Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 207

Perrin’s jaw tightened. Masema was supposed to be beyond the eastern ridge with his army, if it could be called that. He had counted those men—and a few women—as they shuffled uneasily through gateways made by the two Asha’man, and they were twenty thousand if they were one. Masema had always been vague about their numbers, and Perrin had not had an accurate count until last night. Ragged and dirty, only one here or there wore a helmet, much less a breastplate, but every hand had gripped sword or spear or axe, halberd or crossbow, the women included. The women among Masema’s followers were worse than the men by far, and that was saying something. For the most part the lot of them were only good for terrorizing people into swearing to follow the Dragon Reborn—the colors whirled in his head and were shattered by his anger—that and murdering them if they refused. They had a better purpose today.

“Maybe it’s time for Haviar and Nerion to start staying away from Masema’s people for good,” he said.

“If you wish it, my Lord, but in my judgment, they still are as safe as any man can be doing what they do, and they’re eager.” Balwer tilted his head, a curious sparrow in a branch. “They haven’t been corrupted, if that’s what you fear, my Lord. That’s always a danger when you send a man to pretend to be what he isn’t, but I have a keen nose for the signs.”

“Keep them close, Balwer.” After today, with luck, there might not be much of Masema’s army left to spy on in any case. There might not even be a Masema to worry about.

Perrin scrambled down the brushy reverse slope, past where the Mayener and Ghealdanin lancers were waiting beside their horses in the thick mist, streamered lances propped on their shoulders or steel heads driven into the ground. The Winged Guards’ red-painted helmets and breastplates might have been safe enough on the ridgetop, but not the Ghealdanin’s burnished armor, and since Gallenne and Arganda both bristled if one was favored over the other, both waited here.

The fog extended quite some distance—Neald claimed that was intentional, but the man had smelled surprised, and pleased, when he realized what he had done—so Perrin was still walking through grayness when he reached the bottom of the ridge, where all of the high-wheeled carts stood in a line with horses hitched. The dim figures of the Cairhienin cart drivers moved about them, checking harness, tightening the ropes that held the canvas covers on.

Masema was waiting, and Perrin wanted nothing so much as to chew off the man’s arm, but he spotted the stout shape of Basel Gill beside one of the carts and headed that way. Lini was with him, wrapped in a dark cloak, and Breane with her arm around the waist of Lamgwin, Perrin’s hulking manservant. Master Gill snatched off his brimmed hat to reveal thin graying hair combed back over a bald spot that it failed to cover. Lini sniffed and pointedly avoided looking at Perrin while pretending to adjust her cowl. She smelled of anger and fear. Master Gill just smelled of fear.

“It’s time for you to start north, Master Gill,” Perrin said. “When you reach the mountains, follow them until you strike the Jehannah Road. With luck, we’ll catch you up before you reach the mountains, but if not, send Alliandre’s servants off to Jehannah, then you head east through the pass, then north again. We’ll be as close behind you as we can.” If his plan did not go too far awry. Light, he was a blacksmith, not a soldier. But even Tylee had finally agreed it was a good plan.

“I will not leave this spot until I know that Maighdin is safe,” Lini told the fog, her thin voice a reed of iron. “And the Lady Faile, of course.”

Master Gill rubbed a hand back over his head. “My Lord, Lamgwin and I were thinking maybe we could help out. The Lady Faile means a great deal to us, and Maighdin . . . Maighdin is one of our own. I know one end of a sword from the other, and so does Lamgwin.” He was wearing one belted around his bulk, yet if he had handled a sword these past twenty years, Perrin would eat the whole great length of that belt. Breane’s grip on Lamgwin tightened, but the big man patted her shoulder and rested his other hand on the hilt of a shortsword. The fog obscured his scarred face and sunken knuckles. He was a tavern brawler, though a good man even so, but never a swordsman.

“You’re my shambayan, Master Gill,” Perrin said firmly. “It’s your duty to get the cart drivers and grooms and servants to safety. Yours and Lamgwin’s. Now go on with you and see to it.”

The stout man nodded reluctantly. Breane breathed a small sigh of relief when Lamgwin knuckled his forehead in acquiescence. Perrin doubted that the man could have heard the sigh, though Lamgwin put his arm around her and murmured comforting words.

Lini was not so compliant. Back stiff as a rod, she addressed the fog again. “I will not leave this spot until I know—“

Perrin slapped his hands together with a loud crack, startling her into looking at him in surprise. “All you can do here is catch the ague from standing in the damp. That and die, if the Shaido manage to break through. I’ll bring Faile out. I’ll bring Maighdin and the others out.” He would, or die himself in the attempt. There was no point saying that, though, and reason not to. They had to believe in their bones that he would be following with Faile and the rest. “And you are going north, Lini. Faile will be upset with me if I let anything happen to you. Master Gill, you make sure she rides with you if you have to tie her up and put her in the back of a cart.”

Master Gill jerked, crumpling his hat between his hands. He smelled of alarm, suddenly, and Lini of pure indignation. Amusement filled Lamgwin’s scent, and he rubbed at his nose as though concealing a smile, but strangely, Breane was indignant, too. Well, he had never claimed to understand women. If he could not understand the woman he was married to, which he could not half the time, then it was unlikely he ever would understand the rest of them.

In the end, Lini actually climbed up beside the driver of a cart without having to be forced, though she slapped away Master Gill’s hand when he tried to assist her, and the line of carts began to trundle off northward though the fog. Behind one of the carts, laden with the Wise Ones’ tents and possessions, marched a cluster of white-clad gai’shain, meek even now, men and women with their cowls up and their eyes lowered. They were Shaido, taken at Cairhien, and in a few months they would put off white and return to their clan. Perrin had had them watched, discreetly, despite the Wise Ones’ assurances that they would adhere to ji’e'toh in this regard whatever others they abandoned, yet it appeared the Wise Ones were right. They still numbered seventeen. None had tried to run off and warn the Shaido beyond the ridge. The carts’ axles had been greased liberally, but they still creaked and squealed to his ears. With luck, he and Faile would catch up to