The city’s steep slate roofs and stonepaved streets glistened wetly, and though the rain was not hard, few were willing to brave the strong winds. A woman guiding an oxcart with taps of a long goad moved as patiently as her ox, but most people afoot clutched cloaks tightly, hoods pulled down, and stepped quickly as the bearers of a sedan chair rushed by, its stiff con fluttering. Others beside the woman and her ox saw no reason for haste, though. In the middle of the street a towering Aielman stood gaping at the sky in disbelief while the drizzle soaked him, so absorbed that a daring cutpurse sliced away his belt pouch and darted off unnoticed by his victim. A woman whose elaborately curled, highpiled hair marked her as noble walked along slowly, her cloak flapping wildly, and its long hood as well. This might have been the first time ever that she had actually walked in the streets, but she was laughing as the rain slicked her cheeks. From the doorway of a perfumer’s shop, the shopkeeper stared out disconsolately; she would do little business today. Most of the hawkers had vanished for the same reason, but a handful still hopefully cried hot tea and meat pies from barrows beneath makeshift awnings. Though anyone who bought a meat pie in the street these days deserved the bellyache she would get.
A pair of starving dogs ran out from an alley, stifflegged and hackles up, barking and snarling at the coach. Cadsuane let the curtain fall. Dogs seemed to know women who could channel as easily as cats did, but dogs appeared to think the women were cats, if unnaturally large ones. The pair of women seated across from her were still in conversation.
“Forgive me,” Daigian was saying, “but the logic is inescapable.” She ducked her head apologetically, making the moonstone dangling on a fine silver chain from her long black hair sway across her forehead. Her fingers plucked the white slashes in her dark skirts, and she spoke rapidly, as though afraid of being interrupted. “If you accept that the lingering heat was the Dark One’s work, the change must be by some other agency. He would not have relented. You might say that he has decided to freeze or drown the world instead of baking it, but why? Had the heat continued through spring, the dead might well have outnumbered the living, no different than if snow falls into the summer. Therefore, logically, some other hand is at work.” The plump woman’s diffidence was trying at times, but as always, Cadsuane found her logic impeccable. She just wished she knew whose hand and to what end.
“Peace!” Kumira muttered. “I would rather an ounce of hard proof than a hundredweight of your White Ajah logic.” She was Brown, herself, though little given to their usual failings. A handsome woman with shortcut hair, she was hardheaded and practical, a keen observer, and never lost herself so deeply in thought that she lost sight of the world around her as well. No sooner had Kumira spoken than she patted Daigian’s knee with a graceful hand, and gave a smile that changed her blue eyes from sharp to warm. Shienarans were a polite people, by and large, and Kumira took care not to offend. By accident, at least. “Put your mind to what we can do about the sisters held by the Aiel. I know you’ll reason out something if anyone can.”
Cadsuane snorted. “They deserve whatever happens to them.” She had not been allowed near the Aiel tents herself, nor had any of her companions, but some of the fools who had sworn fealty to the al’Thor boy had ventured out to the sprawling encampment and come back whitefaced and torn between outrage and sicking up. Normally, she also would have been furious over the affront to Aes Sedai dignity, whatever the circumstances; not now. To achieve her goal, she would have run the entire White Tower through the streets naked. How could she concern herself with the discomfort of women who might have ruined everything?
Kumira opened her mouth to protest despite knowing her feelings, but Cadsuane went on, calm yet relentless. “Perhaps they’ll weep enough to atone for the dog’s dinner they made of matters, but I doubt it. They are out of our hands, and if they were in mine, I might just give them to the Aiel. Forget them, Daigian, and put that fine mind of yours on the track I set you.”
The Cairhienin woman’s pale cheeks flushed red at the compliment. Thank the Light she was not this way except with other sisters. Kumira sat silently, very smoothfaced, her hands in her lap. She might be subdued now, but little could subdue Kumira for long. They were exactly the pair Cadsuane wanted with her today.
The coach tilted as the team started up the long ramp leading to the Sun Palace. “Remember what I told you,” she told the other two firmly. “And have a care!”
They murmured that they would, as well they might, and she nodded. If need demanded, she would use them both for mulch, and others too, but she did not intend to lose either because they grew careless.
There was no bother or delay in letting the coach through the Palace gates. The guards recognized Arilyn’s sigil on the doors, and they knew who would be riding inside. That coach had been to the Palace often enough in the past week. The moment the horses halted, an anxiouseyed footman in unadorned black opened the coach door, holding out a broad flat parasol of dark oiled cloth. Rain dripped from the edge onto his bare head, but then, it was not intended for his shelter.
Quickly touching the ornaments dangling from the bun atop her head to be sure they were all there — she had never lost one, but that was because she was careful of them — Cadsuane gathered the handles of her square wicker sewing basket from beneath her seat and stepped down. Half a dozen footmen stood waiting behind the first, parasols at the ready. So many passengers would have crowded the coach beyond comfort, but the footmen were not about to be caught short, and the extra did not hurry away until it was plain there were only the three of them.
Obviously the coach had been seen coming. Darkgarbed serving men and women made a neat array on the deep blue and gold tiles of the great entry hall with its squarevaulted ceiling five spans high. They leaped forward, taking cloaks, offering small, warm linen towels in case anyone needed to dry face or hands, proffering Sea Folk porcelain goblets of mulled wine that gave off a heady scent of spices. A winter drink, yet the sudden drop in temperature made it suitable. And after all, it was winter. Finally.
Three Aes Sedai stood waiting to one side among the massive square columns of dark marble, in front of tall, pale friezes depicting battles no doubt important to Cairhien, but Cadsuane ignored the women for the time being. One of the young serving men had a small redandgold figure embroidered on the left breast of his coat, what people were calling a Dragon. Corgaide, the gravefaced, grayhaired woman who ordered the servants in the Sun Palace, wore no ornament save for the large ring of heavy keys at her waist. Nor did anyone else have any decoration on their clothes, and despite the young man’s apparent enthusiasm, it was Corgaide, the Holder of the Keys, who would set the mood among the servants. Still, she had allowed the young fellow his embroidery; a point to remember. Cadsuane spoke to her quietly, asking after a room where she might work her embroidery hoop undisturbed, and the woman did not blink at the request. But then, doubtless she had heard strang
