Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 152

“Three,” Cadsuane said, and Rand’s skin popped out in goose bumps an instant before something struck him across the bottom like a hard-swung switch. Bera’s lips parted in shock, and the cloak slid off her arm to the floor. Nynaeve laughed. She smothered it quickly, but she laughed! “Don’t make me have to keep reminding you about manners, boy.” Cadsuane went on. “Alanna told me the terms you offered before she left—Darlin as Steward, your laws kept, everything else on the table—and it seems they’ve been met. You can do as you wish, of course, but another piece of advice. When the terms you offer are accepted, hold to them.”

Else no one will trust you, Lews Therin said, sounding entirely sane. For the moment.

Rand glared at Cadsuane, fists clenched hard, on the brink of weaving something that would singe her. He could feel a welt on his bottom, and would feel it more in the saddle. It seemed to pulse, and his anger pulsed with it. She peered back calmly over her wine. Was there a hint of challenge in her gaze, of daring him to channel? The woman spent every moment in his presence challenging him! The trouble was, her advice was good. He had given Alanna those terms. He had expected them to bargain harder, gain more, but they had gotten what he actually asked for. More. He had not thought of fines.

“It seems your fortunes have risen, King Darlin,” he said. One of the serving women curtsied and handed Rand another goblet full of wine. Her face was as calm as any Aes Sedai’s. You might have thought men arguing with sisters was a matter of every day with her.

“All hail King Darlin,” Weiramon intoned, sounding half strangled, and after a moment Anaiyella echoed him, as breathless as if she had run a mile. Once, she had talked of herself for a crown in Tear.

“But why would they want me as King?” Darlin said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Or anyone. There’ve been no kings in the Stone since Moreina died, a thousand years ago. Or did you demand that, Bera Sedai?”

Bera straightened from picking up her cloak and began shaking it out. “It was their . . . ‘demand’ would be too strong . . . their suggestion. Any of them would have leapt at the chance of a throne, especially Estanda.” Anaiyella made a choking sound. “But of course, they knew there was no hope of that. This way, they can swear to you instead of to the Dragon Reborn, making it slightly less distasteful.”

“And if you are king,” Caraline put in, “it means that Steward in Tear for the Lord Dragon becomes a lesser title.” She laughed throatily. “They may even tack on three or four more noble sounding titles to try pushing it down to obscurity.” Bera pursed her lips as though she had been about to bring up that very point.

“And would you marry a king, Caraline?” Darlin asked. “I’ll accept the crown, if you will. Though I’ll have to have a crown made.”

Min cleared her throat. “I can tell you how it should look, if you like.”

Caraline laughed again and released Darlin’s arm, swaying away from him. “I will have to see you in it before I could answer that. Have Min’s crown made, and if it makes you look pretty. . . .” She smiled. “Then perhaps I will consider it.”

“I wish you both the best,” Rand said curtly, “but there are more important matters to go into right now.” Min gave him a sharp look, disapproval flooding the bond. Nynaeve gave him a sharp look. What was that about? “You will accept that crown, Darlin, and as soon as those documents are signed, I want you to arrest those Seanchan, then gather every man in Tear who knows one end of sword or halberd from the other. I’ll arrange for Asha’man to take you to Arad Doman.”

“And me, my Lord Dragon?” Weiramon asked avidly. He all but quivered with eagerness, managing to strut while standing still. “If there is fighting to be done, I can serve you better there than languishing in Cairhien.”

Rand studied the man. And Anaiyella. Weiramon was a bungling idiot, and he trusted neither, but he could not see what harm they could do with no more than a handful of followers. “Very well. You two may accompany the High Lord . . . that is, King Darlin.” Anaiyella gulped as though she for one would rather return to Cairhien.

“But what am I supposed to do in Arad Doman?” Darlin wanted to know. “The little I’ve heard of that land, it’s a madhouse.” Lews Therin laughed wildly in Rand’s head.

“Tarmon Gai’don is coming soon,” Rand said. The Light send not too soon. “You are going to Arad Doman to get ready for Tarmon Gai’don.”

CHAPTER 22 To Make an Anchor Weep

Despite the pitching induced by the long blue rollers, Harine din Togara sat very straight alongside her sister, just ahead of their parasol bearers and the steersman at his long tiller. Shalon seemed intent on studying the twelve men and women working the oars. Or perhaps she was deep in thought. There was plenty to think on of late, not least this meeting Harine had been summoned to, but she let her thoughts drift blindly. Composing herself. Every time the First Twelve of the Atha’an Miere met since she had attained Illian, she had needed to compose herself before attending. When she reached Tear and found Zaida’s Blue Gull still anchored in the river, she had been sure the woman was in Caemlyn yet, or at least trailing far behind her own wake. A painful mistake, that. Though in truth, very little would have been altered had Zaida been weeks behind. Not for Harine, at least. No. No thoughts of Zaida.

The sun stood only a fist above the horizon in the east, and several vessels of the shorebound were making for the long breakwater that guarded Illian’s harbor. One carried three masts and a semblance of a high-rig. all the major sails square, yet he was squat and ill-handled, wallowing through the low rolling seas in fountains of spray rather than slicing them. Most were small and low-rigged, their triangular sails nearly all high-boomed. Some seemed quick enough, but since the shorebound seldom sailed beyond sight of land and usually anchored at night for fear of shoals, their quickness availed them little. Cargo that required true speed went to Atha’an Miere ships. At a premium price, to be sure. It was a small portion of what Atha’an Miere carried, in part because of the price, in part because few things actually required their speed. Besides, cargo hire guaranteed some profit, but when the Cargomaster traded on his own for the ship, all of the profit went to vessel and clan.

As far as the eye could see to east and west along the coastline, Atha’an Miere ships lay at anchor, rakers and skimmers, soarers and darters, most surrounded by bumboats so cluttered they looked like drunken shore festivals. Rowed out from the city, the bumboats offered for sale everything from dried fruit to quartered beeves and sheep, from iron nails and iron stock to swords and daggers, from gaudy trinkets of Illian that might catch a deckhand’s eye to gold and gems. Though the gold was usually a thin plate that wore off in a few months to show the brass beneath and the gems colored glass. They brought rats, too, if not for sale. Anchored so long, every ship was plagued by rats, now. Rats and spoilage made sure there was always