ear, and Aldred Gomaisen, short and slender, the front of his head shaved, had horizontal stripes of red and green and blue covering half his chest, far more than it seemed at all likely he was entitled to in his native Cairhien. Hafeen Bakuvun, graying, was ornamented with a thick gold hoop in his left ear and a jeweled ring on every finger. The Domani was very stout, but the way he moved spoke of solid muscle beneath the fat.

“Don’t you have duties. Captain Mellar?” Elayne said coolly, taking one of the room’s few chairs. There were only five, arms and high backs simply carved with vines and leaves and lacking even a hint of gilt. Standing in a widely spaced row in front of the windows, the chairs put the light behind whoever sat in them. On a bright day, those given audience here squinted in the glare. Unfortunately, that advantage was lost today. The two Guardswomen took up positions behind her and to either side, each with a hand resting on her sword hilt, watching the mercenaries with fierce expressions that made Bakuvun smile and Gomaisen rub his chin to half-hide a sly grin. The women gave no sign of being offended; they knew the point of their uniforms. Elayne knew they would wipe away any smiles very quickly if they needed to draw their blades.

“My first duty above all is to protect you, my Lady.” Easing his sword, Mellar eyed the mercenaries as though he expected them to attack her, or perhaps him. Gomaisen looked bitterly amused, and Bakuvun laughed aloud. All three men had empty scabbards, Cordwyn a pair on his back; no mercenary was allowed to enter the palace carrying so much as a dagger.

“I know you have other duties.” she said levelly, “because I assigned them to you. Captain. Training the men I brought in from the countryside. You are not spending as much time with them as I expect. You have a company of men to train, Captain.” A company of old men and boys, and surely enough to occupy his hours. He spent few enough with her bodyguards in spite of commanding them. That was just as well, really. He liked to pinch bottoms. “I suggest you see to them. Now.”

Rage flashed across Mellar’s narrow face—he actually quivered!—but he mastered himself instantly. It was all gone so fast that she might have imagined it. But she knew she had not. “As you command, my Lady,” he said smoothly. His smile had an oily smoothness, too. “My honor is to serve you well.” With another flamboyant bow, he started for the door, as near to strutting as made no difference. Little could dent Doilin Mellar’s demeanor for long.

Bakuvun laughed again, throwing his head back. “Man wears so much lace now, I vow. I keep expecting him to offer to teach us to dance, and now he does dance.” The Cairhienin laughed, too, a nasty, guttural sound.

Mellar’s back stiffened and his step hesitated, then quickened, so much so that he bumped into Birgitte at the doorway. He hurried on without stopping to ask pardon, and she frowned after him—the bond carried anger, quickly suppressed, and impatience, which was not—before shutting the door behind her and moving to stand beside Elayne’s chair with one hand resting on the chairback. Her thick braid was not so neatly done as usual after having been undone for drying, but the uniform of the Captain-General suited her. Taller than Gomaisen in her heeled boots. Birgitte had a commanding presence when she wanted to. The mercenaries offered her small bows, respectful though not deferential. Whatever misgivings of her they might have entertained in the beginning, few who had seen her use her bow.or expose herself to the enemy, had any remaining.

“You speak as if you know Captain Mellar, Captain Bakuvun.” Elayne put just a hint of question in that, but kept her tone casual. Birgitte was attempting to project confidence along the bond to equal her expression, yet wariness and worry kept intruding. And the ever-present weariness. Elayne tightened her jaw to fight a yawn. Birgitte had to get some rest.

“I’ve seen him once or twice before, my Lady,” the Domani replied cautiously. “Not above thrice at most, I’d say. Yes, no more than that.” He tilted his head, eyeing her almost sideways. “You know he’s followed my trade in the past?”

“He did not try to hide the fact. Captain,” she said, as if tired of the subject. Had he let anything interesting slip, she might have arranged to question him alone, but pressing was not worth the risk of Mellar discovering that questions were being asked. He might run then, before she could learn what she wanted to know.

“Do we really have need of the Aes Sedai, my Lady?” Bakuvun asked. “The other Aes Sedai,” he added, glancing at her Great Serpent ring. He held out his silver cup, and one of the maids darted to fill it. They were both pretty women, perhaps not the best choices, but Reene had not much to choose from; most of the maids were either young or else aged and not so spry as they once had been. “All they’ve done the whole time we’ve been here is try to put us in awe of the White Tower’s might and reach. I respect Aes Sedai as much as any man, yes, I do indeed, but if you’ll forgive me, it gets tiresome when they turn to trying to browbeat a man. I vow it does, my Lady.”

“A wise man always stands in awe of the Tower,” Sareitha said calmly, shifting her brown-fringed shawl, perhaps to draw attention to it. Her dark, square face lacked the ageless look as yet, and she admitted yearning for it.

“Only fools fail to stand in awe of the Tower.” Careane said on Sareitha’s heels. A bulky woman, as wide in the shoulders as most men, the Green had no need for gestures. Her coppery face proclaimed what she was to anyone who knew what to look for as loudly as did the ring on her right forefinger.

“The word I hear,” Gomaisen said darkly, “is that Tar Valon is besieged. I hear the White Tower is split, with two Amyrlins. I even hear the Tower itself is held by the Black Ajah.” A brave man, to mention that rumor to Aes Sedai, but he still flinched saying it. Flinched and went right on. “Who is it you want us to be in awe of?”

“Do not believe everything you hear. Captain Gomaisen.” Sareitha’s voice was serene, a woman stating indisputable fact. “Truth has more shadings than you might think, and distance often distorts truth into something very different from the facts. Lies about Darkfriend sisters are dangerous to repeat, however.”

“What you had best believe,” Careane added, just as calmly, “is that the White Tower is the White Tower, now and always. And you stand before three Aes Sedai. You should have a care with your words, Captain.”

Gomaisen scrubbed the back of a hand across his mouth, but his dark eyes held defiance. A hunted defiance. “I am just saying what can be heard on any street,” he muttered.

“Are we here to talk about the White Tower?” Cordwyn said, scowling. He emptied his winecup before going on, as if this talk made him uneasy. How much had he already consumed? He seemed a trifle unsteady on his feet, and there was a touch of slur in his words. “The Tower is hundreds of leagues from here, and what happens there is no business of ours.”

“True, friend,” Bakuvun said. “True. Our business is swords, swords and blood. Which, my Lady, brings us to the sordid matter of…”—he waggled thick, be-gemmed fingers—“gold. Every day, we lose men, day after day with no end in sight, and there are very few suitable replacements to be found in the city.”

“None at all that I’ve found.” Cordwyn muttered, eyeing the young maid filling his cup. She blushed at his scrutiny and finished her task quickly, spilling wine on the floor tiles and making Mistress Harfor frown. “Those that might have been are all signing up for the Queen’s Guards.” That was true enough; enlistments seemed to increase by the day. The Queen’s Guards would be a formidable force. Eventually. Unfortunately, the vast majority of those men were months from being able to handle a sword without stabbing themselves in the foot, and further from being of any use in battle.

“As you say, friend,” Bakuvun murmured. “As you say.” He directed a wide smile at Elayne. Perhaps he meant to seem friendly, or maybe reasonable, but it minded her of a man trying to sell her a pig in a sack. “Even after we’re done here, finding new men won’t be easy, my Lady. Suitable men aren’t found under cabbage leaves, no they’re not. Fewer men means fewer coins for our next hires. An inescapable fact of the world. We think it’s only just that we receive compensation.”

Anger surged in Elayne. They thought she was desperate to hold on to them was what they thought! Worse, they were right. These three men represented better than a thousand more between them. Even with what Guybon had brought her, that would be a grievous loss. Especially if it started other mercenaries thinking her cause was lost. Mercenaries disliked being on the losing side. They would run like rats fleeing fire to avoid that. Her anger surged, but she held it in rein. By a hair’s breadth. She could not keep the scorn from her voice, though. “Did you think you would take no casualties? Did you expect to mount guard and take gold for it without baring your swords?”

’You signed for so much gold each day,” Birgitte put in. She did not say how much because every company had bargained for its own agreement. The last thing they needed was for the mercenary companies to grow jealous of one another. As it was, it seemed that half the common room fights the Guards broke up were between men of different companies. “A fixed amount. To put it cruelly, the more men you lose, the greater your profit.”

“Ah. Captain-General,” the stout man said blandly, “but you forget the death-money that has to be paid to the widows and orphans.” Gomaisen made a choking noise, and Cordwyn stared at Bakuvun incredulously then tried to cover it by draining his winecup again.

Elayne trembled, her hands tightening to fists on the arms of her chair. She would not give way to anger. She would not! “I intend to hold you to your agreements,” she said coldly. Well, at least she was not raging. “You’ll be paid what you signed for, including the usual victory gold after I gain the throne, but not a penny more. If you try to back out. I’ll assume you are turning coat and going over to Arymilla, in which case, I’ll have you and your companies arrested and put outside the gates without swords or horses.” The maid refilling Cordwyn’s winecup yet again suddenly squealed and danced away from him rubbing her hip. The anger Elayne had been holding down fountained white hot. “And if one of you ever again dares fondle one of my women, he and his company will be put out without swords, horses, or boots! Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, my Lady.” Bakuvun’s voice held a distinct chill, and his wide mouth was tight. “Very clear indeed. And now, since our… discussion… seems concluded, may we withdraw?”

“Think carefully.” Sareitha said suddenly. “Will the White Tower choose to see an Aes Sedai on the Lion Throne, or a fool like Arymilla Marne?”

“Count the Aes Sedai in this palace.” Careane added. “Count the Aes Sedai inside Caemlyn. There are none in Arymilla’s camps. Count and decide where the White Tower’s favor lies.”

“Count,” Sareitha said, “and remember that the White Tower’s displeasure can be fatal.”

It was very hard to believe that one of them must be Black Ajah, yet it must be so. Unless it was Merilille, of course. Elayne hoped that was not so. She liked Merilille. But then, she liked Careane and Sareitha, too. Not as much as she did Merilille, yet still a liking. Any way she looked at it, a woman she liked was a Darkfriend, and already under penalty of death.

When the mercenaries had departed, making their courtesies hurriedly, and Mistress Harfor had sent the maids away with the remnants of the wine, Elayne leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I handled that very badly, didn’t I?”

“Mercenaries require a strong hand on the reins,” Birgitte replied, but there was doubt in the bond. Doubt and worry.

“If I may say, my Lady.” Norry said in his dry voice, “I cannot see anything else you could have done. Mildness would only have emboldened them to make further demands.’ He had been so still that Elayne had almost forgotten he was there. Blinking at the world, he seemed a wading bird wondering where the water had gone. In contrast to Mistress Harfor’s neatness, ink stains marked his tabard, and his fingers. She eyed the leather folder in his hands with distinct distaste.

“Will you leave us, please, Sareitha, Careane?’ she said. They hesitated slightly, but there was nothing they could do save bow their heads and glide from the room like swans. “And you two as well,” she added over her shoulder to the Guardswomen. They did not so much as twitch!

“Outside!” Birgitte snapped with a jerk of her head that set her braid swaying. “Now!” Oh, the pair jumped for her, they did! They headed for the doors so fast they might as well have trotted!

Elayne scowled as the door closed behind them. “Burn me, I don’t want to hear any bloody bad news, not today. I don’t want to hear how much of the food brought in from Illian and Tear is already spoiled when it arrives. I don’t want to hear about arson, or flour black with weevils, or sewers breeding rats faster than they can be killed, or flies so thick you’d think Caemlyn was a filthy stable. I want to hear some bloody good news for a change.” Burn her, she sounded petulant! Truth be told, she felt petulant. Oh, how that grated! She was trying to gain a throne, and behaving like a child in the nursery!

Master Norry and Mistress Harfor exchanged glances, which only made matters worse. He fondled his folder with a sigh of regret. The man enjoyed droning his numbers, even when they were dire. At least they no longer balked at giving their reports in company. Well, not very far. Jealous of their own responsibilities, each was wary of the other straying and quick to point out where some imagined boundary had been crossed. Still, they managed to run the palace and the city efficiently, with few barked knuckles.

“Are we private, my Lady?” Reene asked.

Elayne drew a deep breath and performed novice exercises that seemed to have no calming effect whatsoever, then attempted to embrace the Source. To her surprise, saidar came to her easily, filling her with the sweetness of life and joy. And soothing her moods, too. It was always that way. Anger or sorrow or just being with child might interfere with embracing the Power in the first place, yet once it filled her, her emotions stopped jumping about. Deftly she wove Fire and Air, just so, with traces of Water, but when she was done, she did not release the Source. The feel of being filled with the Power was wondrous, yet not that much more so than knowing she would not be wanting to weep for no reason or shout for as little in the next moment. After all, she was not foolish enough to draw too deeply.

“We are private.” she said. Saidar touched her ward and was gone. Someone had tried to listen in, not the first time that had happened. With so many women who could channel gathered in the palace, it would have been surprising if no one attempted to snoop, but she wished she knew how to trace whoever was making those attempts. As it was, she hardly dared say anything of substance without a ward in place.

“Then I have a little good news,” Mistress Harfor said, shifting her folder but not opening it, “from Jon Skellit.” The barber had been most assiduous about carrying his reports, approved beforehand by Reene, out to Arymilla and bringing back what he could learn in the camps outside the city. He was in the employ of Naean Arawn, but Naean, supporting Arymilla’s claim, would surely share Skellit’s reports with Arymilla. Unfortunately, what he had been able to learn so far had not been much of use. “He says that Arymilla and the High Seats supporting her intend to be in the first party to ride into Caemlyn. She boasts of it constantly, it seems.”

Elayne sighed. Arymilla and the others stayed together, moving from camp to camp according to no pattern she could see, and for some time great effort had gone into trying to learn where they would be ahead of time. A simple matter then to send soldiers through a gateway to seize all of them at once and decapitate her opposition. As simple as such things could be, anyway. Men would die under the best of circumstances, some of the High Seats might well escape, yet if only Arymilla herself could be taken, there would be an end to it. Elenia and Naean had made public renunciation of their own claims, which was irreversible. That pair might go on supporting Arymilla if they remained free—they had tied themselves to her tightly—but with Arymilla in hand, all Elayne really would have to contend with was gaining the support of at least four more of the great Houses. As if it were easy. So far, efforts in that direction had proven futile. Perhaps today would bring good news on that front, though. But this news was useless. If Arymilla and the others were riding into Caemlyn it would mean the city was beyond the brink of falling. Worse, if Arymilla was boasting, she must believe it would happen soon. The woman was a fool in many ways, but it would be a mistake to underestimate her completely. She had not carried her claim this far by being an absolute fool.

“This is your good news?” Birgitte said. She saw the implications, too. “A hint of when might help.”

Reene spread her hands. “Arymilla gave Skellit a gold crown with her own hands once, my Lady. He turned it over to me as proof that he’s reformed.” Her lips compressed for a moment; Skellit had saved himself from hanging, yet he would never regain trust. “That’s the only time the man’s been within ten paces of her. He has to go by what he can pick up gossiping with the other men.” She hesitated. “He’s very afraid, my Lady. The men in those camps are certain they’ll take the city in a matter of days.”

“Afraid enough to turn his coat a third time?” Elayne asked quietly. There was nothing to say to the other matter.

“No, my Lady. If Naean, or Arymilla, learns what he’s done, he’s a dead man, and he knows it. But he’s afraid if the city falls, they will learn. I think he may bolt soon.”

Elayne nodded grimly. Mercenaries were not the only rats to flee fire. “Do you have any good news, Master Norry?”

The First Clerk had been standing quietly, fingering his embossed leather folder and trying to appear as if he were not listening to Reene. “I think I can better Mistress Harfor, my Lady.” There might have been a touch of triumph in his smile. Of late, it was rare for him to have better news than she. “I have a man I believe can follow Mellar successfully. May I have him brought in?”

Now, that was excellent news. Five men had died trying to follow Doilin Mellar when he went out into the city at night, and the “coincidence” seemed strained. The first time, it had appeared the fellow fell afoul of a footpad, and she thought nothing of it beyond settling a pension on the man’s widow. The Guards managed to keep crime under some control—except for arson, at least—yet robbers used darkness as a cloak to hide in. The other four had seemed the same, killed with a single knife thrust, their purses emptied, but however dangerous the streets at night, coincidence hardly seemed credible.

When she nodded, the spindly old man hurried to the doors and opened one to put his head out. She could not hear what he said—the ward worked both ways—but in a few minutes a burly Guardsman entered pushing ahead of him a shuffling man with fetters on his wrists and ankles. Everything about the prisoner seemed… average. He was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short. His hair was brown, of no particular shade she could name, and his eyes as well. His face was so ordinary she doubted she could describe him. No feature stood out at all. His clothing was just as unremarkable, a plain brown coat and breeches of neither the best wool nor the worst, somewhat rumpled and beginning to show dirt, a lightly embossed belt with a simple metal buckle that might have ten thousand twins in Caemlyn. In short, he was eminently forgettable. Birgitte motioned the Guardsman to stop the fellow well short of the chairs and told him to wait outside.

“A reliable man,” Norry said, watching the Guardsman leave. “Afrim Hansard. He served your mother faithfully, and knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“Chains?” Elayne said.

“This is Samwil Hark, my Lady,” Norry said, eyeing the man with the sort of curiosity he might have shown toward an unfamiliar and oddly shaped animal, “a remarkably successful cutpurse. The Guards only caught him because another ruffian… um… ‘turned the cat on him.’ as they say in the streets, hoping to lessen his own sentence for a third offense of strongarm robbery.” A thief would be eager for that. Not only was the flogging longer, the thief-mark branded on his forehead would be much harder to disguise or hide than the mark on his thumb for his second offense. “Anyone who has managed to keep from being caught for as long as Master Hark should be able to carry out the task I have in mind for him.”

“I’m innocent, I am, my Lady.” Hark knuckled his forehead, the iron chains of his fetters clinking, and put on an ingratiating smile. He talked very quickly. “It’s all lies and happenstances, it is. I’m a good Queen’s man, I am. I wore your mother’s colors in the riots, my Lady. Not that I took part in the rioting, you understand. I’m a clerk when I have work, which I’m out of at the moment. But I wore her colors on my cap for all to see, I did.” The bond was full of Birgitte’s skepticism.

“Master Hark’s rooms contained chests full of neatly cut purses,” the First Clerk went on. “There are thousands of them, my Lady. Quite literally thousands. I suppose he may regret keeping… urn… trophies. Most cutpurses have sense enough to get rid of the purse as soon as possible.”

“I picks them up when I sees one, I does, my Lady.” Hark spread his hands as far as his chains allowed and shrugged, the very image of injured innocence. “Maybe it were foolish, but I never saw no harm. Just a harmless sort of amusement, my Lady.”

Mistress Harfor sniffed loudly, disapproval clear on her face. Hark managed to look even more hurt.

“His rooms also contained coins to the value of over one hundred twenty gold crowns, secreted under the floorboards, in cubbyholes in the walls, in the rafters, everywhere. His excuse for that,” Norry raised his voice as Hark opened his mouth again, “is that he distrusts bankers. He claims the money is an inheritance from an aged aunt in Four Kings. I myself very much doubt the magistrates in Four Kings will have registered such an inheritance, though. The magistrate judging his case says he seemed surprised to learn that inheritances are registered.’ Indeed, Hark’s smile laded somewhat at being reminded. “He says that he worked for Wilbin Saems, a merchant, until Saems’ death four months ago, but Master Saems’ daughter maintains the business, and neither she nor any of the other clerks recall any Samwil Hark.”

“They hates me, they does, my Lady,” Hark said in a sullen voice. His hands gripped the chain between them in fists. “I was gathering evidence of how they was stealing from the good master—his own daughter, mind!—only he died afore I could give it to him, and I was turned out in the streets without a reference or a penny, I was. They burned what I’d gathered, gave me a drubbing and threw me out.”

Elayne tapped her chin thoughtfully. “A clerk, you say. Most clerks are better spoken than you. Master Hark, but I’ll offer you a chance to give evidence for your claim. Would you send for a lapdesk. Master Norry?”

Norry gave a thin smile. How could the man make a smile seem dry? “No need, my Lady. The magistrate in the case had the same idea.” For the first time that she had ever seen, he took a sheet of paper from the folder clutched to his chest. She thought trumpets should sound! Hark’s smile faded away completely as his eyes followed that page from Norry’s hand to hers.

One glance was all that was needed. A few uneven lines covered less than half the sheet, the letters cramped and awkward. No more than half a dozen words were actually legible, and those barely.

“Hardly the hand of a clerk.” she murmured. Returning the page to Norry, she tried to make her face stern. She had seen her mother passing judgment. Morgase had been able to make herself appear implacable. “I fear. Master Hark, that you will sit in a cell until the magistrates in Four Kings can be queried, and soon after that you will hang.” Hark’s lips writhed, and he put a hand to his throat as if he could already feel the noose. “Unless, of course, you agree to follow a man for me. A dangerous man who doesn’t like to be followed. If you can tell me where he goes at night, instead of hanging, you will be exiled to Baerlon. Where you would be well advised to find a new line of work. The governor will be informed of you.”

Suddenly Hark’s smile was back. “Of course, my Lady. I’m innocent, but I can see how things look dark against me, I can. I’ll follow any man you want me to. I was your mother’s man, I was, and I’m your man, too. Loyal is what I am, my Lady, loyal if I suffers for it.”

Birgitte snorted derisively.

“Arrange for Master Hark to see Mellar’s face without being seen, Birgitte.” The man was unmemorable, but there was no point in taking chances. “Then turn him loose.” Hark looked ready to dance, iron chains or no iron chains. “But first… You see this. Master Hark?” She held up her right hand so he could not miss the Great Serpent ring. “You may have heard that I am Aes Sedai.” With the Power already in her, it was a simple matter to weave Spirit. “It is true.” The weave she laid on Hark’s belt buckle, his boots, his coat and breeches, was somewhat akin to that for the Warder bond, though much less complex. It would fade from the clothing and boots in a few weeks, or months at best, but metal would hold a Finder forever. “I’ve laid a weave on you. Master Hark. Now you can be found wherever you are.” In truth, only she would be able to find him—a Finder was attuned to the one who wove it—but there was no reason to tell him that. “Just to be sure that you are indeed loyal.”

Hark’s smile seemed frozen in place. Sweat beaded on his forehead. When Birgitte went to the door and called in Hansard, giving him instructions to take Hark away and keep him safe from prying eyes, Hark staggered and would have fallen if the husky Guardsman had not held him up on the way out of the room.

“I fear I may just have given Mellar a sixth victim,” Elayne muttered. “He hardly seems capable of following his own shadow without tripping over his boots.” It was not so much Hark’s death she regretted. The man would have hanged for sure. “I want whoever put that bloody man in my palace. I want them so badly my teeth ache!” The palace was riddled with spies—Reene had uncovered above a dozen beyond Skellit, though she believed that was all of them—but whether Mellar had been set to spy or to facilitate kidnapping her, he was worse than the others. He had arranged for men to die, or he had killed them, in order to gain his place. That those men had thought they were to kill her made no difference. Murder was murder.

“Trust me, my Lady,” Norry said, laying a finger alongside his long nose. “Cutpurses are… um… stealthy by nature, yet they seldom last long. Sooner or later they cut the purse of someone faster afoot than they, someone who doesn’t wait for the Guards.” He made a quick gesture as if stabbing someone. “Hark has lasted at least twenty years. A number of the purses in his… um… collection were embroidered with prayers of thanks for the end of the Aiel War. Those went out of fashion very quickly, as I recall.”

Birgitte sat down on the arm of the next chair and folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I could arrest Mellar,” she said quietly, “and have him put to the question. You’d have no need of Hark then.”

“A poor joke, my Lady, if I may say so,” Mistress Harfor said stiffly, at the same time that Master Norry said, “That would be… um… against the law, my Lady.”

Birgitte bounded to her feet, outrage flooding the bond. “Blood and bloody ashes! We know the man’s as rotten as last month’s fish.”

“No.” Elayne sighed, fighting not to feel outraged as well. “We have suspicions, not proof. Those five men might have fallen afoul of footpads. The law is quite clear on when someone may be put to the question, and suspicions are not reason enough. Solid evidence is needed. My mother often said, ‘The Queen must obey the law she makes, or there is no law.” I will not begin by breaking the law.” The bond carried something… stubborn. She fixed Birgitte with a steady look. “Neither will you. Do you understand me. Birgitte Trahelion? Neither will you.”

To her surprise, the stubbornness lasted only moments longer before dwindling away to be replaced by chagrin. “It was only a suggestion,” Birgitte muttered weakly.

Elayne was wondering how she had done that and how to do it again—sometimes there seemed doubt in Birgitte’s mind over which of them was in charge—when Deni Colford slipped into the room and cleared her throat to draw attention to herself. A long, brass-studded cudgel balanced the sword hanging at the heavyset woman’s waist, looking out of place. Deni was getting better with the sword but still preferred the cudgel she had used keeping order in a wagon drivers’ tavern. “A servant came to say that the Lady Dyelin has arrived, my Lady, and will be at your service as soon as she’s freshened herself.”

“Send the Lady Dyelin word that she’s to meet me in the Map Room.” Elayne felt a surge of hope. At last, perhaps, she might hear some good news.