He scowled, opening his eyes and pulling off the scarf, revealing the angular face beneath. “You try moving through the city without being recognized,” he said. “Every butcher, innkeeper and bloody backroom slipfinger seems to know what I look like these days.”
“The Black sisters were planning to have you assassinated,” Elayne said.
“What?” Mat asked.
Elayne nodded. “One mentioned you. It sounded like Darkfriends had been searching for you for some time, with the intent of killing you.”
Birgitte shrugged. “They’re Darkfriends. No doubt they want us all dead.”
“This was different,” Elayne said. “It seemed more…intense. I suggest keeping your wits about you the next while.”
“That’ll be a trick,” Birgitte noted. “Seeing as to how he doesn’t have any wits in the first place.”
Mat rolled his eyes. “Did I miss you explaining what you were doing in the flaming dungeons, sitting in a pool of your own blood, looking for all the world like you’d seen the losing end of a battlefield skirmish?”
“I was interrogating the Black Ajah,” Elayne said. “The details are none of your concern. Birgitte, have you a report from the grounds?”
“Nobody saw Mellar leave,” the Warder said. “Though we found the secretary’s body on the ground floor, still warm. Died from a knife to the back.”
Elayne sighed. “Shiaine?”
“Gone,” Birgitte said, “along with Marillin Gemalphin and Falion Bhoda.”
“The Shadow couldn’t leave them in our possession,” Elayne said with a sigh. “They know too much. They had to end up either rescued or executed.”
“Well,” Mat said, shrugging, “you’re alive, and three of them are dead. Seems like a reasonably good outcome.”
But the ones who escaped have a copy of your medallion, Elayne thought. She didn’t speak it, however. She also didn’t mention the invasion that Chesmal had spoken of. She would talk of it with Birgitte soon, of course, but first she wanted to consider it herself.
Mat had said the night’s events had a “reasonably good outcome.” But the more Elayne thought about it, the more dissatisfied she was. An invasion of Andor was coming, but she didn’t know when. The Shadow wanted Mat dead, but as Birgitte had pointed out, that was no surprise. In fact, the only certain result of the evening’s adventures was the sense of fatigue Elayne felt. That and a week confined to her rooms.
“Mat,” she said, taking off his medallion. “Here, it’s time I gave this back. You should know that it probably saved my life tonight.”
He walked over and took it back eagerly, then hesitated. “Were you able to…”
“Copy it? Not perfectly. But to an extent.”
He put it back on, looking concerned. “Well, that feels good to have back. I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Now might not be the time.”
“Speak of it,” Elayne said, tired. “Might as well.”
“Well, it’s about the gholam…”
“The city has been emptied of most civilians,” Yoeli said as he and Ituralde walked through Maradon’s gate. “We’re close to the Blight; this is not the first time we’ve evacuated. My own sister, Sigril, leads the Lastriders, who will watch from the ridge to the southeast and send word if we should fall. She will have sent word to our watchposts around Saldaea, requesting aid. She will light a watchfire to alert us if they come.”
The lean-faced man looked at Ituralde, his expression grim. “There will be few troops who could come to our aid. Queen Tenobia took many with her when she rode to find the Dragon Reborn.”
Ituralde nodded. He walked without a limp—Antail, one of the Asha’man, was quite skilled with Healing. His men made a hasty camp in the courtyard just inside the city gates. The Trollocs had taken the tents they’d left behind, then lit them on fire at night to illuminate them feasting on the wounded. Ituralde had moved some of his troops into the empty buildings, but he wanted others close to the gate in case of an assault.
The Asha’man and Aes Sedai had worked to Heal Ituralde’s men, but only the worst cases could get attention. Ituralde nodded to Antail, who was working with the wounded in a roped-off section of the square. Antail didn’t see the nod. He concentrated, sweating, working with a Power Ituralde didn’t want to think about.
“Are you certain you want to see them?” Yoeli asked. He held a horseman’s long spear on his shoulder, the tip tied with a triangular black and yellow pendant. It was called the Traitor’s Banner by the Saldaeans here.
The city bristled with hostility, different groups of Saldaeans regarding one another with grim expressions. Many wore strips of black cloth and yellow cloth twisted about one another and tied to their sword sheaths. They nodded to Yoeli.
Desya gavane cierto cuendar isain carentin, Ituralde thought. A phrase in the Old Tongue. It meant “A resolute heart is worth ten arguments.” He could guess what that banner meant. Sometimes a man knew what he must do, though it sounded wrong.
The two of them walked for a time through the streets. Maradon was like most Borderland cities: straight walls, square buildings, narrow streets. The houses looked like fortressed keeps, with small windows and sturdy doors. The streets wound in odd ways, and there were no thatched roofs—only slate shingles, fireproof. The dried blood at several key intersections was difficult to make out against the dark stone, but Ituralde knew what to look for. Yoeli’s rescue of his troops had come after fighting among the Saldaeans.
They reached a nondescript building. There would be no way for an outsider to know that this particular dwelling belonged to Vram Torkumen, distant cousin to the Queen, appointed lord of the city in her absence. The soldiers at the door wore yellow and black. They saluted Yoeli.
Inside, Ituralde and Yoeli entered a narrow staircase and climbed three flights of stairs. There were soldiers in nearly every room. On the top floor, four men wearing the Traitor’s Banner guarded a large, gold-inlaid door. The hallway was dark: narrow windows, a rug of black, green and red.
“Anything to report, Tarran?” Yoeli asked.
“Not a thing, sir,” the man said with a salute. He wore long mustaches and had the bowed legs of a man very c
