Robert Jordan - The Fires of Heaven

"Surely you exaggerate, Elayne. He is your brother."

"He is not my brother!" Elayne drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We had the same father," she said in a calmer voice, "but he is not my brother. I will not have him. Nynaeve, I've told you time and again, but you will not take it in. Galad does what is right. Always. He never lies. Did you hear what he said to that Trom fellow? He didn't say he did not know who we are. Every word he said was the truth. He does what is right, no matter who is hurt by it, even himself. Or me. He used to tell on Gawyn and me for everything, and on himself, too. If he decides the wrong way, we will have Whitecloaks lying in ambush for us before we reach the edge of the village."

A tap sounded at the door, and Nynaeve's breath caught in her throat. Surely Galad would not really… Elayne's face was set, ready to fight.

Hesitantly, Nynaeve cracked the door. It was Thom, and Juilin with that fool hat in his hand. "My Lady wants us?" Thom asked, with a touch of servility for anyone who might overhear.

Able to breathe again, not caring who was listening, she snatched the door the rest of the way open. "Get in here, you two!" She was growing tired of them looking at one another every time she spoke.

Before she had the door shut again, Elayne said, "Thom, we must leave right away." The determined look had left her face, and anxiety filled her voice. "Galad is here. You must remember what a monster he was as a child. Well, he is no better grown, and he is a Whitecloak besides. He could —" The words seemed to catch in her throat. She stared at Thom, mouth working soundlessly, but no more wide-eyed than he stared at her.

He sat down heavily on one of the chests, never taking his eyes from Elayne's. "I —" Clearing his throat roughly, he went on. "I thought I saw him, watching the inn. A Whitecloak. But he looked the man the boy would grow into. I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise he grew into a Whitecloak at that."

Nynaeve went to the window; Elayne and Thom hardly seemed to notice her passage between them. Traffic was beginning to pick up in the street, farmers and farm carts and villagers mingling with Whitecloaks and soldiers. Across the way, one Whitecloak was sitting on an upended barrel, that perfect face unmistakable.

"Did he—?" Elayne swallowed. "Did he recognize you?"

"No. Fifteen years changes a man more than it does a boy. Elayne, I thought you had forgotten."

"I remembered in Tanchico, Thom." With a wavering smile, Elayne reached out and tugged one of his long mustaches. Thom smiled back almost as unsteadily; he looked as if he was contemplating a leap from the window.

Juilin was scratching his head, and Nynaeve wished she had some idea what they were talking about, too, but there were more important matters at hand. "We still have to leave before he brings the entire garrison down on us. With him watching, it won't be easy. I haven't seen another patron who looks like they have a coach."

"Ours is the only one in the stableyard," Juilin said. Thom and Elayne were still staring at one another, plainly not hearing a word.

Driving off with the curtains down was no protection, then. Nynaeve was willing to bet that Galad had already learned exactly how they had come to Sienda. "Is there a back way from the stableyard?"

"A gate wide enough for one of us at a time," Juilin said dryly. "And what's on the other side is little more than an alley, anyway. There aren't more than two or three streets in this village wide enough for the coach." He studied that cylindrical hat, turning it in his hands "I could get close enough to crack his head. If you were ready, you could drive off during the confusion. I could catch you up on the road."

Nynaeve sniffed loudly. "How? Gallop after on Skulker? Even if you didn't fall out of the saddle inside a mile, do you think you would even reach a horse if you attacked a Whitecloak in that street?" Galad was still there across the street, and Trom had joined him, the pair apparently chatting idly. She leaned over and yanked Thom's nearest mustache. "Do you have anything to add? Any brilliant plans? Did all your listening to gossip yield anything that might help?"

He clapped a hand to his face and gave her an offended look. "Not unless you think there's help in Ailron laying claim to some border villages in Altara. A strip the whole length of the border, from Salidar to So Eban to Mosra. Is there any help in that, Nynaeve? Is there? Try to pull a man's mustache out of his face. Somebody ought to box your ears, for once."

"What would Ailron want with a strip along the border, Thom?" Elayne asked. Perhaps she was interested — she seemed interested in every fool twist and turn of politics and diplomacy — or perhaps she was just trying to stop an argument. She used to try smoothing over things all the time, before she became wrapped up in flirting with Thom.

"It isn't the King, child." His voice softened, for her. "It's Pedron Niall. Ailron does what he is told usually, though he and Niall make out that it isn't so. Most of those villages have been empty since the Whitecloak War, what the Children call the Troubles. Niall was the general in the field then, and I doubt he's ever given up wanting Altara. If he controls both banks of the Eldar, he can squeeze the river trade to Ebou Dar, and if he can crack Ebou Dar, the rest of Altara will trickle into his hands like grain flowing from a hole in a sack."

"That is all very well," Nynaeve said firmly before he or the girl could speak again. There had been something in what he had said that tickled her memory, but she could not say what or why. In any case, they had no time for lectures on relations between Amadicia and Altara, not with Galad and Trom watching the front of the inn. She said as much, adding, "What about you, Juilin? You consort with low types." The thief-catcher always sought out the cutpurses and burglars and footpads in a town; he claimed they knew more of what was really going on than any official. "Are there smugglers we can bribe to sneak us out, or… or… You know the sort of thing we need, man."

"I heard little. Thieves keep low in Amadicia, Nynaeve. First offense is branding, second is loss of your right hand, and third is hanging, whether it's the King's crown or a loaf of bread. There aren't many thieves in a town this size, not who do it for a living" — he was contemptuous of amateur thieves —"and for the most part they only wanted to talk about two things. Whether the Prophet is really coming to Amadicia, the way rumor says he is, and whether the town fathers might relent and let that traveling menagerie put on a show. Sienda is too far from the borders for smugglers to —"

She cut him off with peremptory satisfaction. "That is it! The menagerie." They all looked at her as if she had gone mad.

"Of course," Thom said, much too mildly. "We can get Luca to bring the boar-horses back, and make off while they destroy some more of the town. I don't know what you gave him, Nynaeve, but he threw a rock at us as we were driving off."

For once Nynaeve forgave him his sarcasm, feeble as it was. And his lack of wit to see what she saw. "That's as may be, Thom Merrilin, but Master Luca wants a patron, and Elayne and I are going to be his patrons. We still have to abandon the coach and team —" That smarted; she could have built a snug house in the Two Rivers for what they had cost. " — and sneak out that back way." Tossing open the chest with the leaf-shaped hinges, she rooted through clothes and blankets and pots and everything that she had not wanted to leave behind with the wagon full of dyes — she had made sure that the men packed everything except the harness — until she came to the gilded caskets and the purses. "Thom, you and Juilin go out by that back gate, and find a wagon and team of some sort. Buy some supplies and meet us on the road back to Luca's camp." Regretfully, she filled Thom's hand with gold, not even bothering to count; there was no telling what things would cost, and she did not want him wasting time bargaining.