Robert Jordan - Crossroads of Twilight

A thicket of sharpened stakes ten paces deep encircled the camp, and he went to the edge of the Ghealdanin lancers’ section, where angled paths had been left for mounted men to ride out, though Balwer and Aram had to fall in behind him in the narrow way. In front of the Two Rivers men, a man afoot would have to twist and turn to make it through. The edge of the forest lay little more than a hundred paces distant, easy bowshot for Two Rivers men, huge trees thrusting a canopy high into the sky. Some of the trees here were strange to Perrin, but there were pines and leather-leaf and elms out there, some as much as three or four paces thick at the base, and oaks that were larger still. Trees that big killed anything larger than weeds or small bushes that tried to grow beneath them, leaving wide spaces between, but shadows darker than the night filled those spaces. An old forest, one that could swallow armies whole and never give up the bones.

Balwer followed him all the way through the stakes before deciding that this was as close to alone with Perrin as he was likely to get any time soon. “The riders Masema has sent out, my Lord,” he said, and holding his cloak close he cast a suspicious look back at Aram, who met it with a flat stare.

“I know,” Perrin said, “you think they’re going to the Whitecloaks.” He was eager to be moving, and that much farther from his friends. He put the hand holding his reins on the saddlebow, but refrained from putting a boot in the stirrup. Stepper tossed his head, also impatient. “Masema could be sending messages to the Seanchan just as easily.”

“As you have said, my Lord. A viable possibility, to be sure. May I suggest once again, however, that Masema’s view of Aes Sedai is very close to that of the Whitecloaks? In fact, identical. He would see every last sister dead, if he could. The Seanchan view is more… pragmatic, if I may be permitted to call it that. Less in accord with Masema, in any case.”

“However much you hate Whitecloaks, Master Balwer, they aren’t at the root of every evil. And Masema has dealt with the Seanchan before.”

“As you say, my Lord.” Balwer’s face did not change, but he reeked of doubt. Perrin could not prove Masema’s meetings with the Seanchan, and telling anyone how he had learned of them would only add to his present difficulties. That gave Balwer problems; he was a man who liked evidence. “As for the Aes Sedai and the Wise Ones, my Lord… Aes Sedai always seem to believe they know better than anyone else, except possibly another Aes Sedai. I believe the Wise Ones are much the same.”

Perrin snorted brief white plumes in the air. “Tell me something I don’t know. Like why Masuri would meet with Masema, and why the Wise Ones allowed it. I’ll wager Stepper against a horseshoe nail she didn’t do it without their permission.” Annoura was another question, but she could be acting on her own. It certainly seemed unlikely she was acting at Berelain’s behest.

Shifting his cloak on his shoulders, Balwer peered back across the rows of sharpened stakes into the camp, toward the Aiel tents, squinting as if he hoped to see through the tent walls. “There are many possibilities, my Lord,” he said testily. “For some who swear an oath, whatever is not forbidden is permitted, and whatever is not commanded can be ignored. Others take actions they believe will help their liege without first asking permission. The Aes Sedai and the Wise Ones fall into one of those categories, it seems, but further than that, I can only speculate, as matters stand.”

“I could just ask. Aes Sedai can’t lie, and if I press hard enough, Masuri might actually tell me the truth.”

Balwer grimaced as though at a sudden stomach pain. “Perhaps, my Lord. Perhaps. More likely is that she would tell you something that sounds like the truth. Aes Sedai are experienced in that, as you know. In any event, my Lord, Masuri would wonder how you knew to ask, and that line of thought might lead to Haviar and Nerion. Under the circumstances, who can say who she might tell? Straightforward is not always the best way. Sometimes, certain things must be done behind masks, for safety.”

“I told you the Aes Sedai couldn’t be trusted,” Aram said abruptly. “I told you that, Lord Perrin.” He fell silent when Perrin raised a hand, but the stink of fury from him was so strong that Perrin had to exhale to clear his lungs. Part of him wanted to draw the scent deep and let it consume him.

Perrin studied Balwer carefully. If Aes Sedai could twist the truth till you could not tell up from down, and they could and did, how far could you trust? Trust was always the question. He had learned that in hard lessons. He took a firm check on his anger, though. A hammer had to be used with care, and he was working a forge where one slip would tear the heart out of his chest. “And might matters change if some of Selande’s friends began spending more time among the Aiel? They want to be Aiel, after all. That ought to give them enough excuse. And maybe one of them can strike up a friendship with Berelain, and with her advisor.”

“That should be possible, my Lord,” Balwer said after the slightest hesitation. “Lady Medore’s father is a High Lord of Tear, giving her sufficient rank to approach the First of Mayene, and also a reason. Possibly one or two of the Cairhienin stand high enough, as well. Finding those to live among the Aiel will be easier still.”

Perrin nodded. Infinite care with the hammer, however much you wanted to smash whatever lay within reach. “Then do it. But, Master Balwer, you’ve been trying to… guide… me to this since Selande left us. From now on, if you have a suggestion to make, make it. Even if I say no to nine in a row, I’ll always listen to a tenth. I’m not a clever man, but I’m willing to listen to people who are, and I think you are. Just don’t try poking me in the direction you want me to go. I don’t like that, Master Balwer.”

Balwer blinked, then of all things, bowed with his hands folded at his waist. He smelled surprised. And gratified. Gratified? “As you say, my Lord. My previous employer disliked me suggesting actions unless I was asked. I won’t make the same mistake again, I assure you.” Eyeing Perrin, he seemed to reach a decision. “If I may say so,” he said carefully, “I have found serving you… pleasant… in ways I did not expect. You are what you seem, my Lord, with no poisoned needles hidden away to catch the unwary. My previous employer was known widely for cleverness, but I believe you are equally clever, in a different way. I believe I would regret leaving your service. Any man might say these things to keep his place, but I mean them.”

Poisoned needles? Before entering Perrin’s service, Balwer’s last employment had been as secretary to a Murandian noblewoman fallen into hard times who could no longer afford to keep him. Murandy must be a rougher place than Perrin thought. “I see no reason for you to leave my employ. Just tell me what you want to do and let me decide, don’t try to prod. And forget the flattery.”

“I never flatter, my Lord. But I am adept at shaping myself to my master’s needs; it is a requirement of my profession.” The little man bowed once more. He had never been this formal before. “If you have no further questions, my Lord, may I go to find the Lady Medore?”

Perrin nodded. The little man bowed yet again, backing away, then went skittering toward the camp, his cloak fluttering behind him as he dodged through the sharpened stakes like a sparrow hopping across the snow. He was a strange fellow.

“I don’t trust him,” Aram muttered, staring after Balwer. “And I don’t trust Selande and that lot. They’ll throw in with the Aes Sedai, you mark my words.”

“You have to trust somebody,” Perrin said roughly. The question was, who? Swinging into Stepper’s saddle, he booted the dun in the ribs. A hammer was useless lying at rest.