Robert Jordan - The Fires of Heaven

If they accepted her terms, it did not really matter why. For now. There would be plenty of time later to set them straight.

"I don't doubt the others will agree, too," Ragan said.

"Others?" she said, blinking. "You mean there are more than the two of you? How many?"

"There are only fifteen of us altogether now. I don't think Bartu or Nengar will come."

"Sniffing after the bloody Prophet." Uno turned his head and spat copiously. "Only fifteen. Sar went over that bloody cliff in the mountains, and Mendao had to get himself into a flaming duel with three Hunters for the Horn, and…

Nynaeve was too busy stopping herself from gaping to listen. Fifteen! She could not help toting up in her head what it would cost to feed fifteen men. Even when they were not particularly hungry, Thom or Juilin either one ate more than Elayne and her combined. Light!

On the other hand, with fifteen Shienaran soldiers, there was no need to wait for a ship. A riverboat was certainly the fastest way to travel — she remembered what she had heard of Salidar, now; a river town, or close by; a boat could take them right to it — yet a Shienaran escort would make their wagon just as safe, from Whitecloaks or bandits or followers of the Prophet. But much slower. And a lone wagon heading away from Samara with such an escort would certainly stand out. A signpost for Moghedien, or the Black Ajah. I will let the Blues deal with them, and that is that!

"What is wrong?" Ragan asked, and Uno added apologetically, "I shouldn't have mentioned how Sakaru died." Sakaru? That must have been after she stopped listening. "I don't spend much time around fla-, around ladies. I forget you have weak bell-, I mean, uh, delicate stomachs." If he did not stop tugging at that eye-patch he was going to find out how delicate her stomach was.

The number changed nothing. If two Shienarans were good, fifteen were wonderful. Her own private army. No need to worry about Whitecloaks or brigands or riots, or whether she had made a mistake about Galad. How many hams could fifteen men eat every day? A firm voice. "Right, then. Every night just after dark, one of you — one, mind! — will come here and ask for Nana. That's the name I am known by." She had no reason for the order, except to put them in the habit of doing what she told them. "Elayne goes by Morelin, but you ask for Nana. If you need coin, come to me, not Masema." She had to suppress a wince as the words left her mouth. There was still gold in the wagon's stove, but Luca had not demanded his hundred gold crowns yet, and he would. There was always the jewelry, if need be, though. She had to be sure they were weaned away from Masema. "Aside from that, none of you are to come near me, or the show." Without that, they would likely set a guard, or some such idiocy. "Not unless a riverboat arrives. In that case, you come running on the instant. Do you understand me?"

"No," Uno muttered. "Why do we flaming have to keep away—?" His head jerked back as her admonitory finger almost touched his nose.

"Do you remember what I said about your language?" She had to make herself give him a level look; that glaring red eye-patch made her stomach do flips. "Unless you do remember, you will learn why men in the Two Rivers have decent tongues in their mouths."

She watched him turn that over in his mind. He did not know what her connection with the White Tower was, only that it existed. She might be an agent of the Tower, or Tower-trained. Or even Aes Sedai, though one not long to the shawl. And the threat was vague enough for him to put his own worst interpretation to it. She had known that technique long before hearing Juilin mention it to Elayne.

When it appeared the idea had taken hold — and before he could ask any questions — she lowered her hand. "You will stay away for the same reason Galad does. So as not to draw attention. For the rest, you will do it because I say so. If I must explain my every decision to you, I'll have time for nothing else, so you must make the best of it."

That was a suitably Aes Sedai comment. Besides, they had no choice if they intended to help her reach Rand, as they thought, which meant they had no choice. All in all, she was feeling quite satisfied with herself as she shooed them off back toward Samara and strode past the waiting crowd and under the sign bearing Valan Luca's name.

To her surprise, there was an addition to the show. On a new platform not far from the entry, a woman in gauzy yellow trousers was standing on her head, arms outstretched to either side with a pair of white doves on each hand. No, not on her head. The woman was gripping some sort of wooden frame in her teeth and balancing on that. As Nynaeve watched, aghast, the peculiar acrobat lowered her hands to the platform for a moment while bending herself double, until she seemed to be sitting on her own head. Even that was not enough. Her legs curved down in front of her, then impossibly back up under her arms, whereupon she transferred the doves to the upturned soles of her feet, now the highest part of the contorted ball she had knotted herself into. The onlookers gasped and applauded, but the sight made Nynaeve shiver. It was all too good a reminder of what Moghedien had done to her.

That isn't why I mean to hand her over to the Blues, she told herself. I just do not want to cause calamity again. That was true, but she was also afraid that the next time, she would not escape so easily or so lightly. She would not have admitted that to another soul. She did not like admitting it to herself.

Giving the contortionist one last puzzled glance — she could not begin to puzzle out what the woman had twisted herself into now — she turned away. And started as Elayne and Birgitte suddenly appeared at her side out of the milling crowd. Elayne had a cloak decently covering her white coat and breeches; Birgitte was all but flaunting her low-necked red gown. No, there was no "all but" to it. She stood even straighter than usual and had tossed back her braid to remove even its minimal covering. Nynaeve fingered the knot of her shawl at her waist, wishing every glance at Birgitte did not remind her how much she herself would be showing once the gray wool came off. The other woman's quiver hung at her belt, and she carried the bow Luca had found for her. Surely the day was too late for her to go through with the shooting.

A glance at the sky told Nynaeve she was wrong. Despite everything that had happened, the sun still stood well above the horizon. Shadows stretched long, but not long enough to dissuade Birgitte, she suspected.

In an attempt to cover checking the sun, she nodded toward the woman in the gauzy trousers, who had now begun to twist herself into something that Nynaeve knew was impossible. While still balancing on her teeth. "Where did she come from?"

"Luca hired her," Birgitte answered calmly. "He bought some leopards, as well. Her name is Muelin."

If Birgitte was all self-possessed coolness, Elayne very nearly quivered with emotion. "Where did she come from?" she spluttered. "She came from a show that a mob nearly destroyed!"

"I heard about that," Nynaeve said, "but that isn't what is important. I —"

"Not important!" Elayne rolled her eyes to the heavens as if for guidance. "Did you also hear why? I don't know whether it was Whitecloaks or this Prophet, but somebody whipped up that mob because they thought…" She glanced around without slowing and lowered her voice; none of the crowd had stopped, but every passerby stared at two obvious performers standing. "…that a woman in the show might wear a shawl." She emphasized the last word significantly. "Fools to think she'd be with a traveling menagerie, but then, you and I are. And you go dashing into the city without a word to anyone. We've heard everything from a baldheaded man carrying you off over his shoulder to you kissing a Shienaran and traipsing away with him arm in arm."