"It won't work, not this time," Rand said. "A war here would take too many resources. You spoke of this Ituralde—he's holding off the Seanchan with virtually no supplies and few men. Would you have us engage a man that resourceful?"
How thoughtful Bashere seemed, as if he were indeed considering engaging this Ituralde. Men! They were all the same. Offer them a challenge, and they'd be curious, no matter that the challenge would likely end with them spitted on a lance.
"There are few men alive like Rodel Ituralde," Bashere said. "He would be a great help to our cause, for certain. I've always wondered if I could beat him."
"No," Rand said again, looking over the map. From what Nynaeve could see, it showed troop concentrations, marked with annotations. The Aiel were an organized mess of charcoal marks across the top of Arad Do-man; Ituralde's forces were deep into Almoth Plain, fighting Seanchan. The middle of Arad Doman was a sea of chaotic black annotations, likely the personal forces of various nobles.
"Rhuarc, Bael,' Rand said. "I want you to seize the members of the Council of Merchants."
The tent was silent.
"Are you certain that is wise, boy?" Cadsuane finally asked.
"They're in danger from the Forsaken," Rand said, idly tapping the map with his fingers. "If Graendal really has taken Alsalam, then getting him back will do us no good. He'll be so far beneath her Compulsion that he'll barely have the mind of a child. She's not subtle; she never has been. We need the Council of Merchants to choose a new king. That's the only way to bring this kingdom peace and order."
Bashere nodded. "It's bold."
"We are not kidnappers," Bael said, frowning.
"You are what I say you are, Bael," Rand said quietly.
"We are still free people, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said.
"I will change the Aiel with my passing," Rand said with a shake of his head. "I don't know what you'll be once this is all through, but you cannot remain what you were. I will have you take up this task. Of all those who follow me, I trust you the most. If we're going to take the members of the Council without throwing this land further into war, I will need your cunning and stealth. You can prowl into their palaces and manors as you infiltrated the Stone of Tear."
Rhuarc and Bael regarded one another, sharing a frown.
"Once you take the Council of Merchants," Rand continued, apparently unconcerned about their worries, "move the Aiel into the cities where those merchants ruled. Make sure those cities don't degenerate. Restore order as you did in Bandar Eban. From there, begin hunting bandits and enforcing the law. Supplies will soon arrive from the Sea Folk. Take cities on the coast first, then move inland. Within a month's time, the Domani should be flowing toward you, rather than running away from you. Offer them safety and food, and order will take care of itself."
A surprisingly rational plan. Rand really did have a clever mind, for a man. There was a lot of good in him, perhaps the very soul of a leader, if he could keep his temper in check.
Rhuarc continued to rub his chin. "It would help if we had some of your Saldaeans, Davram Bashere. Wetlanders do not like following Aiel. If they can pretend that wetlanders are in charge, then they will be more likely to come to us."
Bashere laughed. "We'll also make nice targets. As soon as we seize a few members of the merchant council, the rest will send assassins after us for certain!"
Rhuarc laughed as if he thought that a grand joke. The Aiel sense of humor was its own sort of oddity. "We will keep you alive, Davram Bashere. If we do not, we will stuff you and set you on that horse of yours, and you will make a grand quiver for their arrows!"
Bael laughed loudly at this, and the Maidens by the doors began another round of handtalk.
Bashere chuckled, though he didn't seem to understand the humor either. "You sure this is what you want to do?" he asked Rand.
Rand nodded. "Divide some of your forces, send them with Aiel groups as Rhuarc decides."
"And what of Ituralde?" Bashere asked, looking back at the map. "There won't be peace for long once he realizes we've invaded his homeland."
Rand tapped the map softly for a moment. "I will deal with him personally," he finally said.
CHAPTER 8
Clean Shirts
Adockmaster's sky, it was called. Those gray clouds, blotting out the sun, temperamental and sullen. Perhaps the others—here in the camp just outside of Tar Valon—hadn't noticed the persistent clouds, but Siuan had. No sailor would miss them. Not dark enough to promise a storm, not light enough to imply smooth waters either.
A sky like that was ambiguous. You could set out and never see a drop of rain or a hint of stormwinds. Or, with barely a moment's notice, you could find yourself in the middle of a squall. It was deceitful, that blanket of clouds.
Most ports charged a daily fee to each vessel moored in their harbors, but on days of storm—when no fisher could make a catch—the fee would be halved, or spared entirely. On a day like this, however, when there were gloomy clouds but no proof of storms, the dockmasters would charge a full day's rent. And so the fisher had to make a choice. Stay in the harbor and wait, or go fishing to recoup the dock fees. Most days like this didn't turn stormy. Most days like this were safe.
But if a storm did come on a day like this, it tended to be very bad. Many of the most terrible tempests in history had sprung from a dock-master's sky. That's why some fishers had another name for clouds like those. They called them a lionfish's veil. And it had been days since the sky had offered anything different. Siuan shivered, pulling her shawl close. It was a bad sign.