“You lost six, and took one prisoner.” From Lan’s voice, it was not clear if that was a good exchange or a poor one.
“Aye,” Orban said, “we slew the rest, save those who ran. No doubt they’re hiding their dead now; I’ve heard they do that. The Whitecloaks are out searching for them, but they’ll never find them.”
“There are Whitecloaks here?” Perrin asked sharply.
Orban glanced at him, and dismissed him once more. The man addressed Lan again. “Whitecloaks always put their noses in where they are not wanted or needed. Incompetent louts, all of them. Aye, they’ll ride all over the countryside for days, but I doubt they’ll find as much as their own shadows.”
“I suppose they won’t,” Lan said.
The bandaged man frowned as if unsure exactly what Lan meant, then rounded on the innkeeper again. “You find that old woman, hear! My head is splitting.” With a last glance at Lan, he hobbled away, climbing back up the stairs one at a time, followed by murmurs of admiration for a Hunter of the Horn who had slain Aielmen.
“This is an eventful town.” Loial’s deep voice drew every eye to him. Except for the ship captains, who seemed to be discussing rope, as near as Perrin could make out. “Everywhere I go, you humans are doing things, hurrying and scurrying, having things happen to you. How can you stand so much excitement?”
“Ah, friend Ogier,” Furlan said, “ ’tis the way of us humans to want excitement. How much I regret not being able to march to the Shining Walls. Why, let me tell you—”
“Our rooms.” Moiraine did not raise her voice, but her words cut the innkeeper short like a sharp knife. “Andra did arrange rooms, did he not?”
“Ah, Lady, forgive me. Yes, Master Andra did indeed hire rooms. Forgive me, please. ’Tis all the excitement, makes my head empty itself. Please forgive me, Lady. This way, if you please. If you’ll please to follow me.” Bowing and scraping, apologizing and babbling without pause, Furlan led them up the stairs.
At the top, Perrin paused to look back. He heard the murmurs of “Lady” and “Ogier” down there, could feel all those eyes, but it seemed to him that he felt one pair of eyes in particular, someone staring not at Moiraine and Loial, but at him.
He picked her out immediately. For one thing, she stood apart from the others, and for another she was the only woman in the room not wearing at least a little lace. Her dark gray, almost black, dress was as plain as the ship captains’ clothes, with wide sleeves and narrow skirts, and never a frill or stitch of fancy-work. The dress was divided for riding, he saw when she moved, and she wore soft boots that peeked out under the hem. She was young—no older than he was, perhaps—and tall for a woman, with black hair to her shoulders. A nose that just missed being too large and too bold, a generous mouth, high cheekbones, and dark, slightly tilted eyes. He could not quite decide whether she was beautiful or not.
As soon as he looked down, she turned to address one of the serving women and did not glance at the stairs again, but he was sure he had been right. She had been staring at him.
CHAPTER
34
A Different Dance
Furlan burbled on as he showed them to their rooms, though Perrin did not really listen. He was too busy wondering if the black-haired girl knew what yellow eyes meant. Burn me, she was looking at me. Then he heard the innkeeper say the words “proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan,” and he thought his ears would go to sharp points like Loial’s.
Moiraine stopped dead in the doorway to her room. “There is another false Dragon, innkeeper? In Ghealdan?” The hood of her cloak still hid her face, but she sounded shaken to her toes. Even listening for the man’s reply, Perrin could not help staring at her; he smelled something close to fear.
“Ah, Lady, never you fear. ’Tis a hundred leagues to Ghealdan, and none will trouble you here, not with Master Andra about, and Lord Orban and Lord Gann. Why—”
“Answer her!” Lan said harshly. “Is there a false Dragon in Ghealdan?”
“Ah. Ah, no, Master Andra, not precisely. I said there’s a man proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan, so we heard a few days gone. Preaching his coming, you might say. Talking about that fellow over in Tarabon we’ve heard about. Though some do say ’tis Arad Doman, not Tarabon. A long way from here, in any case. Why, any other day, I expect we’d talk more of that than anything else, except maybe the wild tales about Hawkwing’s army come back—” Lan’s cold eyes might as well have been knife blades from the way Furlan swallowed and scrubbed his hands faster. “I only know what I hear, Master Andra. ’Tis said the fellow has a stare can pin you where you stand, and he talks all sorts of rubbish about the Dragon coming to save us, and we all have to follow, and even the beasts will fight for the Dragon. I don’t know whether they’ve arrested him yet or not. ’Tis likely; the Ghealdanin would not put up long with that kind of talk.”
Masema, Perrin thought wonderingly. It’s bloody Masema.
“You are right, innkeeper,” Lan said. “This fellow isn’t likely to trouble us here. I knew a fellow once who liked to make wild speeches. You remember him, Lady Alys, don’t you? Masema?”
Moiraine gave a start. “Masema. Yes. Of course. I had put him out of my mind.” Her voice firmed. “When next I see Masema, he will wish someone had peeled his hide to make boots.” She slammed the door behind her so hard that the crash echoed down the hallway.
“Keep a quiet!” came a muffled shout from the far end. “My head is splitting!”
“Ah.” Furlan washed his hands in one direction, then rubbed them in the other. “Ah. Forgive me, Master Andra, but Lady Alys is a fierce-sounding woman.”
“Only with those who displease her,” Lan said blandly. “Her bite is far worse than her bark.”
“Ah. Ah. Ah. Your rooms are this way. Ah, friend Ogier, when Master Andra told me you were coming, I had an old Ogier bed brought from the attic where it has been gathering dust these three hundred years or more. Why, ’tis. . . .”
Perrin let the words wash over him, hearing them no more than a river rock hears the water. The black-haired young woman worried him. And the caged Aiel.
Once in his own room—a small one in the back; Lan had done nothing to disabuse the innkeeper of the notion that Perrin was a servant—he moved mechanically, still wrapped in thought. He unstrung his bow and propped it in the corner—keeping it strung too long ruined bow and string alike—set down his blanketroll and saddlebags beside the wash-stand and threw his cloak across them. He hung his belts with quiver and axe from pegs on the wall, and nearly lay down on the bed before a jaw-cracking yawn reminded him how dangerous that might be. The bed was narrow, and the mattress appeared to be all lumps; it looked more inviting than any bed he could remember. He sat on the three-legged stool, instead, and thought. Always he liked to think things through.