Thick black clouds were roiling overhead. The street was as dark as late twilight, and empty of people who had apparently not waited to be caught in the rain. One fellow was running across a bridge down the street; he was the only person Perrin saw in any direction. The wind was picking up, blowing a rag along the uneven paving stones; another, caught under the edge of one of the mounting blocks, flapped with a small snapping sound. Thunder grumbled and rolled.
Perrin wrinkled his nose. There was a smell of fireworks on that wind. No, not fireworks, exactly. It was a burned sulphur sort of smell. Almost.
Zarine tapped the chair leg in his hands with her knife blade. “You really are strong, big man. You tore that chair apart as if it were made of twigs.”
Perrin grunted. He realized he was standing straighter, and deliberately made himself slouch. Fool girl! Zarine laughed softly, and suddenly he did not know whether to straighten or stay as he was. Fool! This time he meant it for himself. You're supposed to be looking. For what? He did not see anything but the street, did not smell anything but the almost burned sulphur scent. And Zarine, of course.
Loial appeared to be wondering what it was he was looking for, too. He scratched a tufted ear, peered one way down the street, then the other, then scratched the other ear. Then he stared up at the roof of the inn.
Lan appeared from the alleyway beside the inn and moved out into the street, eyes studying the darker shadows along the buildings.
“Maybe he missed seeing something,” Perrin muttered, though he found it hard to believe, and turned toward the alley. I am supposed to be looking, so I'll look. Maybe he did miss something.
Lan had stopped a little way down the street, staring at the paving stones in front of his feet. The Warder started back toward the inn, walking quickly, but peering at the street ahead of him as if following something. Whatever it was led straight to one of the mounting blocks, almost beside the inn door. He stopped there, staring at the top of the gray stone block.
Perrin decided to abandon going down the alley — it stank as much as the canals in this part of Illian, for one thing — and walked over to Lan, instead. He saw what the Warder was staring at right away. Pressed into the top of the stone mounting block were two prints, as if a huge hound had rested its forepaws there. The smell that was almost burned sulphur was strongest here. Dogs don't make footprints in stone. Light, they don't! He could make out the trail Lan had followed, too. The hound had trotted up the street as far as the mounting block, then turned and gone back the way it had come. Leaving tracks in the stone as if they had been a plowed field. They just don't!
“Darkhound,” Lan said, and Zarine gasped. Loial moaned softly. For an Ogier. “A Darkhound leaves no mark on dirt, blacksmith, not even on mud, but stone is another matter. There hasn't been a Darkhound seen south of the Mountains of Dhoom since the Trolloc Wars. This one was hunting for something, I'd say. And now that it has found it, it has gone to tell its master.”
Me? Perrin thought. Gray Men and Darkhounds hunting me? This is crazy!
“Are you telling me Nieda was right?” Zarine demanded in a shaky voice. “Old Grim is really riding with the Wild Hunt? Light! I always thought it was just a story.”
“Don't be a complete fool, girl,” Lan said harshly. “If the Dark One were free, we'd all be worse than dead by now.” He peered off down the street, the way the tracks went. “But Darkhounds are real enough. Almost as dangerous as Myrddraal, and harder to kill.”
“Now you bring Fetches into it,” Zarine muttered. “Gray Men. Fetches. Darkhounds. You had better lead me to the Horn of Valere, farmboy. What other surprises do you have waiting for me?”
“No questions,” Lan told her. “You still know little enough that Moiraine will release you from your oath, if you swear not to follow. I'll take that oath myself, and you can go now. You would be wise to give it.”
“You will not frighten me away, stoneface,” Zarine said. “I do not frighten easily.” But she sounded frightened. And smelled it, too.
“I have a question,” Perrin said, “and I want an answer. You didn't sense this Darkhound, Lan, and neither did Moiraine. Why not?”
The Warder was silent for a time. “The answer to that, blacksmith,” he said grimly at last, “may be more than you or I, either one, want to know. I hope the answer does not kill us all. You three get what sleep you can. I doubt we will stay the night in Illian, and I fear we have hard riding ahead.”
“What are you going to do?” Perrin asked.
“I am going after Moiraine. To tell her about the Darkhound. She can't be angry with me for following for that, not when she would not know it was there until it took her throat.”
The first big drops of rain splatted on the paving stones as they went back inside. Bili had removed the last of the dead Gray Men and was sweeping up the sawdust where they had bled. The darkeyed girl was singing a sad song about a boy leaving his love. Mistress Luhhan would have enjoyed it greatly.
Lan ran ahead of them, across the common room and up the stairs, and by the time Perrin reached the second floor, the Warder was already starting back down, buckling his sword belt on, colorshifting cloak hanging over his arm as if he hardly cared who saw it.
“If he is wearing that in a city...” Loial's shaggy hair almost brushed the ceiling as he shook his head. “I do not know if I can sleep, but I will try. Dreams will be more pleasant than staying awake.”
Not always, Loial, Perrin thought as the Ogier went on down the hall.
Zarine seemed to want to stay with him, but he told her to go to sleep and firmly shut the slatted door in her face. He stared at his own bed reluctantly as he stripped down to his underbreeches.
“I have to find out,” he sighed, and crawled onto the bed. Rain drummed down outside, and thunder boomed. The breeze across his bed carried some of the rain's coolness, but he did not think he would need any of the blankets at the foot of the mattress. His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he had forgotten to light a candle again, though the room was dark. Careless. Mustn't be careless. Carelessness ruins the work.
Dreams tumbled through his head. Darkhounds chasing him; he never saw them, but he could hear their howling. Fades, and Gray Men. A tall, slender man flashed into them again and again, in richly embroidered coat and boots with gold fringe; most of the time he held what seemed to be a sword, shining like the sun, and laughed triumphantly. Sometimes the man sat on a throne, and kings and queens groveled before him. These felt strange, as if they were not
