Of course, Dobraine never even glanced at her. Instead his deep-set eyes studied Perrin, his face sober, even somber, below his shaved and powdered forehead. Dobraine did not smell of drink even faintly, and he hardly looked as if he had been dancing. The one time Perrin had met him before, he had thought the man smelled wary; not afraid, but as though he was padding through tangled woods full of poisonous snakes. That smell was ten times stronger today. “Grace favor you, Lord Aybara,” Dobraine said, inclining his head. “May I speak with you alone?”
Perrin set the book on the floor beside his chair and motioned to one opposite him. “The Light shine on you, Lord Dobraine.” If the man wanted to be formal, Perrin could be formal. But there were limits. “Whatever you have to say, my wife can hear. I keep no secrets from her. And Loial is my friend.”
He could feel Faile’s gaze on him. The sudden scent of her nearly overpowered him. For some reason, he associated that with her loving him; when she was at her tenderest, or when her kisses were fiercest, that aroma almost overwhelmed him. He thought about telling Dobraine to go—and Loial and Sulin too; if Faile smelled that way, surely he could make it all right somehow—but the Cairhien was already sitting.
“A man who has a wife he can trust, Lord Aybara, is favored of grace beyond wealth.” Still, Dobraine eyed her a moment before going on. “Today Cairhien has suffered two misfortunes. This morning, Lord Maringil was found dead in his bed, of poison it appears. And only a short while later High Lord Meilan apparently fell victim to a footpad’s blade in the streets. Most unusual during the Feast of Lights.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Perrin said slowly.
Dobraine spread his hands. “You are the Lord Dragon’s friend, and he is not here.” He hesitated, and when he went on, it seemed he was forcing words. “Last night, Colavaere dined with guests from a number of the smaller Houses. Daganred, Chuliandred, Annallin, Osiellin, others. Small by themselves, but numerous. The subject was alliance with House Saighan and support for Colavaere for the Sun Throne. She made little effort to hide the meeting.” Again he paused, weighing Perrin with his eyes. Whatever Dobraine saw, he seemed to think it called for more explanation. “This is most strange, because both Maringil and Meilan wanted the throne, and either would have had her smothered with her own pillows had they learned of it.”
At last Perrin understood, though not why the man needed to beat around the bush so. He wished Faile would speak up; she was so much better at this sort of thing than he. From the corner of his eye he could see her, head bent over the stones board, and watching him from the corner of her eye. “If you think Colavaere committed a crime, Lord Dobraine, you should go to . . . to Rhuarc.” He had been going to say Berelain, but even so, the thread of jealousy increased slightly in Faile’s scent.
“The Aiel savage?” Dobraine snorted. “Better to go to Berelain, and that not much. I admit the Mayener wench knows how to order a city, but she thinks every day is the Feast of Lights. Colavaere will have her sliced and cooked with peppers. You are the Dragon Reborn’s friend. Colavaere—” This time he stopped because he finally realized that Berelain had entered the room without knocking, something long and narrow and wrapped in a blanket cradled in her arms.
Perrin had heard the door latch click, and at the sight of her, with half her bosom exposed, fury almost washed everything else out of his head. The woman came here, to carry on her flirting in front of his wife? Rage drove him to his feet, and his hands slapped together with a thunder crack. “Out! Out, woman! Out, now! Or I will throw you out, and I will throw you so far you bounce twice!”
Berelain gave such a start at his first shout that she dropped her burden and took a wide-eyed step back, although she did not leave. By the last word, Perrin realized that everyone was looking at him. Dobraine’s face appeared impassive, but his scent was all astonishment, like one tall stone spike in the middle of a flat plain. Loial’s ears were as stiffly erect as that spike, and his jaw on his chest. And Faile, wearing that cool smile. . . . Perrin did not understand at all. He expected the waves of jealousy, with Berelain right there in the room, but why did she smell just as strongly of hurt?
Suddenly Perrin saw what Berelain had dropped. The blanket had fallen away to reveal Rand’s sword and the belt with the Dragon buckle. Would Rand have left that behind? Perrin liked to think things through; when you were hasty, you could hurt people without meaning to. But that sword lying there was like a strike of lightning. Fast was foolish, and sloppy, in forge work, but Perrin’s hackles rose, and a growl rumbled deep in his throat.
“They have taken him!” Sulin wailed suddenly, shockingly. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, she moaned at the ceiling, and the sound of her voice was enough to make Perrin shiver. “The Aes Sedai have taken my first-brother!” Her cheeks glistened with tears.
“Be calm, good woman,” Berelain said firmly. “Go into the next room, and be calm.” To Perrin and Dobraine she added, “We cannot allow her to spread word—”
“You do not recognize me,” Sulin broke in savagely, “wearing this dress and with my hair grown longer. Speak of me again as though I am not here, and I will give you what I hear Rhuarc gave you in the Stone of Tear, and should have since.”
Perrin exchanged confused glances with Dobraine and Loial, even with Faile before her eyes jerked away. Berelain, on the other hand, went pale and crimson by turns; her scent was pure mortification, shriveled and small.
Striding to the door, Sulin had flung it open before anyone could move; Dobraine at least started to, but a yellow-haired young Maiden passing by saw her and grinned in amusement. “Wipe your face, Luaine,” Sulin snapped. Her hands seemed to be moving, hidden from the room by her body. Luaine’s grin was indeed wiped away. “Tell Nandera she must come here at once. And Rhuarc. And bring me cadin’sor, and scissors to cut my hair properly. Run, woman! Are you Far Dareis Mai or Shae’en M’taal?” The yellow-haired Maiden darted away, and Sulin turned back to the room with a satisfied nod, slamming the door. Faile was gaping.
“Grace favors us,” Dobraine growled. “She told the Aiel nothing; the woman must be mad. We can decide what to tell them after we tie and gag her.” He moved as if to do it, even pulling a dark green scarf from his coat pocket,
