A/N: So after two years, of writing original fiction, my creative energies dried up. I needed to come back to the well, and that well is the radiance of this community. I am publishing updates to this story. If you have read the prior version, no need to reread. These updates contain only minor grammatical changes that were bugging me on my reread.
The town of Kilramir had changed nationality no less than seven times in the past century. It had been part of Ghealdan, part of Amadicia, it had even been a part of Altara. The townsfolk had, for the past decade, been a part of Amadicia, but everyone kept a Ghealdanin flag in their attics just in case. When Sebban Balwer had been born, Kilramir had been a part of Ghealdan. In its history, the town had been sacked, burned, raized, rebuilt, tripled in size, stripped for conscription, and had half of its masonry stolen to use in neighboring Sienda. For a place that no one save a local would know, it had seen much. The Kilramese had a saying, "You can eat your eggs in Ghealdan, and your beef in Amadicia, but whatever you do, eat them now."
Sebban Balwer's sire had taught him his letters and his numbers, having done the accounts for Barston's Butcher, old Miss Addie's Fine Cheeses, and half a dozen other Kilramese businesses. But Balwer didn't take to numbers. It wasn't that he couldn't do them, but that they only told part of the story.
At the age of 13, he had discovered that Mayton Fairweather had been operating a shadow gambling speakeasy (gambling being illegal in Amadicia, as was everything else that was fun) behind his General Store. It was the books that told him one and one were making eight, but it was following Mayton's son, Bale, coming back from Goddard's with half a dozen bottles of his famous, Clear Barn Peeler, that told him what was actually going on. When it turned out that the Sherrif was Mayton's biggest customer, and that he had spent half of his deputy fund on dice, Balwer had enjoyed a brief moment as a local hero. The moment faded when they learned that the Sherrif's debt was the only thing keeping the local toughs from collecting from the fund itself, and that once the sherrif was gone, the toughs began collecting from the townspeople themselves. Balwer's brief popularity had ended. The Sherrif was found in a pool of his own vomit somewhere, (in a hell in Mardecin,) was sobered up and reinstated.
It was soon after that the young Sebban Balwer left Kilramir, having learned three valuable lessons. The first, if you piss off the Sheriff, make damn sure he never returns, the second, first look at the numbers, then look at the space in between, and the third, never be a hero. And those rules had been guiding precepts for him for his entire life.
If he could manage to instruct even one of these idiots from Cha Faile on these rules, they might actually make something of themselves.
With a sigh, Balwer straightened, and put the nib down on the small foldable writing table he kept among his possessions. Lamgwin snored on the ground, not four feet away. Space was at a premium, and the party was lucky that Lord Aybara had been able to spare them a tent at all. The Two Rivers men, slept under the stars for the most part.
That odious woman, Breane Taborwin, would be back from serving Lord Aybara soon, and she would demand he snuff the candle that allowed Balwer to write his letters. She was pretty in a way, he supposed, but her personality made lemon juice seem sweet. Plus, she made Morgase light up like a torch, and no man wanted that.
He sighed, poor Morgase. He felt no affection for the woman, for all that they had been traveling companions these past months. But being taken by the Shaido, with Faile, Alliandre and the rest of Cha Faile, must be a great hardship. Edarra and the other Wise Women worked their apprentices to the bone, and he knew from his reports that the Shaido were far far worse with their captives. He had kept the bulk of this information from his new Lord. Not that he wouldn't have told him, had the information become relevant, but Aybara's relentless pursuit of his wife, Faile, made captive by the Shaido, made him reckless, and such details would only drive the man mad. It was the job of a secretary to make such decisions for his superiors. He still fancied himself such, though Cha Faile had taken to calling him Jenn Ti'Vron, literally, True to Watch, less literally, He Who Sees, and with a twist to the mouth, Spymaster.
He had controlled a network of diligent information gatherers for over two decades, and remained completely obscured. These foppish fools threatened to expose his activities from simple adolescent carelessness. Of course, he had managed to use Omerna, the Whitecloak "Spymaster" with great effectiveness. Up until the day the imbecile plunged his sword into his oldest and only friend, the Lord Captain Commander, Pedron Niall. He clucked his tongue in irritation, the nib of his pen had stuck through the parchment he had been writing on. He was distracted, he hadn't let himself think much about his time in the Fortress of Light since his untimely exodus.
He took another sheet and began the letter again. They weren't all bad, several of the young nobles showed promise. Selande Darengil was one such, a remarkably intelligent woman, for one who was so strikingly beautiful. Of course, if she was anything like the rest of the beautiful women he had met, she'd probably lose her head over some fool, and that would be the end of an excellent career in the information services. Yes, Selande was an interesting woman. She had been a catspaw to the deceased Lady Colavaere, a minor vassal and third daughter to House Darengil, sworn to House Saighan. Had events played out differently, she might have made an excellent marriage to House Taborwin, or perhaps Riatin. Riatin was down right now, but the Game of Houses was timeless and what was down today could be up a decade from now. Why the lords of Cairhien had allowed their young to join these Societies was beyond Balwer. A child was an asset, an asset was to be used to protect, gain, and grow the House. Allowing these assets to join such a perilous quest was a quick way to end up broke.
His age was showing in the way his thoughts kept scattering. Selande. Unlike many of the noble born ladies in Cha Faile, she had shown unusual maturity. He guessed that she had been asked to do some odious things in Colavaere's employ. She was not afraid to enter the gutter when the work demanded it, or to use her feminine wiles to gain an advantage. This was something some of her stiffnecked Tairen peers, like Medore, would never consider. She was also particularly fearless in the face of danger. A good quality for a soldier perhaps, but it was fear that kept a spy alive.
He was going through a written report from Selande, done in her precise hand, and in the cipher he had taught her. To any but him, the letter read like the inventory of a cloth seller's shop. To him, it detailed precise numbers in the Prophet's armada, the number of captains, his personal body guard, and his list of disciples. It also detailed an interesting tidbit, something that he would have to share with Aybara. His young bodyguard, the former tinker, had been seen in earnest discussion with Vascilli the Barber, and Margaux Whoresbane, two of Masema's most zealous disciples. Vascilli was no barber, he'd earned the moniker from the collection of human ears he wore, and the razor sharp barber's blades he kept in various portions of his dress. Whoresbane, had personally raped and murdered at least two dozen unmarried women for carrying on with men before marriage. She was a particularly nasty piece of work, Whoresbane. The boy was being turned. But he doubted Perrin would listen to him. He had a soft spot for the young tinker, since his family had disowned him. He would have to assign someone to watch Aram, even as Aram had been assigned to watch Masema. It would be dangerous work.
Selande poked her head into the tent.
"Come" he said, in his accustomed rasp.
The short woman moved soundlessly into the room. She wore her sword around her waist, a rapier. Her dark hair hung in waves down to her shoulders, framing a delicate face with large lips and large liquid eyes. She had grey trousers and a doublet of a mossy green. For all that it was a man's article of clothing, she wore it well, and made it somehow accentuate her curves without trying. He covered a moment's shock. He hadn't noticed a woman's curves in well over a decade!
She came in, and crouched low. Looking at Lamgwin and glancing back into Balwer's eyes.
"He could sleep through the Breaking." He paused, "an excellent report, Miss Darengil. The news about young Aram will go straight to the Lord himself. Fine detail within, I particularly note that you counted raiding parties and wagon carts. One point of advice, put the most important parts at the top of the report. I will read it all, of course, but if it were timely, I should have the prurient details at hand."
She beamed, and nodded thoughtfully at his criticism.
"Let's see, have the scouts returned? The Asha'man, or the Aiel? Any word on Berelain's thieftakers? Yesterday you observed correctly that the quartermaster had shortchanged the Winged Guards, on leather for new boots. But did you notice that he was also shorting the Two Rivers men on grain? He nearly tripled the price of lentils. You noted also that Lacile had quarreled with Arrela again, and indicated that you thought it to be because Arrela was Tairen, and Lacile a Cairhienien like yourself. That was looking beyond the immediate, which is good, but unnecessary in this case. Sometimes the obvious answer is indeed the only answer. Arrela used Lacile's bedroll three nights past, and returned it with a rank odor. See to it that Arrela wash more frequently, perfume only goes so far. Go ahead."
Selande drank in his words, dry as they were, her large eyes staring at the small man intently. Unconsciously, she put a hand in her hair, brushing it back. He didn't know why she bothered, it was perfect as it was.
"Lord Aybara still chafes for word. He's not eating, and Latian tells me that the two hours he sleeps a night, the man is completely comatose, the tent could fall in on him and he wouldn't move. The Asha'man are back, but bring no word. But the man Elyas Machera and two Maidens have returned. They bring word: the Shaido have been found!"
Balwer startled visibly. Here he was noticing Selande's hair at a time like this! She continued to outline the news to Balwer, then he made her go through literally every word that had been said. She had a good memory, it had only taken a few lessons for her to grasp the importance of remembering words precisely. "I said, start with the lead girl!" Selande colored.
Balwer sketched out a series of orders. Some of which had been lining up, others of which he spun off the top of his head, relating to the news that the Shaido were camped outside of Malden in Central Western Altara. When finished he made her repeat them back to him. Then he asked her:
"Cha Faile is yours, who would you send?"
Selande blinked, this was the first time he had asked her opinion. She colored again. She seemed sometimes to lose control of her features around him. He supposed it was because he was her superior, though he was a self-appointed one. But the answers came quickly, and he suppressed a moment's pride as he listened.
"Arrela will go to the Quartermaster, he has a thing for smelly women," Balwer didn't budge, or smile, but she could tell by the glint in his eye that he appreciated the jest. "I'll send Paralean to the blacksmith to inquire about the pike problem. He has an easy way about him, and I fear we may need him soon, so I don't want to send him far off. Barmanes and Camaille would be good to send to Rubyford, the townsfolk will adore the brother and sister team. Carlon will go to Elyas, he's a bit of a sycophant by nature, and Elyas will see it immediately and dismiss him…"
She continued down the line. Overall he was impressed, she knew the strengths and weaknesses of her people and how best to apply them. He approved her assignments for the most part, merely switching around Haviar and Nerion. She wasn't wrong in her assignments, but he believed it was important for a subordinate to always believe her superior knew something she did not. Also, as he was grooming her for command, he thought it an interesting test to see if she would fight for her choices or simply capitulate.
She did not, merely pursed her lips and waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming she simply acquiesced. Disappointing, but she was young yet. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Breane would be back any moment now.
Seconds after Selande's departure, the tent flap flew open to admit the wide shouldered giant, Lord Perrin Aybara of Emond's Field.
"Someone needs to gut Masema like a pig on Winternight." The young lord growled.