Rand felt impatience as the procession continued, one by one up to kneel before him, Cairhienin succeeding Tairen succeeding Cairhienin, as he had decreed. This was all necessary, so Moiraine said — and so agreed a voice in his head that he knew for Lews Therin's — but to him it was part of the delay. He must have their loyalty, if only on the surface, in order to begin making Cairhien secure, and that beginning, at least, had to be made before he could move on Sammael. And that I will do! I have too much to do yet to let him go on stabbing at my ankles from the bushes! He will find out what it means to rouse the Dragon!
He did not understand why those coming before him began to sweat and lick their lips as they knelt and stammered the words of fealty. But then, he could not see the cold light burning in his own eyes.
Chapter 47
(Elephant)
The Price of a Ship
Finishing her morning wash, Nynaeve toweled herself dry and pulled on a fresh silk shift reluctantly. Silk was not as cool as linen, and even with the sun only just up, the heat in the wagon foretold another scorching day. Besides which, the thing was cut so she was half afraid it would fall in a puddle around her ankles if she breathed wrong. At least it was not damp with nightsweat, as her discarded one was.
Disturbing dreams had racked her sleep, dreams of Moghedien that woke her bolt upright — and those better than the ones she did not wake out of — dreams of Birgitte shooting arrows at her and not missing, dreams of the Prophet's followers rioting through the menagerie, of being stranded forever in Samara because no vessel ever came, of reaching Salidar and finding Elaida in charge. Or Moghedien again, there too. She had wakened weeping from that one.
All just worry, of course, and natural enough. Three nights camped here without a ship appearing, three sweltering days of standing blindfolded against that cursed piece of wall. That was enough to put anyone on edge, even without worrying whether Moghedien was closing in. But then, just because the woman knew they were with a menagerie did not mean she had to find them in Samara. There were other traveling menageries in the world besides those gathered here. Thinking up reasons not to worry was easier than not worrying, though.
But why should I be anxious about Egwene? Dipping a split twig into a small dish of saltandsoda on the washstand, she began scrubbing her teeth vigorously. Egwene had popped up in nearly every dream, yammering at her, but she could not see how Egwene came into them.
In truth, anxiety and lack of sleep were only part of what made her mood vile this morning. The others were such minor things, but they were realities. A pebble in your shoe was small compared to having your head cut off, but if the pebble was there and the chopping block might never be...
It was not possible to avoid her own reflection, and her hair hanging loose about her shoulders instead of decently braided. Brush it how she would, the brassy red color never became less loathsome. And she knew all too well that a blue dress was laid out on the bed behind her. A blue to make even a Tinker woman blink, and cut as low as the original red gown hanging on a peg. That was why she had on this precariously clinging shift. One dress like that was not enough, not according to Valan Luca. Clarine was at work on another pair in a virulent yellow, and there was talk of stripes. Nynaeve did not want to know about stripes.
At least the man could let me choose the colors, she thought, working the split twig furiously. Or Clarine. But no, he had his own ideas, and he never asked. Not Valan Luca. His color choices sometimes made her forget the necklines. I ought to throw it in his face! Yet she knew she would not. Birgitte flaunted herself in those dresses without the hint of a blush. The woman was certainly nothing like any of the stories about her! Not that she was going to wear the fool dress without protest because Birgitte did. She was not competing with the woman in any way. It was just that... “If you have to do a thing,” she growled around the twig, “best you get used it.”
“What did you say?” Elayne asked. “If you're going to talk, please take that out of your mouth. The noise is disgusting otherwise.”
Wiping her chin, Nynaeve glared over her shoulder. Elayne was seated on her own narrow bed with her legs drawn up beside her, braiding her blackdyed hair. She already had on her white breeches, all sewn with spangles, and a snowy silk blouse with ruffles at the neck that was much too sheer. Her sequinsplattered white coat lay beside her. White. She also had two suits of clothes for performing, with a third in the making, all in white, if not exactly plain. “If you are going to dress in that fashion; Elayne, you should not sit so. It's indecent.”
The other woman glowered sullenly, but She did put her slippered feet on the floor. And raised her chin in that haughty way she had. “I think I may take a walk into the town this morning,” she said coolly, still working at the braid. “This wagon is... confining.”
Rinsing her mouth, Nynaeve spat into the washbowl. Loudly. The wagon certainly did seem smaller by the day. Maybe they did need to keep out of sight as much as possible — it had been her idea, one she was coming to regret — but this was becoming ridiculous. Three days shut up with Elayne except when they went to perform was beginning to feel like three weeks. Or three months. She had never before realized what an acid tongue Elayne had. A ship had to come. Any kind of ship. She would give every last coin hidden in the brick stove, every last jewel, anything, for a ship today. “Well, that wouldn't attract any attention, would it? But perhaps you could use the exercise. Or maybe it's just the way those breeches fit your hips.”
Blue eyes flared, but Elayne's chin remained high and her tone cold. “I dreamed about Egwene last night, and between going on about Rand and Cairhien — I worry about what is happening there, even if you do not — in between, she said you were turning into a screaming harridan. Not that I think so, necessarily. I would have said a fishmonger.”
“Now you listen to me, you illtempered little chit! If you don't —”
Still glaring, Nynaeve snapped her mouth shut, then drew breath slowly. With an effort she forced her voice to be level. “You dreamed about Egwene?” Elayne nodded curtly. “And she talked of Rand and Cairhien?” The younger woman rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation and went on with her, braid. Nynaeve made her hand loose its fistful of brassy red hair, made herself stop thinking of teaching the DaughterHeir of bloody Andor some simple common courtesy. If they did not find a ship soon... “If you can think of anything except how to show more of your legs than you already are, it might interest you to know that she was in my dreams, too. She said Rand won a great victory at