The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8)

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 150

Mesaana let the kissing go on for some time, and finally signaled an end by tipping Alviarin’s face up with the toe of a slipper beneath the chin. “The decree has gone out.” It was not a question, but Alviarin answered hastily.

“Yes, Great Mistress. Copies went to Northharbor and Southharbor even before I had Elaida sign. The first couriers have gone, and no merchant will leave the city without copies to distribute.” Mesaana knew all that, of course. She knew everything. A cramp tightened the back of Alviarin’s awkwardly craned neck, but she did not move. Mesaana would tell her when to move. “Great Mistress, Elaida is an empty husk. With all humility, would it not be better without the need to use her?” She held her breath. Questions could be dangerous, with the Chosen.

A shadownailed silvery finger tapped silver lips pursed in an amused smile. “Better if you wore the Amyrlin’s stole, child?” Mesaana said at last. “An ambition small enough to fit you, but all in its time. For now, I have a tiny task for you. In spite of all the walls that have gone up between the Ajahs, the heads of the Ajahs seem to encounter one another with surprising frequency. By chance, they make it seem. All but the Red, at least; a pity Galina got herself killed, or she could tell you what they are about. Very probably it is trivial, but you will learn why they bare teeth at one another in public, then whisper together in private.”

“I hear and obey, Great Mistress,” Alviarin replied promptly, grateful that Mesaana considered it unimportant. The great “secret” of who headed the Ajahs was none to her — every Black sister was required to relay to the Supreme Council every whisper inside her supposed Ajah — but only Galina among them had been Black. That meant querying the Black sisters among the Sitters, which meant going through all the layers between them and her. That would take time, and without any certainty of success. Except for Ferane Neheran and Suana Dragand, who were the heads of the their Ajahs, Sitters rarely seemed to know what their Ajah’s head was thinking until they were told. “I will tell you as soon as I learn, Great Mistress.”

But she did file away a tidbit for herself. Trivial matter or not, Mesaana did not know everything that happened in the White Tower. And Alviarin would keep her eyes open for a sister in bronze skirts bordered on the hem in black scrollwork. Mesaana was hiding herself in the Tower, and knowledge was power.

Chapter 26

(Dragon's Fang)

The Extra Bit

Seaine strode the hallways of the Tower with a growing sense of being confounded at every turn. The White Tower was quite large, true, but she had been at this for hours. She very much wanted to be snug in her own rooms. Despite casements in place in every window, drafts drifted along the broad, tapestryhung corridors and made the standlamps flicker. Cold drafts, and difficult to ignore when they slipped under her skirts. Her rooms were warm and comfortable, and safe.

Maids bobbed curtsies and manservants bowed in her wake, halfseen and completely ignored. Most sisters were in their own Ajahs’ quarters, and those few out and about moved with wary pride, often in pairs, always of the same Ajah, shawls spread along their arms and displayed like banners. She smiled and nodded pleasantly to Talene, but the statuesque, goldenhaired Sitter returned a hard stare, beauty carved from ice, then stalked away twitching her greenfringed shawl.

Too late now to approach Talene about being part of the search, even had Pevara been agreeable. Pevara counseled caution, then more caution, and truth to tell, Seaine was more than willing to listen under the circumstances. It was just that Talene was a friend. Had been a friend.

Talene was not the worst. Several ordinary sisters sniffed at her openly. At a Sitter! None White, of course, but that should have made no difference. No matter what was going on in the Tower, proprieties should be observed. Juilaine Madome, a tall, attractive woman with shortcut black hair who had held a chair for the Brown less than a year, brushed past her without so much as a murmur of apology and went off with those mannish strides of hers. Saerin Asnobar, another Brown Sitter, gave Seaine a fierce scowl and fingered that curved knife she always carried behind her belt before disappearing down a side corridor. Saerin was Altaran, slight touches of white at her dark temples emphasizing a thin agefaded white scar across one olive cheek, and only a Warder could match her for scowling.

Perhaps these things were all to be expected. There had been several unfortunate incidents recently, and no sister would forget being bundled unceremoniously from the hallways around another Ajah’s quarters, much less what had sometimes gone with it. Rumor said a Sitter — a Sitter! — had had more than her dignity ruffled by the Reds, though not who. A great pity the Hall could not obstruct Elaida’s mad decree, but first one Ajah, then another, had leaped on the new prerogatives, few Sitters were willing to think of giving them up now they were in place, and the result was a Tower divided very nearly into armed camps. Once Seaine had thought the air in the Tower felt like a quivering hot jelly of suspicion and backbiting; now it was quivering hot jelly with an acid bite.

Clicking her tongue in vexation, she adjusted her own whitefringed shawl as Saerin vanished. It was illogical to flinch because an Altaran scowled — even Saerin would go no further; surely not — and more than illogical to worry over what she could not change when she had a task.

And then, after all of her search that morning, she took a single step and saw her longsought quarry walking toward her. Zerah Dacan was a slim, blackhaired girl with a prideful air, properly selfpossessed, and by all outward evidence untouched by the heated currents flowing through the Tower these days. Well, not a girl precisely, but Seaine was sure she had not worn that whitefringed shawl fifty years yet. She was inexperienced. Relatively inexperienced. That might help.

Zerah made no move to avoid a Sitter of her own Ajah, bowing her head in respect as Seaine fell in beside her. Quite a lot of intricate golden embroidery climbed the sleeves of her snowy dress and made a wide band at the bottom of her skirt. It was an unusual degree of show for the White Ajah. “Sitter,” she murmured. Did her blue eyes hold a touch of worry?

“I need you for something,” Seaine said more calmly than she felt. Very likely she was transplanting her own feelings into Zerah’s big eyes. “Come with me.” There was nothing to fear, not in the heart of the White Tower, but keeping her hands folded at her waist, unclenched, required surprising effort.

As expected — as hoped — Zerah went along with only another murmur, this of acquiescence. She glided at Seaine’s side quite gracefully as they descended broad marble staircases and wide curving ramps, and gave only the slightest frown when Seaine opened a door on the ground floor, onto narrow stairs that sp