“For what?” Elayne wanted to know, as if that mattered. She pretended not to see Nynaeve’s glare.
“The Stone of Tear,” Birgitte said, and Nynaeve’s head whipped around. The woman no longer sounded intoxicated at all. “He says he went into the Stone, him and Juilin, to free the pair of you from a dungeon you couldn’t escape on your own.” She shook her head slowly, in wonder. “I don’t know that I would have done that for anyone short of Gaidal. Not the Stone. He says you gave him a backhanded thanks and made him feel he ought to be grateful you didn’t kick him.”
It was true, in a way, but all distorted. There Mat had been with that mocking grin of his, saying he was there to pull their chestnuts off the fire or some such. Even then he had thought he could tell them what to do. “Only one of the Black sisters was on guard in the dungeon,” Nynaeve muttered, “and we had taken care of her.” True, they hadn’t yet been able to figure out how to open the door, shielded. “Be’lal wasn’t really interested in us, anyway — it was just to lure Rand. Moiraine may already have killed him, by then, for all we know.”
“The Black Ajah.” Birgitte’s voice was flatter than the floor tiles. “And one of the Forsaken. Mat never mentioned them. You owe him thanks on your knees, Elayne. Both of you do. The man deserves it. And Juilin, as well.”
Blood rushed to Nynaeve’s face. He had never mentioned . . .? That despicable, despicable man! “I will not apologize to Matrim Cauthon, not on my deathbed.”
Aviendha leaned toward Elayne, touching her knee. “Near-sister, I will say this delicately.” She looked and sounded about as delicate as a stone post. “If this is true, you have toh toward Mat Cauthon, you and Nynaeve. And you have made it worse since, just by the actions I have seen.”
“Toh!” Nynaeve exclaimed. Those two were always talking about this toh foolery. “We aren’t Aiel, Aviendha. And Mat Cauthon is a thorn in the foot to everybody he meets.”
But Elayne was nodding. “I see. You are right, Aviendha. But what must we do? You will have to help me, near-sister. I don’t intend to try to become Aiel, but I . . . I want you to be proud of me.”
“We will not apologize!” Nynaeve snapped.
“I have pride in knowing you,” Aviendha said, touching Elayne’s cheek lightly. “An apology is a beginning, yet not enough to meet toh, now.”
“Are you listening to me?” Nynaeve demanded. “I said, I will — not — apologize!”
They went right on talking. Only Birgitte looked at her, and the woman wore a smile not far from outright laughter. Nynaeve throttled her braid with both hands. She had known that they should have sent Thom and Juilin.
Chapter 22
Small Sacrifices
* * *
Squinting up at the sign above the inn’s arched door, a crudely drawn woman with a walking staff peering hopefully into the distance, Elayne wished she were back in her bed instead of up with the sun. Not that she could have slept. Mol Hara Square stood empty behind her except for a few creaking ox- and donkey-carts on their way to the markets, a scattering of women balancing huge baskets on their heads. A one-legged beggar sat with his bowl at a corner of the inn, the first of many who would dot the square later; she had already given him a silver mark, enough to feed him for a week even now, but he tucked it under his ragged coat with a toothless grin and waited on. The sky was still gray, yet the day already promised to scorch. Keeping concentration well enough to ignore the heat was a problem this morning.
The last remnants of Birgitte’s morning-after head remained in the back of her own, dwindling but not yet gone. If only her small ability with Healing had not proved too small. She hoped Aviendha and Birgitte would manage to learn something useful about Carridin this morning, in their Illusion disguises. Not that Carridin would know any of them from a shoemaker, of course, but it was best to be careful. She felt pride that Aviendha had not asked to come along here, had in fact been surprised at the suggestion. Aviendha did not believe she needed anyone to watch her, to make sure she did what was needful.
With a sigh, she straightened her dress, though there was no need. Blue and cream, with a bit of cream-colored Vandalra lace, the garment did make her feel just a touch . . . exposed. The only time she had balked at donning a local fashion was while she and Nynaeve traveled to Tanchico with the Sea Folk, but in its own way, Ebou Dari fashion was almost . . . She sighed again. She was just trying to delay. Aviendha should have come to lead her by the hand.
“I will not apologize,” Nynaeve said suddenly at her shoulder. She clutched her own gray skirts with both hands, staring at The Wandering Woman as though Moghedien herself waited inside. “I won’t!”
“You should have worn white after all,” Elayne murmured, earning a suspicious sideways glance. After a moment, she added, “You did say it was the color for funerals.” Which produced a satisfied nod, though it was not what she had meant at all. This would be disaster if they could not keep peace among themselves. Birgitte had had to settle for an infusion of herbs this morning, and a particularly bitter mix at that, because Nynaeve claimed she was not angry enough to channel. She had gone on in the most dramatic manner about funeral white being the only suitable color, insisted she was not coming, until Elayne dragged her out of their apartments, and announced at least twenty times since that she would not apologize. Peace had to be kept, but . . . “You agreed to this, Nynaeve. No, I don’t want to hear any more about the rest of us bullying you. You agreed. So stop
sulking.”
Nynaeve spluttered, eyes going wide with outrage. She was not to be diverted, though, despite one fiercely incredulous “Sulking?” under her breath. “We need to discuss this further, Elayne. There is no need to be so hasty. There must be a thousand reasons why this won’t work, ta’veren or no ta’veren, and Mat Cauthon is nine hundred of them.”
Elayne gave her a level look. “Did you deliberately choose the bitterest herbs that would work this morning?” Wide-eyed outrage turned to wide-eyed innocence, but red stained Nynaeve’s cheeks. Elayne pushed open the door. Nynaeve followed, muttering. Elayne would not have been surprised if she stuck out her tongue, too. Sulky was not even in it, this morning.
The smell of breads baking wafted from the kitchens, and all the shutters were open to air out the common room. A plump-cheeked serving woman standing atop a tall stool stretched on tiptoes to take down bedraggled evergreen branches from above the windows, while others replaced tables and benches and chairs that must have been taken away for the dancing. This early, no one else was about, except for a skinny girl in a white apron, sweeping halfheartedly with a brush-broom. She might have been pretty if her mouth had not seemed set in a constant pout. There was surprisingly little mess, considering that inns were supposed to be riotous, even licentious, during festivals. A part of her wished she could have seen it, though.
“Could you direct me to Master Cauthon’s rooms?” she asked the skinny girl with a smile, proffering two silver pennies. Nynaeve sniffed. She was tight as the skin on a fresh apple; she had given the beggar one copper!
The girl eyed them sullenly — and surprisingly, the coins as well — and mumbled something sour that sounded like, “A gilded woman last night and ladies this morning.” She gave directions grudgingly. For a moment Elayne thought she intended to scorn the pennies, but on the point of turning away, the girl snatched the silver from her hand without so much as a word of thanks, pausing only to tuck them into the neck of her dress, of all places, before she set to swinging her broom as if to beat the floor to death. Perhaps she had a pocket sewn in there.
“You see,” Nynaeve grumbled under her breath. “You mark me, he tried to push his attentions on that young woman. That’s the sort of man you want me to apologize to.”
Elayne said nothing, only led the way up the railless steps at the back of the room. If Nynaeve did not stop complaining . . . The first hallway on the right, the girl had said, and the last door on the left, but in front of it, she hesitated, biting her lower lip.
Nynaeve brightened. “You see it’s a bad idea now, don’t you? We aren’t Aiel, Elayne. I like the girl well enough, for all she’s forever fondling that knife of hers, but just think of the absolute drivel she talked. It’s impossible. You must know it is.”
“We did not agree to anything impossible, Nynaeve.” Keeping her voice firm took an effort. Some of what Aviendha had suggested, apparently in all seriousness . . . She actually had suggested letting the man switch them! “What we did agree to is quite possible.” Barely. She rapped loudly on the paneled door with her knuckles. There was a fish carved on the door, a round thing with stripes and a snout. All of the doors had different carvings, most of fish. There was no answer.