“They are the same place, my Lady.”

“Excellent. Come.”

Loral didn’t have much choice. Nynaeve allowed her—guarded by a soldier—to return to her rooms for a dress.

A short time later, Nynaeve and her soldiers marched the dosun—along with the four workers, to keep them from accidentally giving warning of what was happening—from the building. All five looked decidedly displeased. They probably believed the superstitious rumors that the night was not safe. Nynaeve knew better. The night might not be safe, but it wasn’t any worse than other times. In fact, it might be safer. If there were fewer people about, there were fewer chances of someone nearby suddenly growing thorns out of their skin, bursting into flame or dying in some other horribly random way.

They left the mansion grounds, Nynaeve walking with a firm step, hoping to keep the others from feeling too nervous. She nodded to the soldiers at the gate, and went in the direction Loral indicated. Their feet thumped against the wood of the boardwalk, the clouded night sky glowing just faintly from moonlight above.

Nynaeve didn’t give herself the luxury of questioning her plan. She’d decided on a course, and so far it was going well. True, Rand might grow angry at her for appropriating soldiers and stirring up trouble. But sometimes, to see what was at the bottom of a cloudy rain barrel, you needed to stir the water to bring up what was at the bottom. It was just too coincidental. Milisair Chadmar had taken the messenger captive months ago, but he had died only a short time before Rand wanted him. He was the only person in the city with a clue to the King’s location.

Coincidences did happen. Sometimes, when two farmers were feuding and one of their cows died in the night, it was just an accident. And sometimes, a little searching uncovered the opposite.

Loral led the group toward the Gull’s Feast, also known as the Gull District, a part of town close to where the fishermen dumped waste from their hauls. Like most sensible people, Nynaeve avoided that section of town, and her nose reminded her just why as they approached. Fish guts might make excellent fertilizer, but Nynaeve could smell the composting heaps from several streets away. Even the refugees avoided this dark area.

The walk was a fairly long one—understandably, the rich sector of town was distant from the Gull’s Feast. Nynaeve stalked along, paying no heed to the shadowed alleyways and buildings, though her entourage—soldiers excepted—clustered around her apprehensively. The Saldaeans instead kept their hands on their serpentine swords, trying to look in all directions at once.

She wished she had news from the White Tower. How long had it been since she’d had news from Egwene or one of the others? She felt blind. It was her own fault for insisting that she go with Rand. Someone had needed to keep an eye on him, but that meant being unable to keep any eyes on everyone else. Was the Tower still divided? Was Egwene still Amyrlin? News on the streets was little help. As always, for every rumor she heard, there were two more contradicting it. The White Tower was fighting itself. No, it fought the Asha’man. No, the Aes Sedai had been destroyed by the Seanchan. Or by the Dragon Reborn. No, those rumors were all lies spread by the Tower to bait its enemies into striking.

Very little was said about Elaida or Egwene specifically, though garbled news of two Amyrlins was spreading. That was problematic. Neither group of Aes Sedai would like spreading the news of a second Amyrlin. Tales of squabbles among the Aes Sedai would only end up hurting all of them.

Eventually, Loral stopped walking. The four workers stopped behind her, bundling together with worried expressions. Nynaeve glanced at Loral. “Well?”

“There, Lady.” The woman pointed a bony finger to the building across the street.

“The chandler’s shop?” Nynaeve asked.

Loral nodded.

Nynaeve summoned one of the bowlegged Saldaean soldiers. “You, watch these five and make sure they don’t get into trouble. You other two, come with me.”

She started across the street, but when she didn’t hear footsteps leave the boardwalk, she turned with a frown. The three guards stood together, looking at the single lantern, likely cursing themselves for not thinking to bring another.

“Oh, for the Light’s sake,” Nynaeve snapped, raising her hand and embracing the Source. She wove a globe of light above her fingers, casting a cool, even illumination across the ground around her. “Leave the lantern.”

The two Saldaeans complied, hurrying after her. She stepped up to the chandler’s door, then wove a ward against eavesdropping and placed it in the air around herself, the door and the two soldiers.

She looked at one of the soldiers. “What’s your name?”

“Triben, my Lady,” he said. He was a hawk-faced man with a short, trimmed mustache and a scar across his forehead. “That’s Lurts,” he said, pointing at the other soldier, a massive wall of a man who Nynaeve had been surprised to see was uniformed as a cavalryman.

“All right, Triben,” Nynaeve said. “Kick the door open.”

Triben didn’t question her; he just raised a booted foot and kicked. The frame cracked easily and the door slammed open, but if her ward had been placed correctly, nobody in the building would be able to hear. She peeked in. The room smelled of wax and perfumes, and the wooden floor was marked by numerous spots. Drip marks; wax that had been cleaned up often left a mark.

“Quickly,” she said to the soldiers, releasing the ward but maintaining the globe of light. “Lurts, go to the back of the shop and watch the alley; make certain nobody escapes. Triben, with me.”

Lurts moved with surprising speed for his bulk, taking his position in the back room of the shop. Her globe illuminated barrels for dipping candles and a pile of burned nubs in the corner, bought for pennies to be re-melted. A staircase mounted to the right. A small alcove in the front of the shop was the storefront, and it contained various sizes and shapes of candles, from the standard white rod to the perfumed and decorated brick. If Loral was wrong about this being the place. . . .

But any good secret operation would have a working front. Nynaeve hurried up the stairs, wood creaking beneath her weight. The building was narrow. On the upper floor, she and Triben found two rooms. One door was open a crack, so Nynaeve dimmed her globe of light and wove a ward against listeners into the room. Then she burst in, hawk-faced Triben following, his sword scraping against its scabbard as he pulled it free.

There was only one person in the room, an overweight man sleeping on a mattress on the floor, blankets in a heap around his feet. Nynaeve wove a few threads of Air, tying him up in one smooth motion. His eyes bulged open, and he opened his mouth to scream, but Nynaeve stuffed Air between his lips, gagging him.

She turned to Triben and nodded, tying off her weaves. They left the bound man there, struggling against his bonds, and crossed to the other door. She wove another weave against eavesdropping into the room before entering, and it was a good thing she did—for the two younger men in this room roused much more quickly. One sat bolt upright, letting out a yelp just as Triben headed across the floorboards. Triben punched him in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Nynaeve bound him with a thread of Air, then did the same for the other young man, who was rousing drowsily in his bunk. She towed the two toward her, brightening her globe of light, hanging the men up in the air a few inches. They were both Domani, with dark hair and crude faces, thin mustaches above their lips. Both wore only their smallclothes. They seemed too old to be apprentices.

“I think we have the right place, Nynaeve Sedai,” Triben said, walking around the pair to stand beside her.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Those are no chandler’s apprentices,” Triben continued. He slid his sword back into its sheath. “Calluses on the palms, but no burns on their hands? Muscled arms? And they’re far too old. That fellow on the left has had his nose broken at least once.”

She looked closer; Triben was right. I should have seen that. Still, she had noticed the age. “Which one do y

ou think I should ungag,” she asked casually, “and which one should I kill?”

Both men began to squirm, eyes wide. They should have known that an Aes Sedai would never do anything of the sort. In fact, she probably shouldn’t have implied it, but private jailers like these riled her anger.

“The one on the left seems most eager to talk, Lady,” Triben said. “Perhaps he will tell you what you wish to know.”

She nodded, releasing the man’s gag. He began to speak immediately. “I will do whatever you say! Please, don’t fill my stomach with insects! I haven’t done anything wrong, I promise you, I—”

She stuffed the Air gag back in.

“Too much complaining,” she said. “Perhaps the other will know to hush and speak when spoken to.” She released his gag.

This man remained dangling in the air, obviously terrified, but saying nothing. The One Power could unnerve the most hardened of killers.

“How do I get into the dungeon?” she asked this man.

He looked sick, but he had probably already guessed that she’d want the dungeon. It was unlikely that an Aes Sedai would burst into the shop after midnight because she’d been sold a bad candle.

“Trapdoor,” the man said, “under the rug in the shop front.”

“Excellent,” Nynaeve said. She tied off the weaves binding the men’s hands, then replaced the gag on the one who had spoken. She didn’t leave them hanging in the air—she didn’t want to have to pull them along behind her—and instead let them walk on their own feet.

She had Triben fetch the overweight man from the other room, then herded all three down the stairs. Below, they met the muscular Lurts keeping careful watch on the alley out back. A youth sat on the floor in front of him, and Nynaeve’s globe of light illuminated his face, a frightened Domani one with uncharacteristically light hair and hands spotted with burns.

“Now, that’s a chandler’s apprentice,” Triben said, scratching his forehead scar. “They probably have him doing all of the work for the front.”

“He was asleep under those blankets over there.” Lurts nodded to a shadowed pile in the corner as he joined Nynaeve. “Tried to scramble out the front door after you went up the stairs.”

“Bring him,” Nynaeve said. In the small storefront, Triben pulled back the rug, then used the edge of his sword to prod through the slats until he knocked against something underneath—hinges, Nynaeve assumed. After a little careful prying, he got the trapdoor open. A ladder reached down into the darkness below.

Nynaeve stepped forward, but Triben held up a hand. “Lord Bashere would hang me up by my own stirrups if I let you go first, Lady,” he said. “No telling what might be down there.” He leaped into the hole, sliding down the ladder with one hand, his sword in the other. He thumped to the ground below, and Nynaeve rolled her eyes. Men! She gestured for Lurts to watch the jailers, then released their bonds so they could climb down. She gave each of them a stern look; then she proceeded down the ladder without Triben’s ridiculous flair, leaving Lurts to herd the jailers after.

She raised her globe of light and surveyed the cellar. The walls were stone, which made her feel much less nervous about the weight of the building above. The floor was packed dirt, and there was a wooden doorway built into the wall across from her. Triben was listening at it.

She nodded, and he pulled it open, darting inside eagerly. The Saldaeans seemed to be picking up some habits from the Aiel. Nynaeve followed, preparing weaves of Air, just in case. Behind her, the sullen jailers began to climb down the ladder, followed by Lurts.

There wasn’t much to see in the other room. Two dungeon cells with thick wooden doors, a table with some stools beside it, and a large wooden trunk. Nynaeve sent her globe of light to the corner as hawk-faced Triben inspected the trunk. He lifted the lid, then raised an eyebrow, pulling out several glittering knives. Aids for questioning. Nynaeve shivered. She turned harsh eyes on the jailers behind her.

She untied the gag on the one who had spoken. “Keys?” she asked.

“Bottom of the trunk,” said the thug. The overweight jailer—the leader of the group, no doubt, as he didn’t share a room—shot him a furious glance. Nynaeve jerked the leader into the air. “Don’t provoke me,” she growled. “It’s already far too late at night for reasonable people to be awake.”

She nodded to Triben, and he dug out the keys and opened the cell doors. The first cell was empty; the second one held a disheveled woman, still wearing a fine Domani dress, though it was soiled. Lady Chadmar was dirty and ragged and she curled against the wall, drowsy, barely even noticing that the door was open. Nynaeve caught a whiff of a stench that, up until that moment, had been covered by the scent of rotting fish. Human excrement and an unwashed body. Likely, that was one reason for locating the dungeon here in the Gull’s Feast.

Nynaeve inhaled sharply at seeing how the woman was being treated. How could Rand allow this? The woman herself had done this very thing to others, but that didn’t make it right for him to stoop to her level.

She waved for Triben to close the door; then she sat down on one of the room’s stools, regarding the three jailers. Behind, Lurts guarded the way out, keeping an eye on the poor apprentice. The overweight jailer still hung in the air.

She needed information. She could have asked Rand for permission to visit the jail in the morning, but in doing so, she would have risked alerting these men that they were going to be visited. She was depending on surprise and intimidation to reveal what had been hidden.

“Now,” she said to the three, “I am going to ask some questions. You are going to answer. I’m not certain what I’m going to do with you yet, so realize it’s best to be very honest with me.”

The two on the ground looked up at the other man, floating in the invisible weaves of Air. They nodded.

“The man who was brought to you,” she said. “The messenger of the King. When did he first arrive?”

“Two months ago,” one of the toughs said—the one with the large chin and the broken nose. “Arrived in a sack with the candle nubs from Lady Chadmar’s mansion, just like all the prisoners.”

“Your instructions?”

“Hold him,” the other tough said. “Keep him alive. We didn’t know much, er, Lady Aes Sedai. Jorgin is the one who does all the questioning.”

She looked up at the fat man. “You’re Jorgin?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“And what were your instructions?”

Jorgin didn’t respond.

Nynaeve sighed. “Look,” she said to him. “I am Aes Sedai, and am bound by my word. If you tell me what I want to know, I will see that you are not suspected in the death. The Dragon doesn’t care about you three, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here in charge of this little . . . stopover of yours.”

“If we talk, we go free?” the fat man said, eyeing her. “Your word?”

Nynaeve glanced about the tiny room with a dissatisfied eye. They had left Lady Chadmar in the dark, and the door was packed with cloth to muffle screams. The cell would be dark, stuffy and cramped. Men who would work a place like this barely deserved life, let alone freedom.

But there was a much larger sickness to deal with. “Yes,” Nynaeve said, the word bitter in her mouth. “And you know that’s better than you deserve.”

Jorgin hesitated, then nodded. “Let me down, Aes Sedai, and I’ll answer your questions.”

She did so. The man might not know it, but she had very little authority to stand on; she wouldn’t resort to his methods of extracting answers, and she was acting without Rand’s knowledge. The Dragon probably wouldn’t react well when he discovered that she’d been prying—not unless she could present him with discoveries.

Jorgin said to the broken-nosed thug, “Mord, fetch me a stool.”

Mord glanced at Nynaeve for approval, which she gave with a curt nod. As Jorgin settled his bulk onto the stool, he leaned forward, hands clasped before him. He resembled a hulking beetle tipped up on

its side.

“I don’t see what you need from me,” the man said. “You seem to know everything already. You know about my facility and about the people it has held. What more is there to know?”

Facility? Some word for it. “That is my own business,” Nynaeve said, giving him a stare which she hoped implied that the concerns of the Aes Sedai were not to be questioned. “Tell me, how did the messenger die?”

“Without dignity,” Jorgin replied. “Like all men, in my experience.”

“Give me specifics, or you’ll go back to hanging in the air.”

“I opened the cell door a few days back to feed him. He was dead.”

“How long had it been since you’d fed him, then?”

Jorgin snorted. “I don’t starve my guests, Lady Aes Sedai. I just . . . encourage them to be free with what they know.”

“And how much encouragement did you give the messenger?”

“Not enough to kill him,” the jailer said defensively.

“Oh, come now,” Nynaeve said. “The man remained for months in your possession, presumably healthy all that time. Then, the day before he is to be brought before the Dragon Reborn, he suddenly dies? You already have my promise of amnesty. Tell me who bribed you to kill him and I’ll see that you’re protected.”

The jailer shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I’m telling you, he just died. It happens sometimes.”

“I tire of your games.”

“It’s not a game, burn you!” Jorgin snarled. “You think a man could get far in my profession if it were known that he’d accept a bribe to kill one of his guests? You couldn’t trust him any further than you could a lying Aiel!”

She let that last comment slide, though a man like this one could never be “trusted.”

“Look,” Jorgin said, “that wasn’t the type of prisoner you kill, anyway. Everybody wants to know where the King is. Who’d kill the only one with information about it? That man was worth good money.”

“So he’s not dead,” Nynaeve surmised. “Who did you sell him to?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” the jailer said with a chuckle. “If I had sold him, I wouldn’t have lived long afterward. You learn that sort of thing quickly, doing what I do.”