In the Land of the Madmen

by Bob G. Leeman

the sequel to He Sleeps Under the Hill, featuring the continuing adventures of N'aethan, Ellyth and their companions after they are stranded... in the Land of the Madmen! Chapter 12 : Prisoners of Larcheen, in which; the Lightborn, Gen and Roth Blucha, Gleeman, reach the Midnight City / The Breaker is revealed to the captive Aes Sedai / Flashback: 'The Death of Lord Ingtar.' R&R

13. Chapter 11 : The Nameless Ship

Gleeman Bob writes : in the Upcoming ItLotM section of my Profile I promised (Gleeman's Oath!) to upload this latest chapter by the Feast of Lights... well, New Year's Day came & went & I was still (groan!) editing... but then, after literally spending several entire minutes conducting extensive research on the Dragonmount website, in which time I read three - or possibly as many as four - informative posts, it was revealed that this Third Age Festival actually equates to... Chinese New Year! which I believe is February 4th? so the Gleeman did NOT miss his self-imposed deadline after all, but uploaded Chapter 11 : TNS a whole week early...

yay!

what else? oh yes, the astute reader may note an irrelevant-yet-pointless spelling alteration... when I originally assigned a weapon to Roth Blucha, Gleeman - for the purposes of sporadic & tentative self-defence - I thought he should be armed with something elegant, distinctive... & pretentious! hence... the poniard! but recently, a fellow Gleeman mentioned that this narrow Medieval dagger has at least a couple of alternate spellings... so now it is a poignard! I suppose I have a weakness for words with a silent G... like 'gnash' or 'gnaw,' both of which appear in the following chapter... but gnot gnat! (in Madman Land, there are gno gnats, gnor gneighing gnags gneither...) alright, I'll stop now...

...finally, the Leeman offers argantuan amounts of ratitude to those discerning Wheel of Timers who have elected to follow ItLotM, both previously & more recently. your loyalty shall not go unrewarded, for you are now all faithful Followers of the Laughing God - Praise Him! please enter your details in the online form to receive an official Aisle Souvraniene red-mask, bronze torc & anti-volcano spray.

& don't forget to...

(POIGNARD!)

...Walk in the Light!

---

Prelude : Dance of Death

Rags the Court Fool, revered and feared in other localities as 'The Laughing God,' he who had once been Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman and subsequently Royal Bard to the Dragon King, Davian, closed the double-doors quietly behind him, in marked contrast to the unceremonious manner in which he had earlier kicked them open. He turned, prior to making his way back to the private quarters he occasionally occupied. The night was young; there was much to do, far to go. Rags took a few swift steps down the wide corridor, lined with marble busts set upon pedestals, abbreviated statuary depicting the scowling faces of a succession of High Princesses of the Hawkwing's Blood, all long-dead… but then, the Court Fool came to an abrupt halt, small silver bells sewn in profusion to his multicoloured clown's motley jingling once, before falling silent.

Rag's pale blue eyes narrowed with dawning suspicion as he noted that the half-dozen Hawk Guards who had previously stood sentry at the end of the long hallway were no longer there. These guards had earlier passed him through without challenge, since the High Princess Chantel Paendrag Tavor had left standing-orders that her Fool was to be permitted access to her chambers at all times… excepting bath-times, naturally. Where were they now? Why was the entryway to the Royal residences left unprotected by elite, hawk-masked soldiers?

Rags strongly suspected that he knew the answer to this conundrum, and his conjecture was confirmed when a tall Nobleman draped in a dark-green, pleated robe, stalked silently into view at the end of the hall. He held a short, sheathed blade before him; left hand curled about the tooled-leather scabbard, the right gripping an exquisitely carved ivory hilt… ready to draw and strike at a moment's notice. Cold, dark eyes drilled into those of Rags, merciless and menacing, though no threats yet issued from that stern mouth, set in a grimace of distaste.

so… finally making his move, is he? Rags thought to himself, well, it certainly took the miserable traitor long enough to summon up the courage!

Rags smiled winningly and bowed low with a flourish, setting his bells briefly chiming. "Have we met before? Why, 'tis my good Lord Kor!" he exclaimed, in his shrill voice.

Kor scowled darkly, then began to pace down the corridor with a Blademaster's deadly grace, approaching the Court Fool with grim intent. Rags likewise capered forward to meet the Nobleman, fluttering the fingers of one hand before his lips to make an amusing sound… whilst surreptitiously touching the belt buckle hidden beneath his garish coat with the other. The green-tinged copper in which the design of the Eternal Serpent was worked had corroded over the years, doubtless as a result of the Dark One's Taint, but the ancient Well-ter'angreal still functioned perfectly… and he was going to need it, by the looks of things.

Rags paused before Kor, striking a dramatic pose. The Nobleman also halted, looming over the diminutive Court Fool, gazing down at him with open derision.

"When last I passed this way, there were some guards loitering hereabouts, methinks," Rags commented.

"I dismissed them." Lord Kor's response was every bit as frigid as his dark stare.

"And whyever would you do that, good my Lord?" Rags enquired.

Kor sneered. "I'll not be questioned by an insolent, lack-witted Fool!" he snarled, but then smiled malevolently. "Though less lacking in wits than he pretends, I suspect…"

Rags grinned. "My thanks for the compliment, Lord Kor… the first such kindness that I have ever received from you!"

"And also the last." Kor's eyes narrowed. "Recent events in the Castle, perpetrated in my absence, lead me to believe that there lurks a traitor amongst us, an enemy within…"

Rags shrugged. "Forgiveness, my Lord, but I am but a simplistic simpleton and simply know nought about th-" His words abruptly ceased as the razor-tip of the Power-wrought short-sword touched his throat, drawing a red bead from punctured skin with but the lightest pressure. Rags swallowed nervously, the motion drawing more blood, which trickled down his neck and into his colourful collar. He had known that Lord Kor was fast, of course, but did not actually recall seeing the ivory-hilted blade leave its sheath… clearly, the Nobleman had been practicing with his purloined Atha'an Miere sword.

"I think me that you were behind the escape of the Aes Sedai Witches, the deaths of my Hawk Guards," Kor softly accused. "Well? Do you have anything to say on that subject, Rags… or whatever your true name is?"

Rags smirked, then declaimed;

"Sea Folk steel is deathly sharp

I fear you'll slice me like a carp!"

Kor smiled nastily, baring his teeth, then hissed;

"Or make you eat your silly harp!"

Rags blinked. Well… that had been unexpected… not much of a jest, certainly, but the closest he had ever heard Lord Kor come to the expression of humour! "Well said, my Lord!" Rags enthused, "though in actuality I play the lute, and not the instrument to which you refer… I never cared overmuch for harps, too many strings, they take forever to tune…" Kor frowned, opened his mouth impatiently, but Rags was not yet done with his words of empty encouragement; "why, I had no idea that you possessed a gift for extempore rhyme, sir! Until now, I always imagined that your talents were solely confined to deceit and murder!"

"Then it would seem that there are at least some secrets within the Castle which you have not yet divined," Kor coldly observed, "for all that you would appear to know much else that clandestinely transpires here, in detail that even a Courtier, much less a lowly Fool, should be unacquainted with."

"The High Princess, May She Ne'er Die, oft confides in me!" Rags declared by way of explanation, though without overexerting his larynx, since the sword-point remained pressed to his throat.

Kor snorted dismissively. "The foolish girl knows only that which I choose to tell her, which is passing little…"

"Though I would wager that the good Lady Severina tells her even less!" Rags muttered sardonically.

Kor's lip curled with contempt. "You have an answer for everything, don't you, Fool? Truly, you are insolence and irreverence personified; insulting your betters, satirising that which should be beyond reproach…" his tones shifted from derogatory to scandalised; "…even making of the Blessed Hawkwing a foolish and disreputable puppet, to entertain the High Princess, May She Soon Die!"

Rags smiled patiently. "Twas a mannequin, in actual fact."

"The squad of sentries told me 'puppet' before I sent them away."

"Not so, my Lord, a mannequin requires strings in order to be worked, not merely a hand inserted within… the guards were in error." Rag's eyes narrowed. "So… you would slay your rightful ruler, and yet call me traitor?"

Lord Kor shrugged slightly, though the blade pressed to Rag's throat did not waver by so much as an inch. "I am of Artur Paendrag Tanreall's descent also, Fool… it is my right to assume power over the destiny of the Hawx. Our people have been misruled by women for long enough, until finally a vapid maiden without a thought in her empty head beyond which gown to wear or how to dress her hair ascended to the Hawk-Throne, there being no other suitable candidate left alive!"

"You just rhymed again, my Lord! Wear… hair… it would seem that you have a true facility for it!"

Kor studiously ignored this observation as the obvious attempt to change the subject that it was, declaring grimly; "time for a man to rule. A High Prince to lead us to greatness, to finally conquer this vile Land of Madmen, bringing order to chaos!"

"You would be this hypothetical Prince?" Rags whispered wonderingly, before grinning mockingly. "Why stop there? Why not a King, a High King, even?"

Lord Kor bared his teeth again, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I am tolerably ambitious, Fool… but not that ambitious." His tone became deadly serious. "Now… before you die, be so good as to tell me what befell my uncle. I have often wondered about his fate…"

"Your uncle, Lord Kor? Which one?"

The point of the short-sword sunk a little deeper into Rag's flesh, an abbreviated rivulet of blood running down from the wound. "I speak of Lord Coratano, of course! Coratano Paendrag Nihiel, of the Blood!"

Rags raised his eyebrows. "Ah, him! The same Lord Coratano who so mysteriously disappeared, long years ago?"

Kor scowled. "Play not your foolish games with me! My mother told me of her brother, Coratano, that he was oft ensconced with you, Rags, and ever sought your counsel. And then, one night, he vanished from the Castle. I suspect that you know where. Tell me, Fool, or you shall be slowly fed to the sharks, one greasy piece at a time!"

"Greasy… piecey..? No, not quite…" Rags grinned triumphantly; "but there are no sharks, my Lord, the lionfishes ate 'em all!"

"Then you shall provide a protracted meal for the Lionfish in stead!"

Rags sighed. "Oh, very well. In truth, I know not what became of poor Lord Coratano, though have done my best to find out, if with little success. I can only speculate that the Gholam took him to some distant spot, killed him and drank all of his blood, as was its wont."

Lord Kor glared down at Rags in angry bemusement. "The… gowlem? What is this, Fool? Another of your ridiculous inventions?"

Rags almost shook his head, before recalling the needle-tipped sword at his throat. "Not at all. Why, 'tis merely the right name of that which you all called 'The Deathless One.'"

Kor's confused expression cleared. "Oh… that fell creature. Were it not that certain of the senior Courtiers recall its time amongst us and related tales to me of its dark deeds, I would have thought it a myth, only." His dark brows drew down. "Yes, I recall now, it absconded at the same time as my uncle. But why would the… the…"

"Gholam."

"…gholam… the Deathless One… slay Lord Coratano? For what purpose?"

Rags smiled goadingly. "Why, because the Gholamin were made to destroy channelers of the One Power, and the unfortunate, doomed Coratano Paendrag Nihiel… well, he could channel." His smile widened. "As can I… only more so. Much more. In truth, young Coratano was my Apprentice, after a fashion… but I; the Master."

Kor's eyes widened. "Souvraniene!" he hissed, then scowled murderously. "I might have known! Ever did you have a wicked way about you, Rags! Well, your dark powers shall avail you little here, Madman, 'pon the Isle of the Spire!"

"Will they not, now?" Rags murmured, stroking his serpentine belt-buckle, a pale-eyed gaze boring into Lord Kor's murderous visage.

"I have heard enough. Your final moment has come, Fool!"

"No it hasn't!" Rags demurred, as he drew upon the stored saidin, the molten flame of the One Power flowing into him from his Well-ter'angreal.

Kor's sword-arm tensed for a mortal thrust, but it never came. He gaped in confusion. "I cannot move!" he gasped.

Rags took a step back from the wavering tip of the blade that had threatened him. He shrugged. "Well, you can manipulate your mouth at least," the Court Fool pointed-out, touching an exploratory finger to his throat. When he took the digit away, it was wet with blood. Rags sucked the finger clean with a thoughtful air, then frowned at the Nobleman, shaking his head disapprovingly. Kor, wrapped from shoulders to knees in bonds of Air, watched with wild eyes. Rags wagged the damp finger at him. "Ignorant little scamps should not play games with sharp objects!" he chided, "else someone might get hurt!"

Lord Kor did not seem to have heard, staring at Rags in shock. "How… how can you cast your unnatural weaves here?" he demanded, in choked, disbelieving tones.

"With recourse to this…" Rags tugged up his garish, tinkling coat, tapped the ornate belt-buckle with his fingernails. "I would explain further, but simply do not have the time. There is much that I must attend to this night… you have delayed me overlong as it is, my Lord." Rags grinned insolently. "Betimes, my trade has ever been entertainment, not education! Transmitting erudition to the dull-witted has ne'er formed any duty of mine!"

"You shall pay dearly for that insult when I am free again!" Kor snarled.

Rags mimed a fearful reaction to this threat, raising a hand to his mouth and widening his eyes, before letting his arm fall to his side. He sneered. "Optimistic sort, aren't you?" Rags muttered, before his eyes narrowed, and he began to channel in earnest.

Binding the overconfident Nobleman with weaves of Air had required little enough of the saidin stored in the Well, but the more potent and complex channeling required by Compulsion would drain a good deal more. Rags concentrated, using every ounce of his considerable skill, honed to a fine art through long years of experience and application. Lord Kor, for all his faults, possessed a powerful will and fought his adversary every inch of the way… but inexorable as a tidal-wave, unstoppable as a mountain avalanche, Rags steadily overcame his victim's struggles. Kor's desperate attempts to retain control over his mind, his ability to think and act for himself, to resist the imposed intent of another… all were ultimately in vain.

Finally, it was done; Lord Kor stood loose-limbed and slack-jawed before Rags, his usually predatory eyes glazed and unfocused. The Power-wrought Atha'an Miere blade with which he had threatened the Court Fool dangled limply from one hand. Rags waved a quizzical hand before Kor's face, provoking no reaction. "Can you hear me, Blood of the Hawkwing?" he enquired, softly and somewhat satirically.

"Yes…" Lord Kor mumbled, after a slight hesitation, "I hear you… Rags."

"That is not my real name," Rags confided, "you surmised correctly in that instance, at least." He glanced idly down the statue-lined hallway, which had remained deserted throughout the confrontation and the ensuing weaving of Compulsion. "Those guards that you dismissed… will they be coming back anytime soon?"

Kor shook his head jerkily. "They will not. I bade them return to the barracks."

Rags sneered again. "Didn't need your turncoat hawk-masks to aid and abet you in assassinating the Princess, eh?"

A pained look passed briefly over Kor's features before the blankness resumed. "I had no intent to kill Chantel Paendrag Tavor," he droned dully, "at least, not this night… not until after the wedding…"

Rags blinked, then awareness dawned and his eyes widened with realisation. "I see! So… you were on your way to propose marriage to your cousin, the High Princess, May She Never Die?!"

"Yes."

"To plight your troth to a fair maiden, albeit one under duress to accept your hand?!"

"Yes."

"How romantic! You dog!"

Since neither of these observations had been phrased as a question, Lord Kor did not respond to this badinage, but merely stood silent, awaiting further queries… and instructions. Rags did not disappoint in either regard, but spoke rapidly whilst Kor silently listened, his defenceless mind currently an open vessel to be drained or filled as required. The treacherous Nobleman's self-determination was entirely gone, perhaps never to return… the schemes and wishes of the Laughing God were now his sole concern. But then, this was as it should be. It was, after all, Compulsion…

Later, now alone, Rags quietly eased open the heavy oaken door of his quarters, down on one of the lesser-used servant's floors of the Castle of the Hawx… but only after checking that the wardings and traps he had left in place to protect his private chamber and its contents were undisturbed. They were. This did not surprise him. The serving-staff of the Castle were, without exception, unduly nervous of the Court Fool. Due to his bizarre manner and behaviour, doubtless, which was of little consequence to Rags… he had been unnerving people for much of his long life. In addition, the servants were wary of Rags, knowing as they did that he held the favour of their High Princess and enjoyed considerable influence with the tempestuous, adolescent Noblewoman of the Hawkwing's Blood, who held all of their lives firmly in her dainty hands.

Rags grinned, as he thought of young Chantel. In many ways, she was the daughter he had never sired. Despite having long-since accepted it, Rags had been surprised at the first realisation that the High Princess was become the sole person within the World of the Wheel whose fate was of interest and concern to him. Thus; his intervention in the matter of Lord Kor. Rags had had his eye on the traitorous Nobleman for some time, waiting for him to make his opening move. Well, for every gambit upon the game-board of life, there was a counterstroke… and now, Kor had effectively been neutralised with regard to his plotting, his scheme to usurp the Hawk-Throne for himself.

Rags would have taken steps to thwart the ambition of the disloyal Lord Kor much sooner… but Compulsion was something of a blunt tool, he had always considered. Better far to manipulate an enemy via more subtle methodology, unless there was no other choice. Had Rags Compulsed Kor previously, the Noble's personality might surely have altered to the extent where other Courtiers noticed, and remarked upon the change. As they assuredly would now… after having his mind delved into with potent weaves of Spirit, Lord Kor would likely never be quite the same again. Well, there was no help for it… though perhaps it would have been better to just kill the wretch? But that would only have raised further suspicion and paranoia within the Castle. Besides, Rags needed Kor. For the time being, at least…

Closing the door silently behind him, Rags locked the solid portal securely via the usual means of key and bolts, as well as with more esoteric methods, requiring further channeling. After changing his clown's motley for a nondescript drab suit of clothes, a dark coat, trews and matching boots, Rags stood before his small, wood-framed bed and took a deep breath. Preparing himself to become someone else.

Then, Rags stooped and reached beneath the bed-frame, dragging out a long, low chest, constructed from some exotic, amber-hued wood which presumably grew in a faraway place… even he was not sure quite where. A macabre bas-relief decorated the lid, depicting grinning, prancing skeletons cavorting in a celebratory line across the polished surface… each fleshless figure held a musical instrument, no two alike. Rags eyed the bony, dancing cadavers with their lutes and harps, pipes, drums and other tuneful devices… then smiled grimly, recalling the Madman who had so painstakingly carved this disturbing scene. Coratano Paendrag Nihiel, Nobleman of the Blood and Souvraniene, who had disappeared in the night long ago, leaving the Castle of his kin and journeying south with the Gholam… never to return.

"Far Mordero Hama," Rags muttered, then unlocked the chest with his mind and flipped open the lid with a booted foot. A folded and faded Gleeman's cloak lay within, forming part of the contents as well as the lining of the shallow compartment. Resting upon the patch-bestrewn cloth lay three objects; a dark, jagged blade etched with spidery script, a carven golden hand, the extended index-finger pointing, and an ancient, bronze mask, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's features. Working swiftly, Rags sheathed the black knife at his belt, tucked the solid gold sa'angreal into a deep coat pocket and raised the Mask-ter'angreal to his face, settling the strap around the back of his skull. Pale blue eyes stared through the holes in the beaten bronze.

Rags sighed with pleasure. "That feels better," he commented, though there were none present to hear. He then bent to seize his venerable cloak, sewn with its multitude of brightly-hued, fluttering patches, sweeping the tattered garment about his shoulders and settling it into place. "But that feels best of all!" Rags added, then laughed softly. No matter what else he had become, the depths he had sunk to and the heights to which he had arisen, he would always be, in his heart-of-hearts… a Gleeman. "A Master Gleeman!" he corrected himself, and with that affirmation, Rags ceased to be Rags for the time being, if not forever, and instead became Jeb.

Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman… but Jeb for short. Jeb was what he invariably thought of himself as, when he was not being somebody else… it was also what his mother and siblings had always called him, long, long ago, in the small log cabin in northern Basharande where he had been born. His brow furrowed as he attempted to recall… had his father addressed him as 'Jeb' also? He was unsure, could barely remember anything about his early childhood. In any case, Master Simanon senior, a woodcutter by profession, had vanished in the deep forest when Jeb was yet very young. A border-patrol found him three days later… what was left of him, at least, which was not much. Trollocs did not tend to leave a great deal of their victims uneaten, after all. Whilst a Friend of the Dark, and more-so afterwards, Jeb had never favoured these bestial, Shadow-spawned monsters, had oft treated them unduly harshly. He had hoped that his dear old dad might approve of the sentiment…

Shaking his head in a futile attempt to banish the last remnants of an irrelevant past, Jeb turned away from the bed, approaching a large bookcase stood against the opposite wall. As he moved, he unconsciously flourished his cloak, making the patches flutter, despite being bereft of an audience. Old habits died hard, when they died at all. Various large, crumbling books filled the dusty shelves of the case, an assortment of cracked leather bindings betwixt which brittle, yellowing pages were loosely held. These forgotten tomes had been brought hither with the original survivors of the disastrous invasion of Shara, the remnants of the High King's lost Eastern Army who had founded this ill-fated colony.

Jeb had read but few of these histories – he was not much of a reader, never had been – since the antique works were primarily present as camouflage, to provide a reason for the bookcase to be there at all. The massy, dark stonework to either side of these stuffed shelves was much older than the brick partition walls bounding the rest of the chamber; smooth, shaped blocks forming part of the Castle's original foundations, near nine-hundred years old.

Squinting with concentration, Jeb used the last of the saidin stored in his Well to deactivate a particularly nasty trap of Spirit and Fire woven about the bookcase, then reached up to one of the higher shelves, his hand slipping behind a large volume, the gilt lettering set into its warped spine barely legible. This was one of the few books that Jeb had glanced through in an idle moment, the third and final part of a personal military memoir scribed by a Borderlands Lord-General who had lived in the latter days of the Trolloc Wars, long before even Jeb's birth. The writing style had been entertaining enough, the descriptions of desperate battles and scurrilous intrigues tolerably compelling… but the long-dead Nobleman's habit of referring to himself in the third-person had eventually got on Jeb's nerves – he had no patience for persistent illeism! – so he discarded the account halfway through. Besides, in Jeb's estimation, the printed word upon a page could never compare with the vivid, living experience of a story actually being told.

Jeb's seeking fingers found the hidden catch behind the ancient autobiography, set at the rear of the shelf, and depressed it. A deep clicking sound resulted, as did the bookcase's slight movement away from the wall to one side. Jeb grasped a recessed handle and pulled; swivelling smoothly on cunningly-crafted concealed hinges, the heavy case swung outwards, revealing a shadowy aperture in the wall behind, a narrow tunnel bored through the dense rock of the Castle's foundations… or possibly, constructed there purposefully when the great fortress was originally raised?

Jeb was uncertain… all he really knew was that the Castle of the Hawx was riddled with such hidden passages; and he was cognisant of them all, had used these tunnels often over the years. No-one else amongst the Courtiers, soldiery or servants residing here seemed remotely familiar with these secret paths, though Jeb suspected that the formidable Lady Severina, Chatelaine of the Castle, might be aware of the existence of at least some of them. That woman was every bit as dangerous as Lord Kor, if not more so… had it not been for her unswerving devotion to the High Princess, Jeb might have felt the need to do something about her also. Nothing too drastic, though… he quite liked Severina – despite her possessing a tongue that could cut glass! – for all that she clearly detested him.

Jeb began to duck into the concealed passageway… but then paused abruptly, slapping himself on the forehead chidingly at the realisation that, in his preoccupation, he had almost overlooked something important. Extremely important. In the corner of the small chamber, a fifteen-stringed lute had been left, leaning against the wall. Jeb paced over, picked up the antiquitous instrument, running a hand lovingly over the polished redwood. It was not the best example of lute-kind, had oft needed repair to the frets over the years and went out of tune a little too readily for his liking… but he would not have exchanged it for all the silk in Shara! "I'll be forgetting my bloody head next," Jeb muttered, securing his prized lute against his back by its leather sling.

Jeb entered the hidden tunnel, swinging the bookcase shut behind him, hearing the latch click into place. He started down the enclosed passage, his light footsteps echoing in the narrow confines. Naturally, it was pitch-black within… there was a scant trace of saidin left in the Well-ter'angreal but Jeb did not trouble to summon illumination, nor to utilise more mundane methods of lighting his way, such as a lantern or burning torch. He had no need to. The ancient bronze fox-mask that Jeb wore had several properties… one of which was to confer upon the wearer the ability to see clearly in even the deepest darkness. A lesser function compared with its others, certainly, but useful even so.

The tunnel continued, sloping slightly downwards, before arriving at a circular chamber from which several more passages radiated out in differing directions. Jeb did not hesitate, but unerringly chose one of these narrow routes, though it seemed no different from any of the others, proceeding onwards in a northerly direction. Before long, a hint of sodium in the musty, subterranean air became evident, followed in short order by the distant boom of surf upon rocks. Jeb grinned, and softly sang;

"Oh let us harvest seashells by the salty, sandy shore...

and venture back this night my love, to gather many more!"

The muffled, metallic quality that the mask gave to Jeb's voice was not to his liking, however, so he declined to sing further verses of the ancient, romantic ballad. It had been a popular refrain in his distant youth, he vaguely recalled, though the subject-matter did not really concern the collecting of shells, as such… this activity had been more a euphemism for night-time carnal trysts upon the beach!

Moonlight flickered up ahead and after a dozen more steps, Jeb raised the Mask-ter'angreal, perching it atop his head like some outlandish hat, blinking in the silvery glow shimmering upon the smooth rock walls to either side. It was easily enough light to see by as Jeb made his way to the end of the tunnel, where he paused, taking in the view. Beyond the wide mouth of the shallow cave into which the passage opened out, Jeb beheld the vastness of the Great Southern Ocean, illuminated by a bright, full moon overhead. An endless succession of rolling waves extended outwards, stretching away to the hyperborean north, unto the very top of the World.

Jeb was well aware that on the other side of this deep expanse lay the land of his birth, for all that he would never see it again, not in this life… of that he was convinced. He barely remembered anything of the Westlands, in any case… it had all been so long ago, so far away. But it would have been sweet indeed to go out on a crisp spring morning, saddle a mettlesome steed and, with the sharp wind in his hair carrying the heady scent of wildflowers, to ride the Borderland steppes one final time, before he died…

Well, it was not to be. Shaking his head slightly, Jeb exited the cave, set into the side of a gently sloping cliff-face, and began to make his sure-footed way down a narrow, winding path, little more than a goat-track; a hidden descent which could not be easily detected from beneath. At the base of the cliff, Jeb's booted feet sank into damp sand… and seemingly, were not the first to recently do so.

Jeb frowned down at the double set of prints that led past his position and disappeared around the headland to the east. Since this was the same route that he needed to take, he proceeded to follow the tracks. Besides, he was curious. As Jeb approached the rocky promontory, a pair of Hawk Guards marched into view, returning from whence they had come, clearly patrolling the beach. Jeb scowled. The northernmost point of the Isle was but rarely watched, since any threat would more usually come from the mainland to the south… he had never encountered soldiers on this beach before. The brace of guards saw Jeb at the same time, dark eyes behind steel visors narrowing as they drew their blades and swiftly moved forward to intercept him.

"Halt!" shouted one of the guards.

"Who goes there?" added the other.

Jeb simpered. "It is but me, strawberry-blonde Gladwys, a lowly-yet-comely milkmaid, out a-looking for my lost cow!" he quavered, in falsetto tones.

The Hawk Guards paused, lowered their swords, exchanged a flat look.

"It's just Rags," growled the guard on the left, "talking nonsense, as usual."

"What do you here, Fool?" demanded the guard on the right, "and why are you wearing that strange-looking cloak?"

"What happened to your little silver bells, then?"

"And what's that odd thing stuck on top of your head?"

While the duo of Hawk Guards questioned him, Jeb continued to approach them at a steady pace. When he was close enough, he stopped, gazing calmly up at the two soldiers. "All in good time," Jeb stated softly, before adopting a quizzical expression. "But first, might I ask… what brings you brave lads all the way out here? Funny place for a patrol, is it not? Protecting the Isle of the Spire from an imminent invasion of crabs and lobsters, are we?!"

The Hawk Guards sheathed their blades whilst answering in desultory fashion;

"The Aes Sedai Witches escaped from that cove back there…"

"Tis the spot where we found the dead hag, killed with the Power, they say…"

"Lord Kor gave orders that the area was to be watched, just in case…"

"What is that on your head, Rags? A hat? It looks like it has a snout!"

"Oh, it does…" Jeb reached up and tugged the Mask-ter'angreal back down over his face, regarding the two Hawk Guards calmly through the eye-holes in the eldritch, fox-featured device. When he spoke again, his muted voice emerged from the air-holes piercing the beaten bronze, devoid of intonation. "Well, this is awkward… I am truly apologetic, boys, but you're both in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can't have any eyes that saw me leave left open, nor tongues wagging about my movements neither. You understand?"

"Not particularly," one of the guards muttered, squinting up at the full moon. "People don't tend to comprehend the babbling of lunatics, do they?"

"You look like a bloody fox, Rags!" the other guard declared, "that's it… a red-coloured fox from the far north, the old Empire, not like the sandy-hued ones they have down here… I saw a picture of it in a book one time! Is this some new game, for the amusement of the Court?"

Jeb shook his head, the smiling vulpine mask moving mutely from side to side. "No. It is not. The games are all done… as are you two, I am afraid."

The Hawk Guards stared at Jeb, exchanged an uncertain glance… then burst out laughing, leaning against each other and shaking their hawk-helmed heads back and forth. "Good one, Rags!" the guard on the right managed to splutter, while the guard on the left only laughed louder.

Jeb did not feel like indulging in mirth himself, but smiled a melancholy smile behind the fox-mask whilst his hand moved purposefully to the hilt of his dark, jagged blade. In an instant, it was done – the keen, eldritch metal swept from the sheath and hummed through the air in a deadly arc. The pair of Hawk Guards clutched at their necks, laughter immediately shifting to choked gasps, the wheezing of their life's breath escaping sliced-open windpipes. As one, the soldiers clawed impotently at the deep wounds in their throats, blood gushing copiously from between the clenched fingers of their gauntlets… they dropped to their knees and thence fell forward, face-down. One twitched a little; the other did not. Both lay still, puddles of gore spreading about each man's head, slowly soaking into the sand.

Jeb flicked the blood from his blade before returning it to its sheath. "Sorry about that," he muttered, as he stepped over the corpses and continued on his way. Well, at least it had been over quickly for them… there were worse ways to die. Much worse. Beyond the headland, Jeb came in sight of a larger cave than that which he had earlier exited. He had been here before of course, most recently on the night that he freed the Aes Sedai from their cells… and then took them prisoner himself, sending the Sisters and the Sharawoman down to Larcheen, under the watch of his best men. There were many more boot-prints scattered in the sand about this place, but no sign of any further Hawk Guards.

Feeling anticipation and trepidation combined, Jeb moved closer to the cave… and then, in the interval between one step and the next, he felt it. The Power that turned the Great Wheel. The encompassing influence of the Age of Legends Spire which kept this force at bay, no longer influenced him, did not extend so far as this northernmost point of the Isle of the Hawx.

Jeb shivered convulsively as he opened himself to the True Source. This was not just the drawing of the male-half of the One Power from his Well-ter'angreal, that was a mere cup of spring water… this, a gushing torrent. Though a cataract of energy which could never satiate him, but only increase his raging thirst for more. It drew Jeb in with its Siren's call, it sang to him. Sweet, sickening saidin blazed within him and he fought for control with every fibre of his being. Though aided by the potency of the Mask-ter'angreal he wore, counteracting much of the ill-effects of the Taint, the battle to not give in to the madness nor lose himself utterly within the Power's turmoil until only a mindless shell was left, was far from easy and not soon won. Though won it eventually was. For the time being…

Jeb took several deep, shuddering breaths, his heart pounding like a drum… then pulled the immensely powerful sa'angreal from his coat pocket and raised it, pointing the extended golden finger seawards. He channeled.

This particular weave was extremely complex and required a deal of saidin, much more than his Well retained after being drained by the Compulsion he had woven on Lord Kor… which was why Jeb had come here, to the one place on the Isle of the Spire where such potent channeling was possible.

A silvered line appeared in the air before Jeb, slightly higher than himself, rotating to form a gateway, beyond which a stretch of shore leading out to the Great Southern Ocean was evident. Jeb smiled coldly. What he was about to do was certainly inadvisable, for all that he had done it several times in the past. Davian, his former Master, had warned him that walking in the World of Dreams as a living presence would have a cumulative adverse effect on him if he did it too often. The notorious Dragon King had taught Jeb the complicated weave personally though, and had employed it on various occasions himself.

Jeb's smile widened as he recalled Davian's words of warning; 'when one ventures into Tel'aran'rhiod physically, rather than psychically or spiritually, then on each occasion, a little more humanity – the essence of that which makes someone a person – is irrevocably lost. Ultimately, the process may leave you an empty, soulless husk, little better than one who has been forcibly Turned to the Shadow.'

Jeb shook his head, recollecting Davian's clipped, precise cadences, the arrogant and grudging manner in which he had disseminated crumbs of knowledge to a select few amongst his adherents. There had been little enough left of the Dragon King that was human by the end of his life… perhaps as a result of visiting the Dream World in the flesh too much? Davian had utilised this forbidden weave to open such a portal to Tel'aran'rhiod often in the early days, most usually in order to assassinate his more troublesome adversaries and rivals; Nobles who opposed his hegemony, enemy Generals, even Aes Sedai… not every one of his foes had fallen on the field of battle, there were no few who had seemingly died in their sleep.

Though of course, the Dragon King had never exactly been a paragon of humanity in the first place, to Jeb's mind… certainly not a particularly humane person, at least, for all that Davian always had his own conception of honour and a stark moral code from which he would not stray. He had led by example, exhibiting an implacable courage, showing loyalty to his followers, the People of the Dragon… a faithfulness that had not been reciprocated by certain traitorous individuals.

Jeb sighed. Davian had been his friend as much as his Liege-Lord, in a way, though neither of these ruthless men were exactly the type to really require friendship from others. Jeb's brow furrowed as he hesitated at the threshold of the gateway into Tel'aran'rhiod… had the Dragon King been adversely affected by his frequent use of this weave, his walking abroad within the Dream World in body as well as soul? More to the point, had Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman, likewise been altered in some way by his flesh-and-blood visits to the World of Dreams? Was he the same man now that he had been back then, during his time as King Davian's Court Bard? Before that, even, when he had stood tolerably high within the upper echelons of those sworn to the Shadow?

Jeb shrugged, dismissing the concern. Somehow, he rather doubted that entering Tel'aran'rhiod physically for one more time would cost him his soul… since he had presumably long-since lost that particular commodity, at Shayol Ghul, when he spoke his Oaths to the Great Lord of the Dark.

"The Dark One!" Jeb corrected himself, adding; "and who needs a soul anyway? I possess something far better… for I yet have my genius!" And with that, Jeb stepped through the portal, passing through an icy skein in the passage from one realm of existence to another. It was not unlike entering a Waygate… something that Jeb had absolutely no intent of ever doing again. Taking risks was one thing… but walking the lost roads of the Ogier, with that nightmarish zephyr thing lurking in the dark, whatever it had been… well, that was more like suicide.

On the other side, in Tel'aran'rhiod, lay a mirror reality of the world that Jeb had just left, exactly the same… and yet, not. Different somehow, in an indefinable way. The same beach, a night sky lit by the silvery full moon, an identical endless Ocean stretching out to the distant horizon… but even without knowledge of how he had come to be here, Jeb would have instantaneously recognised his environment as the Dream World. And of course, actions were possible here that could not be accomplished in the World of the Wheel… which was the very reason that Jeb had come to this place. He had various locations to travel to, and at speed. It was vital that he be physically present, not just pulling the strings from a distance, for the furtherance and success of his plans.

Jeb spared a final look over his shoulder, glancing through the open gateway at the Isle of the Spire… he did not think that he would be coming back. This place had provided him with a useful refuge for many years, and he would miss the High Princess who, though privy to some of his schemes, and even cognisant of his birth-name, had never really known all there was to know about the Laughing God. Well, dear Chantel would have to find herself a new Court Fool… perhaps Lord Kor might consent to don the clown's motley, were it altered to fit his taller frame? To wear the jingling silver bells?! After what Jeb had done to Kor this night, the treacherous Nobleman might be good for little else!

Feeling slight regret, Jeb caused the gateway weaves to unravel, closing the portal upon the True World, then turned back to the Dreaming Ocean. He whistled loudly, a single sharp note. For a long moment, nothing happened; then, out amongst the waves, something moved that was not rolling water. A dark shape, coming closer. Jeb smiled in anticipation, watching as the form resolved itself into that of a big, black stallion, trotting insouciantly over the surf until it reached the beach, where it stamped a foreleg proudly upon the sand and whinnied in greeting.

"Shai'tan!" Jeb called happily, approaching the large horse and patting it affectionately on the nose. It was not really Shai'tan of course, his prized stallion had perished in the accursed Ways, uncounted years ago… but in a way, it was. The horse may have been summoned by Jeb's memory and imagination on the first occasion that it had occurred to him to do so, but yet seemed to contain an essence of his long-lost steed, even so… it certainly behaved as Shai'tan had. Jeb fed the faithful beast a sugar-lump – also imaginary – but the night-black horse did not seem to mind, and ate the sweet offering greedily, snorting warm breath onto Jeb's hand as it did so.

Jeb was aware that the wolves oft came to Tel'aran'rhiod in their dreams, and also after they died in the real world… so perhaps horses did too? Possibly, this really was the shade of Shai'tan? It would be nice to think so… Deftly, Jeb swung astride the tall stallion, requiring neither saddle nor bridle here in the Dream World, anymore than he would have back in the Land of the Madmen. Where there were no horses, unfortunately… Jeb had so far not been able to find out why. Perhaps there had never been any of these noble creatures on this distant southern continent, or if there had, then presumably none survived the Breaking of the World.

Shai'tan raised its head alertly. Jeb leaned forward to pat the thickly-muscled neck of his steed. It had been long since he had returned to Larcheen… but there was a detour to make first. Stedding Dashai, last refuge of his Ogier enemy. Jeb had been unable to contact any of his subordinates with the punitive force for the last couple of nights, not even their leader, Singer, who possessed a rudimentary Talent for Dream-talking… clearly, something was wrong. It would bear further investigation, so a cautious visit to the siege-lines was in order.

"To the stedding!" Jeb shouted. Shai'tan sprang forward, the terrain blurring around them as the horse turned south about the shoreline of the Isle of the Spire, galloping with unnatural speed. The Age of Legends Spire flashed past and then, a single great leap carried them across the strait to the mainland. Soon, tall trunks were sweeping by to either side as they sped through the Ghost Forest, taking an unerring path toward Stedding Dashai. Jeb crouched low on Shai'tan's back, gripping the horse's dark mane tightly, teeth bared in a grin of pure pleasure. "Run like the wind, boy!" he urged. His steed did not need to be told twice… indeed, the powerful stallion appeared to be exceeding its rider's wishes, for as the dawning sun began to rise in the east, Shai'tan seemed to be outdistancing the Four Winds themselves.

---

Chapter Eleven * The Nameless Ship

"Queen o' Foxes; sleeping sound,

King o' Cats; he peers around,

then from the floor; Tom hears a snore –

'twould seem the Vixen's gone to ground!"

'Ballad of the Red Queen' [extract]

composed & performed by;

Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman

---

Act One : Visions

"Women!"

The exasperated exclamation of Roth Blucha – skilled musician, indifferent poet and henpecked husband – abruptly broke the silence lurking beneath the strange and foreign trees. Roth came to an instant halt, once finely-tooled but now scuffed and shabby boots rustling amongst the fallen leaves scattered beneath his feet. The young Gleeman glanced around himself furtively and cautiously licked his lips. The nimble fingers which clutched his precious harp tightened a little upon the gilt frame.

"I do hope no-one heard that," Roth muttered to himself, softly. Extremely softly. By 'no-one' Roth did, of course, mean the savage and cannibalistic natives of this vile land… or even worse, a Madman. He glanced over a colourfully-patched shoulder, distantly glimpsing the sparkle of sunlight upon endless azure waves through the canopy of trees to his back. These selfsame trunks loomed all around, comprising what was apparently called 'the Ghost Forest.' A good enough name, Roth considered, he might perhaps compose a sad song about it, a melancholic air… or possibly invent a fearful tale in which some intrepid fellow ventured into the notorious woods in search of his lost love, and… and..? And was never seen again?

Roth swallowed nervously. That seemed a little too close to home… best not to think about it. Or further contemplate dismal dirges and spooky stories. Roth shook his head angrily, unruly locks of auburn hair whisking about his neck. In his ire he had wandered further into the forest than he had realised, or intended. He really ought to get back to the ship before he encountered something horrid… or more to the point, before it encountered him. Yes, a strategic withdrawal to their new-won vessel – which yet lacked a name, though he had provided plenty of suggestions – where relative safety awaited him… give or take the wrath of its Captain, his intemperate and violently-inclined wife!

Reflectively, Roth raised the hand that was not clutching the harp, touching a long finger to his aesthetically-proportioned face. Encountering the thin scar that marred the smooth skin over his cheek-bone, Roth winced slightly. Not in pain; the negligible wound was now several days old and no longer hurt – though it had pained him a deal in the aftermath of the duel wherein his termagant opponent laid open his cheek with her blade, when salt tears of agony had intermingled with the blood that ran freely down to his chin. Roth shuddered at the recollection. The pugnacious and stunted Aielman Chassin had sneered in response to his manly weeping and sarcastically enquired whether he required a scented handkerchief to dab at his eyes with? And the oafish Murandian Warder Dagnon had no right to cruelly name him a big cry-baby! Just because that pair of thuggish shoulder-thumpers entirely lacked the soulful-yet-sensitive temperament of a true artist! Clearly, they were jealous. Yes, that was what it must be… pure envy! It was painfully obvious.

But the scar… the scar was the problem. In the course of their association, from that first fortuitous encounter to their betrothal and thence to wedded bliss, Roth and his Dark Lady, Ysmet, had argued often and fought frequently, the disagreements occasioned by a variety of circumstances. Roth promising to perform a task and then forgetting all about it. Roth saying something complimentary which Ysmet then somehow perceived to be disparaging. Roth glancing innocently in the direction of other females and being caught doing so. Roth… Roth. Roth?

The young Gleeman's brow furrowed… come to think of it, the fracas always seemed to stem from things that he did, or did not do. Words that he said… or wrote… or even thought, since it was widely acknowledged that women could peer into men's minds and discern what they were thinking about. Really! When was the last time that he had objected to Ysmet's ill-behaviour? Never! Well, of course he would not dare. His Noble lady-wife was an extremely dangerous woman when her temper was roused, which it often was. Were it not for the awkward fact that Roth loved Ysmet deeply and wished to grow old with her and, if possible, die in her arms, he would have run away to join a travelling carnival long since!

Still… this had to be the first time that the cause of one of their frequent falling-outs was something so untoward and unimportant as a small scar, of all things! A duelling scar, to be precise, considered a mark of honour in Ebou Dar, home-city of his fiery spouse. A badge of courage that Roth had never wished to possess, but now reluctantly bore upon his finely-formed features… and a questionable adornment which Ysmet fervently longed to acquire, yet sadly lacked. An absurd excuse for her unreasoning resentment! Though pointing this out had inevitably led to the argument (the latest of many) and further resulted in Roth inexpertly rowing himself ashore in the jolly-boat, so that he might pace upon the beach and brood over the unfairness of it all. Allowing his wayward feet to take him up into the Ghost Forest wherein he might better sulk over his wife's foul mood had probably not been such a good idea, however… certainly, it was taking things a bit far.

Well, enough time had elapsed for Ysmet's fury to fade… with any luck, she might even be rather worried about him by this? Roth certainly hoped so, and rather looked forward to the passionate interlude which might well follow-on from their kissing and making-up, as it so often did once his wife's anger had abated. Truly, marriage was a strange state of affairs! Yes, reconciliation… the bunk in the Captain's cabin of the captured and nameless ship was a deal more comfortable than their lumpy bed in the cabin had been, if less spacious. Still, there were ways to compensate for such limitations, as Roth shortly intended to demonstrate…

With this pleasant anticipation in mind, Roth promptly ceased fingering his unfortunate scar, turned and took a single, decisive step in the direction of the shore and the sail-craft moored off it, out beyond the reef where they had originally foundered. But then he froze, listening intently… voices! The sound of harsh speech, steadily approaching. In consternation, Roth glanced rapidly about, considering but then immediately rejecting the foolish plan of ducking around a small bush… he was no Aielman, with the skulking skill to conceal himself behind such meagre cover! The trees to either side were tall and straight, lacking boughs or branches within grasping range, the bark smooth and bereft of handholds. Besides, Roth had never been much adept at climbing anything in particular, arboreal heights being no exception.

The unknown speakers were closer now, too close for comfort, their cadences indicative of the debased Old Tongue spoken here, in this dreadful land. Despite his loathing for all forms of physical exertion, Roth turned to flee in the opposite direction, for all that this would only take him deeper into the dangerous forest… but then; the noise of more talking converging on his position from that way also! Definitely using the ancient language of the Age of Legends, albeit a primitive dialect, which could only confirm that the approaching strangers were some of the locals, and unlikely to be friendly. More likely to be hungry, doubtless.

Roth felt panic, an old and disagreeable companion of his oft-imperilled existence, rising within. He must hide! But naturally, he was wearing his prized Gleeman's cloak… the brightly-hued, fluttering patches would make for but poor camouflage, he suspected. Clearly, there was nothing else for it… by the sound of things, the conversing natives before and behind were almost upon him. Roth darted a hand into a particular pocket, plucking out a small, round pipe. Whilst slipping behind the nearest tree, he then raised this simple instrument to his lips and blew a single, shrill note.

Immediately, the murmur of strange voices to either side ceased… confident that, courtesy of the Pipe-ter'angreal gifted him by Old Willi, the rotund wine-sot of a Master Gleeman whom Roth had stood 'prentice to, his presence was now thoroughly hidden from enemy eyes, he waited to see what would happen next. The young Gleeman considered drawing the long poignard from its sheath in his boot, but did not dare… for the aura of arcane invisibility about him to function properly, he must remain absolutely still. With this in mind, Roth proceeded to do his very best to restrict his terrified trembling to the bare minimum, and to quiet his panicked breathing as much as ever he was able. Why had he foolishly trespassed alone into these ghostly woods? Well, the reason was obvious. This was clearly all Ysmet's fault. Wives!

Abruptly, a trio of men came into view, stalking soundlessly from the direction of the Ocean… all thoughts of recrimination vanished from Roth's mind as he examined them fearfully. None of the three strangers appeared to be armed, they were clad in rough furs, crude ochre tattoos inked into their bare skin. Bronze torcs encircled their necks, faces hidden behind red masks, a laughing mouth etched into the leather. Predatory eyes stared through the holes in these disturbing, false faces, scanning their surroundings with wary suspicion. The way that these searching gazes passed over Roth's position without seeming to register his presence reassured the fear-struck Gleeman that the ter'angreal was performing its particular function adequately. Roth almost breathed a sigh of relief, before stopping himself just in time. These masked strangers might have heard… it would not do to give the game away. If he could just stay still and silent until these macabre individuals departed, then all would be well.

Roth's attention – ever inclined to stray elsewhere – returned to the hidden features of these savage-seeming individuals; and that which hid them. Red masks… he had overheard the unusual Age of Legends Hero discussing such accoutrements with the Warders, had he not? Roth wished that he had paid closer attention to the words of the eccentric Master Shieldman and the responses of those grim Gaidin… what did these blood-hued grinning guises portend? Nothing good, of a certainty.

The whip-slim, masked man at the centre of the small group paused and held up a hand. The two following halted at this sign, continuing to search their environs closely; cold and unblinking eyes flicking back and forth. "What was that sound?" wondered this leader, speaking the Old Tongue with a thick accent so that Roth could barely discern his meaning, despite an extensive knowledge of the High Chant.

"A bird call?" surmised one of the other red-masks, a slouching, slovenly-looking fellow. The third, stocky stranger mutely shook his head, evidently disagreeing.

The thin individual in charge clearly concurred, also shaking his head in negation, smiling mask turning back and forth. "I never heard no bird as sounded like that," he hissed. Roth repressed a moan of dismay… but only just! The leader continued, speculatively and suspiciously; "twas no creature of the air, nor the land neither," he declared, "it sounded much like a flute."

"Well, you would know..." The new voice was deep and spoke in hard tones, tinged with malevolent amusement; it came from behind Roth. He forced himself to resist turning to see who had uttered these words. In any event, in short-order a big, burly man strode into his field of vision, flanked by two nondescript companions, with a fourth, squat individual, long and hairy arms dangling, bringing up the rear. This short fellow appeared to be humming quietly to himself; a monotonous and continuous noise. All were clad as the first three, wore identical torcs and red masks, tattoos of the same hue etched into the skin of their bare chests and limbs.

The lean man who had spoken first nodded to the newcomer. "Harper."

The big man nodded back. "Flauter." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I heard it too. Didn't sound so much like a flute to my ears… more like a pipe." He turned his large head, examining the forest to either side, dark and deadly eyes passing over Roth without pause, which the fearful Gleeman found eminently reassuring. He would so much rather have been somewhere else at this juncture, however! The burly fellow's gaze returned to rest on his thin subordinate. He spoke commandingly; "make your report, then."

This 'Flauter' as the barrel-chested Captain – one 'Harper' presumably – had named him, answered without hesitation. "It would seem that the Outlanders now have themselves a new ship, to replace the one as was lost in the storm."

"Indeed?" Harper glanced back at the short and hairy red-mask, loitering behind him, who appeared to be paying little attention to the proceedings. "I well-recall that night! It was quite a hurricane, Hummer… one of your best!"

The squat, long-armed man cocked his masked head to one side and uttered a disturbing giggle in response to this praise, before resuming the soft, droning sound that he persistently made. None of the others seemed to find this behaviour odd, evincing no adverse reaction.

Roth frowned, worried. Harper? Flauter? Hummer? Such strange names, assuming that his powers of translation were accurate. He thought that they were… but then, the young Gleeman's sea-green eyes widened in alarm. Wait! The big, hulking fellow had seemingly complimented the strange little humming chap on his summoning of a storm… the very one that had wrecked them! That could only mean that this Hummer had channeled the gale into being! He was an accursed male-channeler… no, they all were. They must be, since they were clearly associates of some sort… Roth was surrounded by Madmen! Oh no! And it was still Ysmet who was to blame for his predicament!

"What of the Sea Folk pirates?" Harper demanded, "any survivors?"

Flauter shook his head slowly. "Wiped-out in the battle that the Boss saw in the Dream… there was hard fighting done here, it would seem."

Harper shrugged again, uncaring. "Too bad. Though I do not believe the God will mind, overmuch. He has no great love for those Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere scum from the Smoking Islands..."

"Does anyone?" Flauter quipped, "the Waketa have never exactly been what you might consider loveable!"

Harper snorted, shaking his head, while the other red-masks watched the trees around them warily. With the exception of Hummer, who was gazing upon nothing in particular whilst continuing to make the soft, droning sound... as well as the stocky, fair-haired individual standing beside Flauter, the same who had earlier silently doubted the presumed bird-call; he leaned in to mutter something indistinct into the gaunt man's ear.

Through the eyeholes in his mask, Flauter blinked, then stated in explanation; "Whisperer says he could read the residues from the cliff-tops where we scouted those northern interlopers… there were powerful weaves cast here."

"Saidin or saidar?" Harper growled.

Again, the thickset red-mask leaned toward Flauter, shading the smiling mouth of his mask with a hand, relaying further muted information, which was then relayed as; "both."

"So, our enemy have the Power too?" Harper commented, unconcernedly. "Good. I like a challenge." His deep voice became decisive. "Alright. There's nothing more to be learned here… time to rejoin Rhymer and head back to the Hill, methinks. We can relay what we've learned to the Midnight City from there, and await further orders from the God, if he's made up his mind what course to take…"

"He has been distracted lately," Flauter mused, "what with one thing and another…"

Harper spoke coldly. "One thing… or another?"

"You know what I mean, Harper. The Boss spends too much time scheming with that haughty Hawk-girl, if you ask me…"

Harper eyed his subordinate flatly. "But I didn't ask you. No-one did."

Flauter spread his hands in a defensive gesture of mitigation. "Don't look at me like that! I was just saying…"

"Then be more careful what you say, in future," Harper grimly warned, "there are those who've lost their tongues for less."

The short male-channeler behind briefly ceased his humming. "The tongue is the best bit," he observed in a croaking voice, speaking to no-one in particular, before resuming the monotonous droning. The others ignored him, as though accustomed to this Hummer's odd mannerisms; clearly, the small fellow was not quite all there…

"Alright, enough gabbing," Harper snarled, "we've a ways to travel before dusk, and lucky if Rhymer doesn't get weary of the waiting and leave without us!" The red-masked Madmen straightened, preparing to set off.

Roth felt himself relax, overwhelming relief at having evaded detection by these deadly Madmen swelling within him. Harper took a heavy pace toward the south… then stopped, turning back.

"Oh… I almost forgot." Dark, merciless eyes drilled directly into Roth's and the young Gleeman felt his heart sink, his spirit shrivel. Muffled behind the sinister mask, Harper chuckled nastily. "Tell me, my spying friend in the colourful cloak… give or take that light-bending ter'angreal which you clutch in your trembling hand… do you honestly imagine that I do not know you're there? Watching us? Listening to our plans?"

Roth gasped softly, shivering, and the burly red-mask laughed cruelly. "I am Harper," he continued, in tones of menacing exposition; "once Bandit-Chief of the Eastern Wilds, a long lifetime gone, back when I wore a different face and used another name. You cannot hide from me with your little toy, fool! My eyes miss nothing, I can watch the wind and stare into souls… think-you I cannot see one such as yourself, hiding behind yon tree? Think again!"

Roth groaned loudly, with but one resentful thought on his mind…

Ysmet!

---

"Where in the Winds is Roth?" fumed the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, and in her frustration, pounded a fist upon the teak rail lining the quarterdeck. She immediately regretted this rash action, for not only did it hurt, but the wood she struck was not in the best state of repair. Cursing under her breath, Ysmet raised the hand to her mouth, sucking at several sharp splinters embedded in the skin, tasting the salty tang of her own blood.

"Would you like me to Heal that for you, Ysmet-dear?" Rashiel enquired sweetly, a slow smile curving her full lips.

Ysmet glared at her Aes Sedai friend, stood alongside, and shook her head vehemently; long, dark braids sweeping against her shoulders. "No! That would pain me even more!"

Rashiel shrugged unconcernedly. "I suppose it would, at that…" Her pale eyes returned to the beach, some way distant across a stretch of shimmering sea. "Your Gleeman spouse has been gone for some time," Rashiel murmured.

Ysmet was not listening. "Raab!" she shouted, in her special Captain's voice.

A small hatchway was set at the rear of the quarterdeck, abaft the wheel, and after a brief delay, Raab's darkly-curled head popped into view through it, followed by his thin and dusky face. He shaded his eyes against the fierce sunlight with a tattooed hand and gazed up at his superior with an air of personal harassment. "Sailmistress?" he queried, wearily.

"Stop calling me that!" Ysmet glared down at the Atha'an Miere renegade. "I thought I told you to sand down these splintered rails, you Sea Folk lackwit?!"

Raab looked aggrieved. "That was but one of your many commands to me, Sailcaptain, but I have not yet got around to performing this task…"

"Clearly!" Ysmet waved her bloody hand at Raab, then sucked a final splinter from her palm and spat it daintily onto the deck at her booted feet. "And there is no such bloody word as 'Sailcaptain' you flaming fool!" she snarled, "now go and fetch some wind-cursed sandpaper!"

Raab sighed loudly, rolling his dark eyes. Rashiel sashayed over to lean down and pat the Atha'an Miere sailor upon his curly head with commiseration. She directed a disapproving gaze at Ysmet. "You mustn't be so brusque with poor Raab," Rashiel chided, "not when he so bravely and cleverly saved me from that nasty Witch, Irmilla… he is a Hero, remember?" Raab visibly brightened at this unaccustomed praise, puffing out his narrow chest with pigeonish pride.

Ysmet sneered. "How could I possibly forget Raab's unlikely heroic status? He keeps reminding us of it, every chance he gets!"

Raab deflated his sternum and immediately began to sulk, at which he was something of an expert. "I shall return to the bilges and complete my thankless duty of pumping out the well," he stated with offended dignity, "and then smooth the quarterdeck rails, as ordered… unless my Shorebound Lady has further demands of me? That I should dive overboard, evade the waiting ravening lionfishes and return with a selection of rare black pearls to adorn her Noble neck?" Raab placed a sarcastic hand over his heart, then descended slowly from sight, eyes fixed upon his Sailcaptain with righteous disapprobation. His mop of unruly curls disappeared below-decks, leaving only an awkward, lingering silence.

Ysmet broke it with a loud sigh. "Why am I always the flaming villain?" she demanded, of no-one in particular.

Rashiel smirked, rejoined Ysmet at the offending rail, slipping a companionable arm through that of her friend. "Men consistently do their best to make women guilty," she observed, "they just want us to feel sorry for them."

"That is exactly what Roth always does!" Ysmet confirmed, light brown eyes moving back to the beach and beyond, fruitlessly searching the sand dunes for some sign of her errant husband.

"Indeed," Rashiel agreed, pausing a moment before carefully continuing; "though perhaps you were a little hard on him, this time?"

Ysmet snatched her arm away, frowning at Rashiel. "Nonsense! A husband needs discipline, requires rules… spare the rod and spoil the spouse!"

Rashiel smiled slyly. "Really, Ysmet, are you sure that you do not actually hail from Northern Altara?" she enquired mischievously, "somewhere in the vicinity of Far Madding, perchance?"

Ysmet scowled, placing her hands on slim hips and staring dangerously at the young Aes Sedai. "I resent the implication, Rashiel! I am not one of those man-bashing harpies from the Lake City, thank-you! I have no desire to take a whip to my husband should he displease me…" she touched the bejewelled marriage-knife that hung betwixt her breasts, "…why, in that event, I should merely wish to stab him a little!"

"Much more civilised a custom," Rashiel drawled, fingering her own spousal blade, less finely ornamented than Ysmet's, but equally honed to sharpness.

Ysmet failed to take note of the irony, her eyes a little glazed in recollection. "Roth had the absolute nerve to say I was being childish!" she complained.

Rashiel smirked further. "Well… perhaps you were?"

Ysmet glared angrily at her compatriot of Southern Altara, opened her mouth, then closed it, considering. After a brief time had passed, with a decisive air, she exclaimed; "flaming fishguts to this nonsense! I know what to do…"

"And what would that be, dearest Sailcaptain?"

"I'm going to go and find that foolish Gleeman," Ysmet yelled, "and… and…"

"Apologise?"

Ysmet temporarily resumed the glare, but then her mood shifted with its customary rapidity and she smiled crookedly. "Aye… you have the right of it, my dear Rashiel… when I locate him, I'll apologise Roth till he's weak in the knees!"

The two Ebou Dari women sniggered lewdly, then linked arms and descended the gangway to the main deck below. The tall figure of the Bosun stood beside the foremast, shouting instructions to the dozen sailors on watch, all engaged in splicing frayed ropes and dragging out spare sailcloth from the lockers, sorting which sections of worn canvas might be hoisted aloft for the coming voyage, their journey south. To Larcheen. At his Captain's approach, the Bosun turned, flinty eyes staring from his dark, Tairen face. He touched the iron hook replacing a lost left hand to his brow. "Your Ladyship."

"All is in hand, boatswain?" Ysmet enquired distractedly, her concerned gaze fixed on the shore.

"Aye-aye, Captain." The Bosun again utilised his hook to gesture disparagingly at the paper-thin sails being stretched out upon the deck by sweating sailors. "Those Darkfriend pirates clearly did some hard sailing afore they reached these climes, this left-over canvas is all-but worn-out, though it should serve to take us down the coast." The Bosun considered, then grimly muttered; "provided there are no more bloody storms as come out of nowhere…"

Ysmet was not attending, but Rashiel was. She smiled confidently. "On the last occasion, I could do but little to quell the fierce winds that wrecked us," she stated, before producing a dark, heart-shaped jewel from her belt-pouch and bouncing it upon her palm, "but now that I possess an angreal, it should be a different outcome this time, in the event of ill weather."

The Bosun eyed the jewel curiously and blinked. "Burn my soul! You've got anangreal?" he exclaimed, before his brow furrowed with confusion. "Whatever is that, Aes Sedai? Sounds serious!"

Rashiel frowned, opened her mouth to impatiently explain further, but Ysmet intervened. "Have one of the longboats launched, boatswain," she commanded, "and roust out the below-decks watch from their hammocks for oar-duty." Her eyes narrowed with resolve. "I mean to go ashore…"

In due course, the raised heels of Captain Ysmet's boots splashed down into the shallow surf, sinking into wet sand. She turned and extended a helping hand to Rashiel, who took it and stepped gracefully down from the longboat, her bare feet immersed in the froth of lapping waves.

The Bosun joined them, vaulting over the boat's side. "Wait here, you swabs," he told the sailors as they shipped their oars, leaping nimbly from the long and narrow craft, hauling it further up the beach, "and nobody go into the forest… not unless they want to end up in some cannibal's cookpot!"

The dozen crew glanced at each other with mute caution. Clearly, none of them had any intention of wandering into the shadows beneath the tall trees; they all well-recalled what had befallen old Hulan, the unfortunate ship's carpenter.

A hand resting lightly on her sword-hilt, Ysmet strode up into the dunes beyond the shoreline, Rashiel and the Bosun following. Off to one side stood their abandoned camp, surrounded by its shattered stockade. This encampment had served as home for a couple of months, but Ysmet had no regrets in leaving it. Her new-captured ship comprised a far more comfortable residence, not to mention a safer.

Up ahead, some manner of altercation appeared to be taking place; the Warders and Aielmen were otherwise engaged and did not immediately take note of their approach. Ysmet and Rashiel paused a dozen paces away from the warriors, observing with interest. The Bosun loomed behind, also watching closely. Swords and spears were stacked neatly nearby, though it was rare for either Gaidin or Algai'd'siswai to divest themselves of weaponry… but they currently had no need of arms, and were seemingly putting alternate martial skills to the test.

On the left; the massive Shaido fighter – Ysmet thought he was called 'Grom' or some such strange, Aielish name – stood solidly upon the sand, tree-trunk legs braced, meaty hands raised. Even as the Noblewoman watched, the twin Warders Aebel and Blaek leapt at the Aiel from either side, fists poised – a brief flurry of violent motion, too fast to make out any actual details, and then it was over. The huge Aielman loomed over his erstwhile attackers, an oddly apologetic expression flickering across stony, impassive features. Aebel was clutching his midriff, gasping for breath, whilst Blaek lay flat on his back, dazed.

Meanwhile, Jabal Gaidin was trading blows with the short Aielman, who intercepted each strike with casual ease, his blocking hands flashing back and forth before his scarred face, which wore a look of detached amusement. A particularly forceful punch from the Sea Folk Warder overextended his stance, and whilst he was momentarily off-balance, the diminutive Aiel warrior, having ducked swiftly beneath the lunging fist, leapt, spun, and kicked him in the side of the head. Jabal staggered as his opponent dropped to a crouch, spinning again, lashing out a leg and sweeping the Atha'an Miere Gaidin off his feet.

Ysmet blinked, opened her mouth to demand what was going on, but then Rashiel cried; "oh no! Dagnon!"

Ysmet glanced in the direction that her Aes Sedai friend was staring in time to behold the tall Murandian Warder being flipped neatly over the shoulder of the taller, one-eyed Aielman, their boastful and eccentric leader. Dagnon crashed to the ground, raising a large cloud of sand with the impact, and this Cohradin whirled with ferocious grace to complete the defeat of his adversary.

"Leave him alone!" Rashiel protested, rushing forward.

Cohradin turned at this intervention, blinking both his blue and red eyes, then shrugged. "As you wish, Aes Sedai," he concurred.

Rashiel knelt beside her Warder solicitously, assisting him to sit up. "Are you alright Dagnon-dearest?" she enquired, directing a spiteful glare at Cohradin.

"I am fine Rashiel," Dagnon wheezed, pushing her hands away.

Ysmet eyed Dagnon Gaidin critically – the stern, moustachioed Warder did not look fine, but on the contrary, appeared rather bruised and abraded, his already shabby coat dusty and torn in places.

"I can Heal you if you like?" Rashiel offered.

Dagnon shook his head violently, then winced and clutched at his brow. "No!" he groaned. Rashiel scowled, but her Warder did not seem to notice. "I am in enough pain already," he muttered, struggling to rise to his feet, "your Healing is the last thing I need, Rashiel!" The young Aes Sedai sniffed disapprovingly.

Meanwhile, the enormous Aielman had taken one of the Twin's hands in each of his own, and tugged them forcefully to their feet. Jabal yet lay supine, limbs spread-eagled, his small Aiel opponent kneeling astride his chest, one hand gripping the Sea Folk Warder's throat while the other was raised and drawn back, fingers rigidly extended for a vicious and possibly lethal blow. "Enough!" Jabal groaned, "I yield!" The short Aielman nodded curtly, lowered his striking hand, then flowed to his feet and stepped back, allowing Jabal to sit upright.

Nearby; the redheaded Aielwoman sat cross-legged, half-watching in bored fashion whilst doing something complicated with a length of twine, strung in an intricate pattern between her spread fingers. She glanced up at the Bosun, smiled secretively and winked. The Bosun smiled back, a brief twitch of the lips, before resuming his habitual stern demeanour.

"What are you all doing?" Ysmet shouted, exasperated, "do we not face enough enemies already without you fool men fighting amongst yourselves?!"

The Aielmen glanced at each other uncertainly, then Cohradin spoke up; "we do not Dance with the Wardermen, Ysmet Mitsobar."

The hulking Aiel warrior nodded his large head in agreement while his much smaller comrade grinned strangely, the deep scar in each cheek puckering. "If this were a real fight, Roofmistress, then your Brothers of the Battles would all be waked by now," the short Aielman observed cheerfully, before grabbing his Atha'an Miere opponent's arm and assisting him to rise.

Jabal Gaidin nodded his thanks, dusting himself down, dark eyes moving to Ysmet. "We are but sparring, Lady Mitsobar," he explained laboriously, "honing our skills at unarmed combat." Dagnon and the Twins nodded in confirmation of this activity. Ysmet and Rashiel exchanged a sceptical glance.

Cohradin drew himself up proudly. "We Sovin Nai of the Mighty Shaido are the most gifted at this form of fighting amongst all the Aiel," he declared importantly. "Naturally, the Wardermen of your White Towers wished to test their own meagre skills against us!" The Warders eyed Cohradin flatly. He failed to notice. "Their abilities in the Dance when bereft of their dishonourable swords are both pathetic and laughable!" he scoffed.

"Hoy!" Aebel and Blaek protested simultaneously.

"You are being unfair, Cohradin," the big Aielman rumbled, "as ever. These Gaidin fight well enough when unarmed. Some of their hand-to-hand techniques are not without merit."

Cohradin ignored this, or perhaps had not even heard. "These Wetlanders move slow as lizards," he jeered, "no… slower!"

"Some lizards move fast," the little Aielman pointed-out.

"Only when they see you coming, my brother!" Cohradin jested, "for you are the only Aiel in the Three-fold Land who favours the ill taste of their lizardy flesh!"

The compact Aiel warrior scowled darkly at this ribald comment, whilst his large comrade made a studious objection; "Cohradin, 'lizardy' is not a proper word... you should, in stead, say 'reptilian' or something of that ilk." He considered, then sighed. "If you must say anything at all..."

The short Aiel nodded in agreement, sneered, then returned to his theme. "The Sea Folk Warder shows promise," he allowed, poking Jabal with a deadly finger to further indicate who he meant, "he is no Anselan of Aramaelle, true, but after a few years under the tutelage of the Knife Hands, he might become tolerably dangerous!" Jabal blinked, clearly trying to work out whether this was a complimentary or derogatory remark...

Cohradin snorted rudely. So did Manda, though the noise she made contained more than a hint of sniff also. The Sovin Nai eyed her irritably. "These knife-handed oafs are but soft-fingered blanket-wetters!" Manda loudly and scathingly observed, "if the Battle-Brothers truly wish to become formidable in the Dance of Spears, then they should train with Far Dareis Mai!"

The Aielmen frowned at this rude description, but then Cohradin smiled his twisted smile. "And what might the Gaidin learn from you, Maiden? How to play girlish finger-games with foolish bits of string?"

Manda scowled, and swiftly tucked the twine into her belt, rising from her seated posture with lithe, feral grace. "I shall show you, Cohradin," she snarled, "prepare to receive a hard lesson in manners from a Maiden of the Spear, as you did when Sulin of the Taardad beat you so badly at Chaendaer!"

Cohradin winced at the embarrassing recollection, then crouched, raising his hands defensively, fingers clawed, as Manda advanced on him in predatory fashion. "If you wish to be spanked, foolish spear-maid, then Red-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai shall be only too glad to administer that spanking!"

"You could not spank your way out of a perished goatskin!" Manda retorted, preparing to attack, "you are a big-"

"Excuse me!" Ysmet shouted, waving her hands to gain their attention, glaring at Aiel and Warders alike, "I hate to interrupt this… whatever this is… but I should very much like to know – have any of you seen Roth?"

---

Lord Thaeus of House Desiama leant forward in the peculiar chair with the arms that swung out and then latched back into place, a seat bolted immovably to the deck. His chin was cupped in his hands, elbows propped upon the polished table carved from some jet-black wood that he did not recognise. If Lord Guye had been present, doubtless he would have castigated his son and heir for having his elbows so arranged. The Head of his House had always objected to such breaches of etiquette upon the long, rosewood dining table within the main hall of the Amadici manor-house in which Thaeus had been born and raised… but then, father was not present.

Thaeus sincerely hoped that the old Nobleman was safe and well amidst the turmoil of these troubled times… and fervently desired that the formidable Scion of House Desiama had not heard of his decision to renounce the White Cloak and Golden Sunburst, to irrevocably turn his back upon the Children of Light. That was a development about which father would be far from enthusiastic, Thaeus suspected, if he discovered the unwelcome news. No, not if… when. Lord-Captain Guye Desiama, though long-invalided from active duty, yet retained military connections throughout the Westlands, as well as no-few correspondents within the espionage communities of the scattered Nations… he was fearsomely adept at learning that which others would prefer remained secret. Thaeus had learnt this to his cost…

While these preoccupations passed through the back of his mind, Thaeus' cold gaze remained unwaveringly fixed upon the young woman seated opposite. Her dull, glazed brown eyes seemed like those of someone already dead; she might not wish to meet his accusatory stare, but like trapped prey cornered by a predator, could not bring herself to look away. Though Thaeus had left the Legions far behind, being in the presence of a Friend of the Dark most definitely brought out what vestige remained of the Whitecloak in him… he did not have to utilise any pretence in projecting an attitude of loathing and menace upon the prisoner. Thaeus had even earlier hinted at the likelihood of them putting this Darkfriend Witch to the question, in order to gain true answers concerning the plots of their enemy, and she had quailed at the prospect of such torment, resuming her monotonous sobbing for a time.

The Shadowsworn Domani captive was not to know that Thaeus had no intention of torturing her in the course of his interrogation, mostly upon moral grounds but also because he really had no idea how to… he was no vile Inquisitor of the Hand of Light! And unduly glad of it, Thaeus had always despised Questioners, most particularly those debased specimens who took overt pleasure and satisfaction in the cruel duties of their office. These brutal individuals were relatively few, however, since the majority of Child-Inquisitors were too lost in their own fanaticism to be capable of enjoying anything.

A creaking sound came from the beams overhead as someone crossed the quarterdeck above… Thaeus ignored the noise, but Irmilla Nadona, once (if no longer) a channeler of the dark arts, glanced upward nervously, then gazed confusedly about herself, examining her surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. Unusually fine surrounding they were too, in Thaeus' estimation. Considering that this had been a Darkfriend pirate ship crewed by murderous brigands, the Captain's dining-cabin was surprisingly well-appointed, with furnishings and adornments which suggested that a certain amount of tasteful discernment had been employed in their arrangement.

Leaded windows set into the stern let in a goodly amount of sunlight, illuminating the smooth, dark wood of the tables, chairs and carved panelling which lined the curvature of the hull. The deck was equally fine, polished to a glowing sheen with beeswax, fashioned of a different manner of exotic timber which again, Thaeus did not recognise. Crossed cutlasses and tasselled boarding-pikes yet remained to decorate the panels, though the various garishly-painted human skulls had been removed and thrown overboard, along with the disturbing bas-relief of a ten-armed, tentacled monstrosity that had been hung over the door. Thaeus had no idea what this fearsome sea-creature was, but fervently hoped that such things did not exist and were merely the product of the sculptor's bizarre imagination.

Finding little comfort in her immediate environment, which took up one-half of the space in the stern – the remainder being given over to the Captain's cabin – Irmilla's attention returned reluctantly to her captor. Thaeus cleared his throat, then spoke softly but pointedly. "Let us consider again; you claim that your Mistress, the Darkfriend Hag, has made compact with this Laughing God, ruler of the insane Land that lies to our lee… but how?"

Irmilla did not reply instantly, glancing down at her hands, resting in her lap, wrists secured with steel manacles. When she did speak, her voice was toneless, devoid of any life. Entirely bereft of hope, also. "I should not have told you that…"

"But you did, Friend of the Dark. Well? How do these two evil-doers confer with one another, separated as they are by time and distance?" The knowledge that their voyage through the arcane Stone had taken those escaping aboard the Little Watcher forward along the span of the Great Wheel's turning by almost one year had come as a great surprise to all… with the exception of the enigmatic Shieldman, who had seemed already to be aware of the strange phenomenon. Irmilla mumbled something indistinct. "What was that?" Thaeus curtly requested, "I did not hear."

Irmilla raised her head, a trace of defiance in her brown eyes, though swiftly extinguished by the circumstances in which she languished. "I said; they speak in dreams!" she hissed.

Thaeus blinked, considering this. Rashiel Sedai had told him that such communication was possible, but otherwise possessed little lore regarding the practice, saying only that the White Tower had not possessed a 'True Dreamer' in more than five-hundred years. Though a new girl, a novice from westernmost Andor, was rumoured to possess this rare Talent, presumed lost. Thaeus' eyes narrowed. "How-?" he began to ask, but Irmilla summoned a trace of her old spirit, the defiant manner briefly returning.

"I'll tell you no more, Whitecloak Madman!" she snarled, "I should never have spoke of ought that concerned my Dread Mistress… should she discover that I am your prisoner, that I have given you information, then my life will be worth less than a Tinker's cuss!"

Thaeus raised his eyebrows. He had not encountered many Tuatha'an in the course of his duties, since the Travelling Folk tended to avoid the Children of Light even more assiduously than they shunned everyone else, but the few Tinkers that he occasionally met had all seemed extremely mannerly… it was difficult to imagine one of them cursing! But then, he assumed that this remark was merely some sort of play on words, presumably a syllogism peculiar to the peoples of Arad Doman?

Irmilla shuddered, her blank gaze returning to her lap. She then frowned with distaste, plucking at the skirts of the drab grey dress she wore. Rashiel Tamor had confiscated this vain Domani wench's entire wardrobe, mostly comprising of a large selection of finely-stitched and scandalously thin silken gowns. The Aes Sedai had taken vengeful pleasure in forcing Irmilla Nadona to clothe herself in the most dull apparel that could be found aboard; the plain garb of a penitent prisoner.

"Though my life is as good as over, in any case," Irmilla muttered bleakly.

"Because you have been stilled?" Thaeus prompted, repressing a smile. Irmilla shivered, not quite managing to stifle a sob, then slowly nodded. Seeing that he would get no further with his key object of enquiry for now, Thaeus elected to try a different tack… perhaps he could compel the captive Witch into dropping her guard with an alternate line of query, before returning to the main topic? "Tell me, Darkfriend; I have been wondering… why was the Gleeman so angry with you?"

Irmilla raised her head, blinking in confusion. "What?" she mumbled.

Thaeus frowned, though realisation swiftly dawned that the question was not exactly being evaded, it was more that Irmilla simply did not care about so unimportant a subject. "Roth Blucha, the Falman Gleeman, husband to the Captain… when first you were brought aboard in chains, he glared at you with uncommon fury, then shouted something about a 'flute' and possibly also a 'haystack' before he stalked away." Thaeus narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Irmilla's vacant expression cleared slightly and she ventured a faint smile for an instant, before the reality of her dread predicament reasserted itself in her mind, her face falling into an expression of profound misery. "Oh… that."

"Well?"

Irmilla frowned, uncaring. "It is of little concern, a minor episode from my past, from the Gleeman's also… but if you must know, he and I have met before."

"That much was clear from his averse reaction to your presence."

Irmilla sighed softly, her eyes assuming a faraway look. "When first I fled the White Tower, as a novice-"

"After you vilely murdered a Cadet Warder!"

"It was not so vile as all that… I saw to it that the Youngling Revan did not suffer overmuch." Thaeus snorted contemptuously, but Irmilla did not seem to have heard, continuing tonelessly; "well, in any case, I found myself a hunted fugitive on the Caemlyn road with little food and less coin… I fell-in with a young Gleeman, newly come to his all-but patchless cloak, whom I encountered outside of an Inn."

"Roth Blucha?"

"Who else? The fool Gleeman had just been slung out of his room for non-payment of the bill, as well as upsetting the entire common-room with scurrilous songs and jests, and was fortunate to have avoided a beating… since he was also on his way down into Andor, we decided to travel together." Irmilla looked vaguely animated, for a moment; "well, he was rather comely, after all… still is, though he could profit from a shave." She shrugged. "The youthful idiot had even less wealth to his name than I, of course… after it began to rain heavily, a league or so down the road, we were forced to take shelter inside a haystack, where we spent the night."

"A… haystack?"

"We could not afford so much as the meanest of lodgings in a stable, had there even been any more Inns or farms in the vicinity, and since there were no barns available either, it seemed the best option!"

"Well, that explains one of Roth's remarks, I suppose… but what of his mention of a flute? And why was the Gleeman so angered at the sight of you?"

Again, Irmilla smiled slightly before the curving of her pouting lips swiftly faded. "After an uncomfortable but not altogether unenjoyable night, I woke at dawn, and noting that young Roth was yet comatose, decided that the best course of action would be to continue my journey, without the tedious company of the snoring Journeyman, but with the sole item in his possession of any worth – a gold-chased flute, gifted him by the Master Gleeman under whose tutelage he'd studied his ignoble craft. I had been told that it was a present, to mark the end of his lengthy apprenticeship. In any case, I took the item in question and silently departed…"

Thaeus scowled. "Thief!" he barked.

Irmilla pouted a little. "I have been called worse names far than that," she revealed, "and selling the flute provided me with more than enough funds to travel down to Caemlyn in comfort."

Thaeus shook his head with slow disapproval. "Little wonder that Roth did not react well to meeting you again, after all these years…"

Once more, Irmilla almost smiled. "We did more than just sleep in the haystack," she pointed-out primly, "I would say that the young Gleeman was well recompensed for his silly instrument…"

Thaeus sneered. "There are worse names than that of 'thief' and your mention of compensation certainly brings some of them to mind!"

At this jibe, Irmilla forgot her misery enough to momentarily scowl. "That which those sorts of women do for money, I do for pleasure!" she protested. Irmilla considered a moment, then thoughtfully added; "or advancement, of course. A woman alone in the world must use every advantage she has, to better her situation." Her dull gaze became slightly speculative as she looked Thaeus up and down. "For example; should it happen that a handsome, well set-up young fellow such as yourself, in return for certain concessions, might be interested in a… liaison..?"

"I should sooner bed a snake!" Thaeus spat.

Irmilla bared her white, even teeth in an expression that was certainly no smile, her dark eyes drilling into the young Lord's. "Your proclivities are your own business, Whitecloak… but don't spurn something until you have at least tried it!"

"What… snakes? Or you?"

Irmilla sniffed, then lowered her eyes demurely. Thaeus recalled her less suggestive words, and demanded; "hold! What concessions? You surely do not imagine that we shall let you go free, Darkfriend? Impossible! You must answer for your crimes…"

Irmilla did not trouble to look up. "No, of course not," she muttered contemptuously, "I merely meant that as a reward for… favours… you might convince that harlot Rashiel to restore certain of my gowns to me!"

Thaeus stared. "Your… gowns?"

Irmilla raised her gaze, narrowing her eyes at her interrogator. "Yes, of course! My fine silk dresses… or failing that, even one or two of the cotton skirts I more recently acquired… do you honestly imagine that I relish garbing myself in this?" For purposes of illustration, Irmilla tugged at the ill-fitting bodice of her drab, grey garment.

Thaeus blinked. truly, females are mysterious beings! he considered, they elude all understanding… He shrugged. "Perhaps some trade of that nature might be arranged," he speculated, "though not in terms of carnality, but rather were you to answer my questions truthfully and in detail. Now, this Mistress of yours, who seeks the destruction of the Aes Sedai, my sister and her companions… where-?"

"I told you, crazed Whitecloak, I'll speak no more concerning Arachnae Kirikil!" Irmilla spat, "for I fear her ire far more than anything you may do to me!"

"I would not be so sure of that, Darkfriend," Thaeus growled threateningly, "and besides, think you that this wretched Hag can harm you here, from half a world away?"

Irmilla shuddered, terror and anguish filling her eyes. "There is nowhere that my Dread Mistress cannot reach," she stated with morbid resignation, "and none who are safe from her deadly 'fluence!"

"You clearly possess quite an imagination," Thaeus commented flatly.

Irmilla glared at him. "Wait and see! When my Mistress visits you in your unquiet sleep, you shall swiftly discover the true meaning of horror, boy!"

Thaeus frowned, began to speak further; but abruptly, a small black sphere popped into existence, hovering over the centre of the jet-hued table. The apparition hung in the air, just beneath the beams supporting the quarterdeck above. The ebon, eldritch ball, composed of a dark, smoky substance, riven with jagged streaks of silvery fire, began to float slowly down toward Irmilla – in affrighted response, she shrank away from it, fear twisting her slack features. "What is that?" she gasped, "why did you summon it, Madman?"

Thaeus grinned, shaking his head. "You have the wrong of it, Witch, just as you did when you chose to betray the Light. I did not channel that wreaking of saidin into being…" he nodded toward the corner of the cabin, "…he did."

Irmilla turned her head, pretty mouth falling slackly open, and uttered a low moan. Thaeus glanced in the same direction, though he already knew what he would see. The Sharan youth Hamadi sat crosslegged upon the polished deck, leaning back against the bulkhead. He was smiling slightly and the eyes set in his intricately tattooed face – one very dark, the other red and dimly glowing – were fixed upon the sphere of smoke and fire, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"What is he doing?" Irmilla gasped, in dread-tinged tones.

"I am not entirely certain," Thaeus replied casually, "but whatever that is he controls, you certainly may not like the consequences of its effects, should it touch you. Better to answer my questions, hmm?"

The saidin-ball, revolving slowly, drifted closer to Irmilla – she seemed to be trying her best to sink through the chair and down into the deck to get away from it. Thaeus watched the flashing sphere also, fascination coloured with envy in his eyes. It took real willpower to resist the urge to channel also… Without taking his eyes from his creation, Hamadi spoke softly, the liquid words of his exotic tongue heavy with foreboding.

"What did he say?" Irmilla implored, her panicked gaze fixed on the dark, roiling ball, now almost upon her.

Thaeus answered promptly, if less than truthfully. "Hamadi states that if you do not tell us that which we wish to know, he will use this device of the One Power to tear the shrivelled soul from your body and leave you but an empty, mindless husk!" Irmilla moaned again, trembling violently. In all honesty, Thaeus no-more knew the meaning of Hamadi's indecipherable speech than did the captive Darkfriend, for each male-channeler understood barely a score of words in the other's language! But previously, the two of them – with Naythan Gaidin's assistance as interpreter – had agreed upon this tactic to elicit the required information, should their prisoner prove intransigent.

Hamadi might not comprehend what Thaeus and Irmilla had been saying in the Vulgar, but he was no fool and would have been able to discern from expression and body-language that the interrogation was not proceeding well. So, the Sharan youth had chosen his moment to intervene wisely… as for the smoking ball, Thaeus strongly doubted that it was capable of ripping someone's spirit from their physical form; more likely, it was merely a harmless weaving of Air and Fire, designed to intimidate and scare their captive. And judging by the Darkfriend's reaction, it had evidently succeeded in this!

"Alright, I'll tell you all!" Irmilla wailed, "just don't let that beastly Sharan Souvraniene steal my soul!"

"Whyever not?" Thaeus enquired disparagingly, adding; "it cannot have been of great value to you, since you've already sold your pitiful shreds of spirit to Shai'tan!" He motioned surreptitiously to Hamadi, even so. At this sign, the young Ayyad closed his eyes and the sphere tinged with silver flame immediately winked out of existence, as rapidly as it had first appeared. Irmilla breathed a gusty sigh of relief, sitting up straighter in her odd, confining chair, though her trembling continued unabated. "Now," Thaeus began, in serious tones, "you shall tell us all you know concerning the plans of the wicked old Friend of the Dark whom you served. Omit nothing and do not attempt to hide the truth. I may not always know when you are lying, but Hamadi there is a different matter. That crimson eye of his can see into the innermost depths of your murderous mind, Darkfriend Witch!"

Irmilla glanced back at Hamadi uncertainly and he grinned evilly, tattoos writhing around his mouth with the facial movement. The Sharan Ayyad then went so far as to utter a low, sinister laugh.

don't overdo it, Hamadi! Thaeus silently urged his compatriot. Though during his time in the Legions, Thaeus had not participated in the questioning of Darkfriend prisoners, he was familiar with a technique whereby a pair of Inquisitors of the Hand of Light would adopt differing mannerisms for the purposes of manipulating the responses of their captive subject, to elicit truth. Thaeus had overheard some Questioners speak of this; in situations where torture was not a viable option but more a last resort, one Child Inquisitor would portray an aggressive and malevolent role whilst the other might play an amenable, sympathetic part. In fear of the former, the captive Darkfriend might well prove to be more forthcoming with the latter.

This was what they had decided to do with one Irmilla Nadona, Shadowsworn channeler and former novice of the White Tower… and it seemed to be working. Irmilla took a deep, shuddering breath, then began to speak quickly and quietly, telling Thaeus a great deal, confirming that which he had only suspected and revealing unconsidered facts in addition… all the while, darting frequent nervous glances at Hamadi. The Ayyad youth confined himself to staring at her dangerously from his place in the corner. The red eye certainly helped to instil menace…

Whilst listening attentively, Thaeus silently congratulated himself on that last bit of invention with regard to the lie-detecting eye… and despite his hatred for Darkfriends, he continued to smile approvingly at Irmilla throughout the remainder of the interrogation, occasionally offering kindly words of encouragement. It would not do to neglect staying firmly in character, for while in this instance Hamadi was clearly the 'bad thief-taker…' Thaeus was, after all, the good.

---

"Well, Knife-Brother? What befell the Gleeman?"

Chassin did not answer, nor rise from his low crouch as he moved with painstaking care over the ground, without disturbing so much as a leaf in the course of his stealthy passage. Blue eyes scanned for signs; missing nothing, interpreting everything.

Cohradin stood to one side, idly twirling his short-hafted spear back and forth, senses alert for any danger… and here, in the Ghost Forest, the dangers were many. But Red-Eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai had oft walked abroad within the Great Blight of Sightblinder, where all that moved and much which did not could kill the unwary. He had journeyed on several occasions to the deadly lands of Forbidden Shara and also survived the treacherous Waterless Sands of the Termool… so some damp woods full of channeling lunatics and pointy-toothed fools who ate each other held no fears for him! And nor did anything else. Even for a Shaido Aiel, Cohradin was utterly fearless… except for that one particular thing which troubled him greatly and chased him in his ill-dreams, the very disturbing thing he did not like to think about. Except that.

With both his real and artificial eyes, Cohradin curiously watched Chassin casting about over the ground, not unlike one of those Shienaran sniffing-hounds that Gerom had told him of. He wondered whether to speak again, but decided against it. He should not distract his Knife-Brother whilst the diminutive Shaido practiced his particular skill. Like all Aiel, especially algai'd'siswai, Cohradin was an excellent tracker and could follow the path of human and animal alike over broken, rocky ground where a mere Wetlander would see nothing but his own foolish shadow. But Chassin was prenaturally gifted at discerning signs that others might miss. He always had been, for as long as Cohradin could remember…

As boys, they would play a game whereby Cohradin and Gerom would go into the wilderness beyond the borders of Wet Sands Hold, moving as carefully as they could, leaving no indication of their passage in the sand, not disturbing even the smallest pebble… after travelling some distance, they would conceal themselves in a gully or cave, and then wait for Chassin to find them. Which he always did.

Cohradin blinked, recollecting one such occasion, long ago… yes, it had been in that particularly deep cave that they had discovered those ancient bones wrapped in shreds of golden cloth, where Gerom acquired his most prized possession. But for his books, of course. Though the thing in the cave was equally of worth to the big Shaido scholar, Cohradin suspected… infrequently, he had spied upon Gerom late at night, noting how his near-brother would take the item out of its place of concealment in the middle of his blanket-roll and examine it, stroking its gleaming surface whilst muttering to himself. Strange behaviour for Gerom! That find of his certainly was… precious to him.

Cohradin soon became bored with Chassin's preoccupation however, and entirely disregarded his resolve to not disturb his near-brother's activities. "The Gleeman?" he repeated, in louder tones.

Chassin blinked, then glanced up at Cohradin, eyes staring blankly. "Huh?"

"What became of Roth Blucha?" Cohradin impatiently enquired.

Chassin considered a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing good."

Cohradin raised an eyebrow – well, he had little choice in this as the impressive scar stretching across his face had long-since rendered the other brow immobile – and opened his mouth to demand further details, as he often needed to with the irritatingly obtuse Chassin. But then, a low whistle sounded through the trees to the south. Cohradin promptly whistled back. After a moment, Gerom and Manda came drifting silently into view. "I see you, Gerom," Cohradin called, "I see you also, Maiden of the silly-strings!"

Manda glared at Cohradin, but did not reply, beyond making a rude and vulgar gesture at him. Gerom frowned, tucked his spear behind the bow-harness at his back, and raised his large hands, using secretive Sovin Nai signs;

silence Knife-Leader! enemy territory – keep trail-discipline!

Cohradin sneered, though since his twisted upper lip was already arranged in a permanent expression of derision – again, due to the long facial scar, as well as his contemptuous attitudes – it might be more accurate to say that he sneered more. "There are none hereabouts who might overhear us!" Cohradin scoffed, "and even if there were, we would soon wake them. The dead listen to nothing!"

Gerom sighed deeply, moving over with his customary dangerous assurance to peer down at Chassin, who had resumed his examination of the ground about him. Manda followed, lithely graceful as ever, scowling at Cohradin as she slipped past. "Pig!" she hissed.

Cohradin grinned at Manda goadingly, then noted that Gerom, whilst watching Chassin, was tugging at his collar again, and frowning. "Why do you keep doing that, my brother?" he wondered idly, "pulling upon your garments in such a fidgety fashion?"

Gerom's frown deepened. "This cadin'sor is ill-fitting," he muttered, "the britches constrictive, the sleeves and neck of the coat too tight… I must adjust my warrior's garb again, when time permits."

Cohradin nodded sagely. Since both he and Gerom had burned their distinctive clothing after they chose to become Da'tsang and Gai'shain respectively, they had had to replace this apparel with the only cadin'sor available, when they regained their senses and took up the spear again.

Cohradin was currently wearing the coat and britches of the Shadowrunner Medelin, or Mastri as he had foolishly named himself anew, the overconfident Madman whom he had violently waked. The dead man's cadin'sor fit well-enough, since they had been of a size; Gerom had changed the cut of the coat from that of the Sha'mad Conde Warrior Society to Sovin Nai, but since Medelin had also once been an algai'd'siswai of the Wet Sands Shaido, this was the only alteration needed. Apart from sewing up the large hole over the left side of the chest, where Cohradin's knife-hand had punched through cloth, skin and ribs, to tear out the Madman's heart, of course. Though it had been given a thorough washing, the coat yet bore gore-stains from the encounter… but Cohradin cared not. Having the life-blood of an enemy upon one's cadin'sor was a mark of high honour, he considered.

However, Gerom had then been left with only the cadin'sor of the slain Duadhe Mahdi'in, Ruon, to wear… though a bigger man than Medelin had been, the dead Water Seeker's garb was still not near large enough, and despite extensive adjustments to the coat and britches, they yet did not fit Gerom particularly well.

Cohradin found this amusing, naturally. "I pity you, Gerom… you resemble two-hundredweights of sand stuffed into a one-hundredweight sack!" he jested.

Gerom eyed Cohradin flatly and did not trouble to respond to this jibe. Manda, still angered by the string-insults, continued to glare at Cohradin poisonously, ignoring his words. Chassin, preoccupied with the marks in the dirt, was not attending either. Cohradin sighed. Unfortunate, that there were none present who might properly appreciate his wit, his fine jokes! It was irksome. The Gleeman would doubtless have found that remark funny, very funny indeed, laughing long and loud. But he was not here. Where was the strutting fool? Which manner of misfortune had befallen him? What had become of the idiotic Roth Blucha this time?

Chassin supplied the answer, rising smoothly, speaking softly; "the red-masked Madmen of this 'Laughing God' we hear tell of… they have the Gleeman. He yet lives, I believe, I have found no blood-trails, but they have taken him south…" Chassin nodded in the direction from which Gerom and Manda had come.

"We saw sign of someone coming this way," Manda ventured, "but-"

"How know you it was these foolish Redmasks who took Roth Blucha captive?" Cohradin demanded, rudely interrupting Manda and further angering the Spear-Maiden. "By what means did you learn this, my brother?"

Chassin eyed Cohradin scathingly. "The tracks are easy to tell, a child could do it…" He pointed at the ground. "Seven men wearing boots, they surrounded the Gleeman here…"

"But how-?"

"Because I have seen certain of these prints before, Cohradin! One of the soles has a square piece of leather missing, another still the same small stone stuck in the cleat… it is obvious!"

Gerom's heavy brow furrowed. "Where have you seen such signs previously, Chassin?"

"In the cave on the isle-land with the tall and shiny thing!" The other Shaido looked at each other with mute incomprehension. Chassin scowled. "Must I explain all to you? When I went in the boat with the Gaidin who speaks strangely and has the reddish hairs upon his top lip, the wizened sailormen also… and the Gleeman too, though he was of little use in the raid, unsurprisingly. Do you not recall? We were sent to scout the enemy by the Roofmistress, Ysmet Mitsobar, to spy upon those fools who paint their faces alike to birds… our duty was to see if the Aes Sedai hostages might be rescued…"

Chassin waved an impatient hand at the ground again. "Even though the Nightwatcher joined us, as did the escaped Atha'an Miere Warderman, we failed in our task. We came too late… these Madmen in their red masks, they took the three Sisters of the White Tower from the island, the Sharawoman too, and it would seem that they have now taken the Gleeman also…" his voice became confusedly speculative; "…though what the Madmen could possibly want with Roth Blucha of all people, I cannot say."

"Well, they are mad… perhaps, then, they actually enjoy being irritated?" Cohradin suggested.

"Then they should have taken you, Cohradin!" Manda snarled, "for you are the most irritating swine in existence!"

Cohradin studiously ignored the Maiden of the Spear. "How much of a head-start do they have?" he asked Chassin.

The short Knife Hand shrugged again. "Who can say… half a day, perhaps less… why?" Cohradin grinned, and did not answer.

"What do you intend, Cohradin?" Gerom enquired, eyeing the Sovin Nai leader curiously if cautiously.

"I mean to take Roth Blucha back from his captors! He is our Gleeman, not theirs! They have no right to steal him away from the Sovin Nai without permission!"

"Why is he your Gleeman?" Manda wondered, temporarily forgetting her ire, replaced as it was by puzzlement.

"Because we found him first!" Cohradin declared, then turned to the other Knife Hands. "Do you not remember, my brothers? Roth Blucha came crawling out of the Blight with a parched throat and his belly sticking to his backbone, half-dead and raving about worms and dwarves! Because of his patched-cloak we did not slay him for trespassing upon Shaido lands, but in stead took him back to Wet Sands Hold that old Sadora might nurse him back to what little health the skinny, weedy fool may lay claim to…"

"Yes. Sadora restored the Gleeman's constitution with many bowls of her delicious and nourishing spicy-spider soup," Chassin recalled, with a faraway look.

"Roth Blucha did not much care for that," Gerom added, shaking his big head slowly back and forth.

Cohradin chuckled at the memory of the dreadful, ancient Wise One of his Sept forcing the Gleeman to eat her vile, greyish broth, then noted that Chassin appeared to be serious in his estimation of the culinary merits of this horrid dish. "Really, Chassin? You think old Sadora's disgusting spidery soup delicious?"

Chassin blinked, then nodded. "Yes, of course. Why not?"

Cohradin shuddered. "Is there nothing you might not devour, my brother?"

Chassin considered, then shook his head slowly. "Not much." He grinned his rare, disturbing grin, the matching scars in his cheeks deepening. "Though I would not eat you, Cohradin!"

"My thanks, Chassin. Ji'e'toh would forbid this behaviour, of course, but I appreciate the-"

Chassin spoke over Cohradin, explaining further; "I would never consume you, my brother, for fear of catching whatever lunacy it is that afflicts you!"

Manda sniggered and Gerom uttered his infrequent, booming guffaw, slapping his thigh. Cohradin glared at Chassin, who was looking smug, as he always did when he imagined that he had said something funny. "That was not even so fine a jest as my wry quip about the sack!" Cohradin objected, "and yet you fools react as though it were!" The mirth redoubled, Chassin giggling also, the very occasional, high-pitched sound he made when he was amused. Cohradin's eyes, blue and red, narrowed.

"Those who laugh at their own jokes are not near so mirthsome as they think they are," Cohradin observed reprovingly… but no-one was listening to him.

---

"Are you all quite certain that you do not know where Roth has disappeared off to on this occasion?" the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar was demanding, and not for the first time. She glared at the four Gaidin of the White Tower, stood assembled upon the dunes. They mutely shook their heads, though without taking watchful and wary gazes from the surroundings. The quartet of Warders had retrieved their swords, were keeping cautious eyes on all points of the compass.

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai, turned away from the sea whereon the captured ship – their ticket home! – bobbed upon the waves, moored out beyond the reef shoals from which the masts and part of the drowned hull of the poor old wrecked Queen Mab yet rose from the sparkling water. Rashiel glanced up at the forbidding forest to the south, and sighed.

"Well… what was my husband doing, before he vanished into the woods?" Ysmet further desired to know. Dagnon and the Twins glanced briefly at Jabal Gaidin before resuming their watch – clearly, as the senior Warder present, they viewed it as his prerogative to answer. His thankless duty, also!

The dark-skinned Sea Folk Swordmaster shrugged. "The Gleeman paced up and down upon the beach for a time," Jabal Gaidin recalled, before speculating; "he seemed oppressed in his demeanour… appeared to be talking to himself."

"Yes, Roth does tend to do that," Ysmet absently agreed, "usually when he is composing a song or some such foolishness…" She blinked, then her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And you fool swordsmen just let him go wandering off into the forest on his own?!"

Jabal Gaidin exchanged a brief and long-suffering glance with Lord Dagnon, then shook his head. "Not at all, Lady Ysmet. I would have sent one of our number with the Gleeman, or gone myself… or better still, deterred him from going in the first place. But regrettably, we were all preoccupied by the sparring match conducted with the Aielmen. One moment Master Blucha was nearby, and the next… he was not."

Ysmet sniffed contemptuously. "The fabled abilities of White Tower Warders at detection leave much to be desired, it would seem," she scathingly observed.

"Really, Ysmet, that just isn't fair!" Rashiel protested, adding; "and besides, if you or I were receiving so complete a drubbing from fearsome Aiel warriors as these poor lads endured, we should likely not have noticed much else either!"

The Gaidin all glared at the Aes Sedai, Dagnon in particular. "We were not 'drubbed' Rashiel!" he vehemently objected, "you should ne'er say such things!" The others nodded firmly, as if such unanimous agreement might negate their bruised and dishevelled state. It did not.

Rashiel pouted. "Well, whatever your opponents were doing to you, they certainly seemed to be making a good job of it!" she muttered. The Twins scowled an identical scowl, Jabal frowned and Dagnon tugged at the points of his large, reddish moustache in that sulky way of his.

"Never mind your silly play-fighting and injured pride!" Ysmet snapped, "did Roth say anything to you, before he left? Give any indication of why he would just go walking away like that?"

Jabal Gaidin hesitated, then declared; "when first I took note of his ill-mood, I enquired of the Gleeman what was amiss… but he gave no answer."

"He looked dejected," Aebel observed. His brother promptly refuted this. "Disconsolate," Blaek stated. Aebel frowned, opened his mouth to argue…

Rashiel forestalled him. "Well, let us just settle on 'depressed,' shall we?" she smoothly interjected, before arching an eyebrow at Ysmet, "though I cannot for the life of me imagine why!"

The Lady Ysmet glared at her Aes Sedai friend. "Alright, so we argued!" she cried, "but a tiny disagreement is still no good reason for Roth to go traipsing off into the accursed Ghost Forest and thence get eaten-up by savage cannibals!"

"With any fortune, they shall devour his tongue first," Dagnon Gaidin growled softly. The other Warders all sniggered rudely, then hastily resumed their composure. Ysmet touched her sword-hilt and eyed the Murandian Lord levelly. He blinked, colouring a little. "Forgiveness, milady, one-thousand apologies! I spoke in haste, without due consideration… my remark was inappropriate and unmannerly, not to mention insensitive... and also rather-"

"Yes, alright, I accept your words of mitigation," Ysmet impatiently interrupted, "but I simply don't have time to listen while you spend the rest of the day saying that you're sorry!"

"My dear Dagnon can be somewhat verbose when it comes to the admission of guilt," Rashiel murmured, smiling fondly at her lover and protector.

Ysmet was not listening, had turned toward the forest stretching out beyond the cliffs that loomed above. "Where in the Winds are those bloody Aiel? They should have returned by now…" Her chin firmed with resolve. "To the black and Storm-cursed Maelstrom with this waiting around, I shall go and find Roth myself… come along, Rashiel!" Ysmet promptly set-off, striding confidently up into the dunes that extended further inland, heading for the treeline beyond.

Rashiel had to hurry to catch up, hitching at her silken robe, bare feet scuffing in the sand. "Hold up, Ysmet!" she gasped, "is this a good idea? If the Aielmen cannot locate Master Blucha, then assuredly no-one can… assuming that there is anything left of poor Roth to find…"

Ysmet looked over her shoulder impatiently, not ceasing her swift pace. "Roth is my beloved husband, Rashiel," she cried, "and I his adoring wife… which means that no-one is allowed to kill and eat him except me!"

Rashiel blinked, then increased her speed to almost draw level with her ferocious friend; long, tan legs flashing beneath the hiked-up skirts of her gown. "If I did not know better, I should believe that you had been born in the Rahad and not I," she gasped, panting, as they laboured upwards from dunes to cliff-tops, the Warders hastily following.

"What was that?"

"Oh… nothing."

"Cease your wheezing and keep up, Rashiel!"

As the pair of bickering Ebou Dari females reached the edge of the forest, the quartet of accompanying Gaidin forming a protective ring about them, a slender figure clad in browns, greens and greys, emerged soundlessly from the trees, an arrow nocked to her horn bow. Ysmet and the Warders immediately tensed, half-drawing their blades, while Rashiel opened herself instantly to saidar, feeling the potent forces flow into her, magnified considerably by the angreal she clutched. But then, they relaxed, recognising the Aiel spear-maid Manda.

Fierce blue-green eyes examined them narrowly from above a black veil, then the tall Aielwoman took her fingers from the bowstring to reach up and tug the cloth down. Manda smiled crookedly, in feral fashion. "I see you, shipmates!" she called out, in high, clear cadences, before erroneously adding; "avast!"

Rashiel raised her eyebrows. "Ship… mates..?" she repeated, surprised.

"Avast..?" Ysmet muttered.

Manda nodded. "These are the correct names?" Her gaze moved from Rashiel to Ysmet. "Your sailorman of Tear taught some boat-words to me… amongst other things. He has a fund of odd nautical terms which I knew not..."

"Indeed?" Ysmet's voice was cold. She and Manda clearly did not much care for each other, Rashiel had noticed and was fairly certain that the prime cause of this antipathy was currently blundering about in the woods, hopelessly lost!

"Yes…" Manda confirmed, "the 'Bosun' as he calls himself has told me much of the sea… though has yet to tell me his true-name!" Her tone assumed a wondering note; "truly, you Wetlanders are strange people, these sailing-folk most of all… your boatswain and I have coupled several times now, but he has yet to properly introduce himself!"

The Gaidin shuffled their feet and avoided each other's eyes. Rashiel put a serpent-ringed hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Ysmet sniffed disapprovingly. "We Westlanders do not discuss such activities so openly!" she primly and censoriously pointed-out. Manda shrugged unconcernedly, not bothering to respond. Ysmet's eyes narrowed. "Clearly, Aiel savages do!" she added, derisively.

Manda narrowed her eyes too, only more-so. "I am no savage!" she declared, "I am Far Dareis Mai!" She drew herself up proudly.

"You may carry a spear," Ysmet drawled, revealing a passing knowledge of the Old Tongue, "but you are evidently no maiden!" She showed her teeth in a smile that could in no way be termed friendly.

Manda's lip curled. "Provoke me further, soft Wetland Noblewench, and you shall become fully acquainted with that spear you made mention of!" she snarled, tucking away her bow and producing the weapon in question, brandishing it warningly.

Ysmet scowled darkly, grip tightening upon the hilt of her slim blade. She opened her mouth to utter a threat of her own, but Rashiel interrupted, exasperated; "cease this foolishness, the both of you!" She pinned Manda with a commanding gaze. "Ysmet meant no disrespect, Manda, and besides, I do not believe that there are currently any maidens present, in that sense of the word!" She winked at Dagnon, who blushed. "Now, have you and the other Shaido managed to find Roth?"

Manda shook her head, gave Ysmet a poisonous glare, then muttered; "no, Aes Sedai, we did not see the… handsome Gleeman." Ysmet scowled. Manda casually continued; "It would seem that Roth Blucha has been made captive by Madmen, the ones who wear the smirking masks of red leather… they have taken him away from this place."

"What?" Ysmet angrily shouted.

Manda ignored the Noblewoman, continuing; "Chassin reports that they are the very same masked Souvraniene who dishonourably made hostages of the Aes Sedai, this tattoo-faced Sharawoman also."

"But why would the Madmen kidnap Roth?" Ysmet demanded, whilst Rashiel considered this surprising new development, her mind working furiously.

Manda shrugged. "Who can say? It seems a strange thing to do, but then, the mad are noted for their strangeness, so such mysterious behaviour is to be expected." She smiled slyly. "Or mayhap, the pretty Gleeman went with the Redmasks willingly, seeking a welcome respite from his scolding wife?!"

Ysmet made a hissing sound; Rashiel was unsure if it more resembled the noise of angry cat or boiling kettle… perhaps a little of both? With some sort of menacing snake thrown in?

"Slut!" Ysmet yelled, when she found her voice, "Roth would never leave me!" The Warders all flinched slightly, then rolled their eyes at each other.

Manda took a deep breath, full lips parting to deliver verbal retaliation, presumably to be followed by retribution of a more physical kind… but again, to the relief of the Gaidin, Rashiel intervened. "Stop this nonsense immediately! Honestly, a pair of grown women behaving like witless men!" The Warders eyed Rashiel flatly, though she failed to notice. "Manda?"

"Aes Sedai?" Manda's voice was somewhat sulky, but at least she lowered her wickedly sharp spearpoint and took her threatening gaze from Ysmet, gazing with a trace of respect upon Rashiel instead.

"Where are the other Aiel?" Rashiel enquired, "the Aielmen, that is…"

Manda jerked a thumb back in the direction of the forest, where serried ranks of tall trees marched south, deep shadows lurking beneath their twisted boughs. "Gerom and Chassin, and our swinish leader Cohradin, have gone to wake the Redmasks and then return with Roth Blucha…" her cold eyes flicked briefly toward Ysmet, "…assuming that he wishes rescue..?" Ysmet glared, took a deep breath, but then released it bereft of further harsh words, refusing to rise to the bait. "The foolish Sovin Nai follow the trail of the Madmen southwards," Manda added in bored tones, "they sent me back to tell you of their intent, and also because I am not a stupid Knife Hand…" she sneered, "they claim that redeeming the foolish (yet comely) Gleeman from captivity is a matter of honour for their Warrior Society alone and that ji'e'toh forbids Far Dareis Mai from participating." Manda shrugged. "I care not."

Rashiel raised her dark eyebrows. "Hold on… why in the Wheel would Cohradin and the others feel compelled to find Roth and save him from the Souvraniene?"

"I told you, Aes Sedai, they are stupid!" Manda laughed softly. "The Sovin Nai of Wet Sands think themselves responsible for the Gleeman. It was they who first discovered him at the edge of Sightblinder's Blight, a few years ago, whilst venturing on one of Cohradin's ridiculous Worm-hunts… the hairy fools see it as their duty to protect Roth Blucha from harm, much as one would succour a helpless child or witless imbecile or an utter-"

"Hoy!" Ysmet shouted, "speak not so insultingly of my beloved Songbird lest I make you eat that spear, hussy!"

Manda regarded the Noblewoman with a dangerous calm, that presaged imminent violence. "You are welcome to try, prissy Wetlander waif, but should you fail in your intent, I shall take that honourless sword from your puny grasp and repeatedly slap your flat behind with it!"

"I'd like to see you try and my bottom is not flat, curse-you, it is well-rounded!"

"Hah! Even the level sand-scarp of the barren Termool claims more curves than your bony backside!"

"Wanton cow!"

"Prudish she-goat!"

Rashiel sighed, pressing a hand firmly over her eyes. She could feel a head-ache coming on… but then, something occurred to her, a factor that appeared to be missing from the equation… "Wait!" Altaran Noblewoman and Shaido Spear-Maiden ceased their invective long enough to turn and glare at the Aes Sedai. Rashiel glowered back at Ysmet, then turned to Manda commandingly. "You say that just the three Aielmen have gone to find Roth?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai, the idiotic Knife Hands alone. Mayhap they have caught up to both Gleeman and Madmen by now? Though Chassin thought the trail cold."

"But what of the Shieldman?" Rashiel urged, "he who you call 'Nightwatcher?' Could not he have participated in this rescue mission also?"

Manda looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, before resuming her stoic Aiel disposition. "No. Vron'cor did not accompany Sovin Nai." She seemed unwilling to say more.

Ysmet stared at the Spear-Maiden suspiciously. "I have not seen Naythan Gaidin since last night." Silence. "Where may he be?" Manda stared back, defiantly. "Answer me!"

"The Nightwatcher bade us to not tell until you asked…" Manda muttered.

"I am asking!" Ysmet angrily pointed-out. "Well?"

Manda scowled. "Vron'cor has gone. He left at dawn."

"Why?" Rashiel demanded, adding as an afterthought; "and where?"

Manda answered reluctantly; "the Nightwatcher goes to meet with this first-sister of his, she who Cohradin claims has the aspect of a fox, though that one-eyed pig is probably lying, as he most usually does. Vron'cor was bade to do so. He journeys to the Treebrother Stedding where I earlier encountered the objectionable Seanchan assassin and her wolfish lover, the gold-eyed girl who it was brought the Nightwatcher this message from his close-kin… one 'Feir,' likely also fashioned of clay and brought to life by the Creator, though for what purpose, I know not."

"So..?"

"Vron'cor obeys the bidding of this 'Fox Queen' to seek her out, and thence travels to the ruined Age of Legends city, wherein the Aes Sedai are held hostage."

"Larcheen!"

"Yes, Aes Sedai… the very place that the eagle spoke of."

Rashiel shook her head firmly. "It did not speak, it wrote… and in any case, that was not exactly the eagle, it was Renn!"

"As you say, Rashiel Tamor. I do not know since I was not there, but otherwise engaged making love to the boatswain. Cohradin told me that the eagle spoke only to him… whispering many secrets into his ear… more lies! He has no honour! Even so, for a bird to scribe a missive… how could it even hold the quill? In its beak? Or did it grip it by the-"

"The eagle wasn't writing a burning novel, it scratched a single flaming word in the sand with a twig!" Rashiel shouted, exasperated.

Manda raised her eyebrows. "Indeed? But even so… an unusual thing for it to do, I would that I had been there to see. And all at the behest of a Sister of the White Tower? Truly, the ways of Aes Sedai are passing strange."

"The ways of Aiel are pretty bloody odd too, if you ask me!" Rashiel responded belligerently, then considered awhile… "So, the Aielmen have gone to free Roth, the Shieldman is off to see his scary sister who looks a bit like a fox… and presumably, he also intends to help the Ogier in defence of their stedding, alongside that rude wolf-maid and whoever this assassin person is…" she turned to Ysmet. "We seem to be losing our allies rather rapidly."

Ysmet scowled. "Why did Naythan Gaidin not just inform me of his intentions?" she coldly queried Manda.

The Maiden of the Spear sneered slightly. "He speculated that you might be angered by his leaving and not voyaging down to this 'Larcheen' aboard your new boat, Ysmet Mitsobar."

"Ship!"

"Whichever."

Ysmet frowned. "Well, the Shieldman was wrong, actually. I am not angry at his sneaking off in the early hours without my permission, thus deserting our cause…" she scowled darkly, "…I am furious!"

Rashiel patted her Noblewoman friend comfortingly on the shoulder. "Well… 'tis pointless to fret when fish scorn the net!"

"Huh!" was Ysmet's less-than-effusive rejoinder to this old Ebou Dari saying. She glanced around herself, eyes passing over the smirking Aielwoman without troubling to pause, past the watchful Warders who were making but a poor job of pretending to not be shamelessly eavesdropping upon the proceedings, her gaze moving back toward the shore and the ship anchored in the deep water beyond…

we really should come up with a name for our new-won vessel, Rashiel silently considered, as she followed the direction of Ysmet's eyes. This had proved a problem. It was not that there weren't more than enough suggestions for something to call the craft… the difficulty was actually that there were too many. Everyone had different ideas concerning a name for the captured Soarer, but none agreed with each other's choice. No consensus had yet been reached, or even approached… For her own part, Rashiel favoured 'Wavedancer' but Jabal Gaidin had informed her that there was already a Clan Takana Raker with that particular nomenclature. In Ebou Dar, as well as amongst the Atha'an Miere, it was considered bad luck to have two ships with the same name. It should ideally be something original, though nothing too unique, and certainly not Gen's ridiculous suggestion… whoever heard of a vessel called 'The Wind Cheeser' for the Dragon's sakes?!

Rashiel blinked. come to think of it, where…? Her considerations were interrupted when the Bosun's odd, three-cornered hat and then his head appeared over a steep dune, followed by the rest of him as he paced up from the beach to join them. The annoying talking-bird with its colourful plumage was now perched upon a broad shoulder; the big Tairen sailor seemed to have inherited it from its former owner, the late but unlamented Captain of the Shadowsworn brigands whom they had fought and defeated. The Bosun advanced steadily in their direction, his sole hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass as dark eyes warily scanned the treeline for dangers.

"Ahoy, sailorman!" Manda called, and enthusiastically waved her spear at the strapping fellow; the Bosun briefly grinned, gold teeth flashing in his dark face, before returning the gesture of greeting with his iron hook.

"I would imagine that you might have to be rather careful of that hook whilst in bed," Rashiel murmured to Manda, "it looks somewhat sharp."

Manda grinned salaciously. "Oh, it is, Rashiel Tamor… in truth, I make the handsome fellow undo the straps and take it off before we engage in congress."

Rashiel's ripe lips made a moue, whilst Ysmet glared at them both, shaking her head disapprovingly. But then, the Ebou Dari Noblewoman's gaze returned to the nameless ship, moored out beyond the breakers. Her brow was slightly furrowed. She raised a hand, shielding her light-brown eyes from the sun, squinting across the waves at the vessel, apparently searching for someone upon its deck. "What is wrong?" Rashiel enquired, "apart from the obvious, that is…"

Ysmet's expression cleared, eyes widening and her raised arm dropped to her side. "Wait! It is not just Naythan Gaidin and the Aielmen missing…" she turned to Rashiel, evincing annoyance and concern, "…why, I haven't seen the crazed little lecher since yesterday eve either!"

Realisation struck Rashiel. "Of course! Where in the Winds is Gen?"

---

N'aethan paused his stealthy, stalking progress through the Ghost Forest for a moment to cautiously sniff the air… but the person creeping along right behind did not, and promptly walked into him. Again! The Lightborn whirled around, baring his pointy teeth in a silent snarl. "Damn your eyes, watch where you are treading!" he angrily hissed.

Gen rubbed his grimy hands together and made nervous, bobbing movements. "Which I do apologise for my clumsomeness, King o' the Cats!" he whined, and began to bend his knees and undulate his skinny shape.

N'aethan scowled, pupils shrinking to slits. "Stop doing that!" he snapped.

"What be I a-doing that offends thee, my Cat King?"

Exasperated, N'aethan whispered intently; "I am not a King, especially not your King and cease mentioning the 'C' word directly!"

"What, cat?"

"Yes, that!"

"Forgiveness," Gen mumbled, whilst continuing his odd, writhing motions.

N'aethan growled softly. "I told you to cut that nonsense out!" he snarled.

Gen blinked. "I do be confused-" he began to say.

"Clearly!"

"To which do you object, King Cat?"

"Aargh! That grovelling thing you keep doing, dimbulb! Curb your damned fawning!"

Gen cocked his head to one side, rheumy eyes widening in his shrivelled and sun-blasted face. His wrinkly brow, besmirched with crude and faded tattoos, furrowed. His mouth dropped open, revealing a few remaining yellowed teeth, filed into worn points. "Spawning?!" Gen croaked, before adding in scandalised tones; "which I does never spawn! I do no be a frog!"

N'aethan blinked. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. "Fawning," he stated, distinctly, "not spawning."

Gen's confusion dissipated, at least as much as it ever did. "Ohh…" he breathed, "which I did think you did say-"

"Yes. Be silent." N'aethan considered. "Hmm… you seem to have difficulty hearing my words, fruitcake. A blockage of the inner-ear? Possibly a good, hard slap to the side of the skull will cure you of this malady?"

"It may do!" Gen agreed, with keen interest.

N'aethan sighed. "That was supposed to be a warning," he muttered.

"I do no longer be fawning!"

"Tsag!" N'aethan turned and stomped away, very much hoping that the irritating old maniac would not follow… but of course, he did. The Lightborn's keen ears could clearly detect Gen shuffling along behind. "I still do not see why you had to come with me," he grumbled, "you'll slow me down…" or drive me as mad as you evidently are! he added privately.

"Never fear, 'tis not far, my Catprince!" Gen wheezed reassuringly.

N'aethan glared over a broad shoulder; Gen was not looking at him but glancing vaguely about, quite obviously seeking something. A cottage made of gingerbread, possibly? "Catprince?" N'aethan repeated. No answer. "That is not even a word, it is but two nouns which you have clumsily stuck together, one of which I thought I told you not to use!"

"What, Prince?"

"No, cheesebrain, the other one! I told you just now, do you not recall? I quite distinctly said-"

Gen halted, and raised a gnarled finger to his cracked lips. "Shush!"

N'aethan became even more incensed. "Don't you shush me, oddball! I'll do the shushing around here, if you don't-" He blinked, recollecting. "Hold! What is not far?" the annoyed Lightborn suspiciously enquired.

Gen grinned gappily. "The river isn't, your Feline Highness… which I can hear it a-rushing and a-gushing!"

N'aethan nodded impatiently, pointing a dark claw ahead of them. He had removed his gloves earlier, in the hopes that the sight of his fearsome finger-blades of Power-melded keratin would deter Gen from accompanying him. This tactic had failed miserably, since the elderly castaway found the Lightborn's claws fascinating and kept asking obscure questions about them, until he finally ran-out of peculiar queries… "Yes, there is running water down that way, I have been noticing it awhile now. So what?"

Gen smiled what he presumably thought was a mysterious smile, though the sharpness of his sporadic fangs rendered the expression macabre. "Wait and see, O Regal Ruler of Catkind!" And with this, Gen scuttled past N'aethan, weaving through the stands of slim saplings that lined a downhill slope beyond, heading for the unmistakeable sound of a river in full-flow. N'aethan glared after the peculiar old man, considered taking an alternate route, or perhaps fleeing wildly into the forest while he had the chance to be rid of his crazed companion, but curiosity got the better of him. It usually did. The Lightborn sighed again, then soundlessly followed Gen, slipping between the slender trunks. There seemed little other option, for the time being…

Before long, N'aethan and Gen stood amongst thick bulrushes, up to their knees in swirling water at the edge of a wide, fast-flowing river. Gen was holding a thick, damp mat of woven grasses with which he had been concealing something, moored amongst the reeds, hidden in the shallows. N'aethan stared at the floating object with a mixture of boredom and mild confusion. "What is it?" the Lightborn idly wondered.

"Which it do be a boat!" Gen promptly answered, gazing with affectionate pride upon the round thing bobbing in the water.

"I do not believe that I have ever seen a... a boat like that," N'aethan commented, adding; "and I certainly hope never to again!"

Gen blinked at the Lightborn annoyingly. "Why not?" he whined, "what be wrong with it, Crowned Cat?"

"It is round! Completely circular, lacking both bow and stern!"

It was true. The small craft consisted of bent planks of some thin, flexible wood, reinforced and waterproofed with what looked like an entire tanned animal hide, stretched about the curvature of the flimsy hull. A crudely carved paddle lay within, half-hidden beneath a rough bench which bisected the ridiculous spherical boat.

"Tis a coracle!" Gen revealed, with unwarranted enthusiasm.

"Tis a piece of choss!" N'aethan rudely responded.

"Huh!" huhed Gen in offended fashion as he clambered awkwardly into the absurd vessel, moving with spry assurance despite his age, whatever that was.

"Well, I thank you for showing me your silly round boat… I suppose… I cannot say that I am particularly surprised that you would own such an absurd craft, moonbeam!" N'aethan turned, shaking his head wearily, and began to wade back to the bank. "But now I must be on my way now. Farewell, Gen. See you in the funny-holos!"

"Wait, King o' the Cats!"

Against his better judgement, N'aethan glanced back to look. Gen was perched on the plank, flapping his hands about and grimacing. N'aethan groaned softly. "I have far to go and little time to waste," the Lightborn painstakingly explained, "though uncertain as to why you decided to follow me into the forest – despite being repeatedly told not to – and even less certain why you insisted on showing me your stupid circular drowning-facilitator, nonetheless, my patience is at an end." N'aethan bared his sharp teeth, pupils narrowing dangerously into slits. "Here is where our paths diverge, addled-one! Nod your head if you understand… and kindly do not say anyth-"

"But Majestic Emperor of Cattendom! You must-"

"Cattendom? Where… what?" N'aethan could only move his lips soundlessly, quite literally lost for words…

"You must come along o' me!"

N'aethan blinked, took a moment to decipher this as well as he could, then muttered; "you wish me to accompany you?"

"Aye… 'tis what I did say, ain't it?"

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Not exactly… uh… why?"

"Because-"

"So that you can continue to torment me with your nonsensical speech and gibbering idiocy?!"

"Not lest you wants me to, but-"

"I mean, really… 'Cattendom?!' Where is that? Just down the road from Piggington?! Over the way, near Doggendon?" Gen gaped annoyingly. "What exact bizarre plane of existence did you originate upon, anyway, lunatic? Please tell me, so I can avoid it!" Gen tried to speak, but N'aethan was in full-flow, giving vent to his frustration… he moved on to the prosecution-stage; "you're trying to drive me mad, aren't you? Go on, admit it, I won't mind as long as you're honest about your devious intentions… you want me to end up as insane as you, so we can sit in padded-cells next to each other and talk about what the Man in the Moon had for breakfast, and whether or not it is raining fish again today!" N'aethan pointed an accusing claw; "that's why you want me to go with you in your special toy boat, so that you can render me as big a maniac as you clearly are!" N'aethan finally ran out of breath.

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay! You must come along o' me in cause your sisterkin, Queen o' the Foxes, will no be awaiting you at yon stedding where your paws do tread to, Mog Majesty!"

"Don't call me a mog, I am not a mog…" N'aethan scowled, pupils slitting. "And they're feet, damn-it, not… what you said… oh, never mind!" The Lightborn clutched his brow, shaking his head from side to side, moaning softly. Then he looked up, staring at Gen searchingly. "What in the Light makes you imagine that the Fourthborn won't be at Stedding Dashai?"

Gen opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. His eyes shifted about nervously. He scooped the paddle up from where it lay at his feet and began to fiddle with it in an annoying way.

N'aethan made a deep growling sound in the back of his throat, a noise of pure impatience… and mounting rage. "Lord Whitecloak told me that my sister said she would watch for me at the stedding…" N'aethan frowned, worried. He was eager to meet Feir, to know that he was no longer the Last Lightborn, that there was another of his rare kind alive in the world… but he was a touch wary, also. What would she be like? From what little he had been told, she sounded formidable… and then, there was the disturbing matter of her companion, of course. The Gholam?! Light, what had Father been thinking of? Gen was still aggravatingly fidgeting with the wooden paddle. N'aethan eyed him suspiciously. "How can you possibly know that this 'Fox Queen' of yours will not be at Stedding Dashai?"

Gen reluctantly raised his confused gaze. "Because I seen it!" he whispered.

"You… saw it?" Gen nodded reluctantly. "Where?"

"In… in my head!" Gen muttered, "The night afore last, I did see a vision of her Highness, Queen of Foxes… and she were not amongst the Treebrothers, but deep within ancient Larcheen, a-held captured by the enemy!"

N'aethan scowled. "And you saw all of this… inside your head..?"

"Aye, King Cat!" Gen nodded again, fervently this time.

N'aethan began to wade back to the ridiculous round boat, holding out a hand. "Pass me that paddle, would you, nutjob?!"

Gen grinned, expressing relief. "You did change your mind, Cat King? You wish to row in my fine coracle?" He began to hand the heavy implement over to N'aethan.

"No, I won't be doing any actual paddling, snowball… you see, I intend to hit you with it!"

Gen's wrinkly face fell and he hastily withdrew the paddle, his gnarled fingers tightening upon the wooden handle. "Don't you believe me?" he whinged.

N'aethan scowled. "What, about you having odd visions in your mind? Actually, yes, I find that entirely plausible, you irrational loon, I expect that you see things that aren't there and hear voices in your head telling you to do strange stuff also… but oddly enough, I have no intention of organising my plans and movements according to your manic delusions and hallucinations!"

Gen frowned. "Which I used to be a Madman," he revealed.

"Used to be? You still are!"

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay, fearsome King of Catkind! I mean I were Souvraniene, one of the Laughing God's men as wore the masks of red…"

"I know this. This is something that I know."

"How-?"

"The Shaidos told me."

Gen evinced even more confusion than was usual. "Who are the shy-dows?" he wondered.

"The Aiel! The bloody Da'shain, spoonfed!"

"Alright! It be not needsome to shout, Royal Cat, I do no be deaf…"

N'aethan leaned threateningly over the side of the coracle while Gen shrank away from him. "I thought we had established that you were," he hissed.

"What? Speak-up, King o' the-"

"Call me by that stupid title but once more and I shall render you unfit for human consumption, even by the low culinary standards of this debased and uncivilised land! Now… are you actually claiming that you can Prophecy?"

"Prof..? What do that be?"

"Foretell! Seeing into the future, you unutterable loony!"

Gen's bemused expression cleared and he nodded. "Which I always did have my visions, back when I could channel the saidin, but even after I did burn myself out at the Everstone, when I did forever lose my accursed powers, the second-sight yet remained, it did still come to me from time-to-time…" Gen drew himself up importantly. "Tis never wrong, that which I do see of happenings yet to… to…"

"Happen?"

"Aye, that! Why, I did know as was coming the very storm that took our good ship, Queen Mab, and cast her upon the reef of sharpsome corals… but when I did try to warn the sumptuous Captain Ysmet, she did grow angered at my tales of troublesome winds and did throw her boots at me!"

N'aethan nodded sagely, trying to ignore the sense of unreality in the air. "Yes, she clearly has a bit of temper, that one…" he absently agreed, before recalling the issue under discussion. His eyes narrowed. "So… you claim to have seen one of your Foretellings, of my sister, Feir-called-Fourthborn, held hostage in Larcheen?"

Gen nodded dolefully. "Tis all aright, Prince Puss! It has no happened yet, but it do stand truthsome even so! What will be, will be…"

N'aethan frowned darkly. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded. Gen eyed him solemnly, evidently mulling it over. "Prove to me that you can Foretell and perhaps I'll come with you in your silly boat, for all that I find your company enormously aggravating! Well?"

Gen's eyes widened as something occurred to him, presumably something of import. "In course! Which I did once see a vision of you, Majestic Mog!"

"Don't call me a-"

"A time ago… back in Illian, it were, the night afore we shipped out…"

N'aethan sighed. "Describe this viewing."

Gen obeyed with enthusiasm; "which you was a-standing in a darksome wood, a-talking to a young fellow who you did earlier bind to a tree. Whyfore you did do this, I know not… funny clothes he did wear, the youth, all bright colours, like every manner of paint were spilled on 'em… his hair were reddish and his eyes full-blue…"

N'aethan frowned, unwilling to believe in the veracity of the vision, but finding himself beginning to do so anyway. "This individual in the loud garments… what was he doing?" the Lightborn reluctantly asked.

"He were a-singing!"

N'aethan scowled, on the verge of accepting that Gen could Prophecy, much as he did not wish to. Still… he had to ask; "the song… what was it about?"

Gen grinned. "Willow trees! And the breeze in 'em… I think it were called; 'the wind as breaks the willows..?'"

N'aethan sighed gloomily. "Close enough," he growled with ill-grace, and against his better judgement, slipped into the coracle. The small, round boat tipped alarmingly at the increased weight and settled lower in the water, but unfortunately, did not sink. "I really hope that no-one I know sees me sitting in this thing…" he muttered, shaking his head.

Gen was not listening. "Aye, the vision… 'twas how I knowed you when we did meet, Thirdborn Cat," he confided, using the paddle to shove them away from the bank and out into deeper water. "For all that I did also see your picture that the Fox Queen did let me look upon, long ago, but you be much changed since then."

"Time has that effect on us all, even me," N'aethan observed, "even those who touch the Source." He settled himself in the bottom of the boat, leaning uncomfortably against the thin planks, watching Gen, up on the bench. "How old are you anyway?"

"I do no remember."

Bobbing and spinning, the coracle drifted out into the centre of the river, carried rapidly downstream. Gen used the paddle, albeit without much skill, to gradually bring the craft under some semblance of control.

"What is this river called?" N'aethan wondered.

Gen shrugged. "It do no have a name, leastwise not one that I do know, but twill bring us out into the big bay, a dozen leagues to the north o' Larcheen…" He sighed wistfully. "Good it will be, to see the old place again, afore I die…"

"Don't be morbid."

"Which I am not, King o' the Cats! But I did see the manner of my death, long ago, back when I were a young lad, newly come into the cursed Power… whilst a-sleeping, I saw my own self die. Now that, I have never forgot."

Silence reigned for a time, punctuated only by the sound of water splashing against the boat's side. Much as N'aethan was enjoying the absence of Gen's cracked voice with its strange accent and bizarre cadences, he had to wonder…

"Gen?"

"Yes, O Proud Prince of Pusscats?"

"Gah! Now that one, I really dislike!" N'aethan took a deep, calming breath, something that he seemed to be doing a great deal, recently. The reason why was sitting on the bench opposite, staring at him expectantly. "Gen… since we appear to have idle time on our hands, we should pass it with the telling of stories, a traditional activity for travellers to engage in. You go first." N'aethan leaned forward, feral eyes drilling into Gen's. "I wish for you to relate to me everything that you know about my Sister's Gholam."

---

Act Two : Stories

"…and so, as the monstrous sea-beast slipped beneath the turgid waves, malevolent eyes glaring and fearsome fangs gnashing, I crept stealthily from my hiding-place behind the biscuit barrel and closely observed the gargantuan aquatic creature sounding from sight, back unto the midnight oceanic depths from whence it had so startlingly emerged previous, returning to the unknowable watery realms wherein such gigantic abominations of nature are presumably spawned… I gasped in wonder and amaze, preparing to summon my shipmates that they eke might come and gaze in awe upon the enormous shadow falling away into the mysterious fathoms lurking beneath our barnacle-ridden hull… down it sank, down, down, mayhap some twenty-thousand leagues under the-"

"There's no such things as sea-serpents."

Roth Blucha's mouth snapped shut and he glared at the rude member of his audience who had interjected at so inappropriate a moment in the story. There was much in life that Roth detested; long nautical voyages, hard work, angry husbands, obstreperous Innkeeps, the dwarfish popinjay Lord Wakime, Bards… but over and above these and many another irritation, he truly hated having his tales interrupted by ignorant louts! "There are sea-monsters and I have seen one!" Roth vehemently protested.

The interrupter was the Madman, Hummer. Again. "What colour was it?" he vaguely wondered, staring fixatedly at the air above Roth's head, though there was nothing whatsoever to look upon up there...

"What?"

"The sea-serpent… you said it was scary and had big teeth… but you never said what hue it might be. So..?"

"It was green, curse you!" Roth snarled, adding; "a sort of emerald green, if you must know, with scintillating blue bits on its back and tail, and… and its eyes were crimson!"

"Oh…" Hummer blinked slowly, assimilating these details, then grinned a gap-toothed grin. The squat Souvraniene really was an alarmingly ugly specimen; flat of face and nose, heavily freckled, greasy ginger locks framing these unappealing features, with coarse black hairs sprouting from his jug-ears… Roth fervently wished that the peculiar fellow would put his macabre laughing mask back on. But all of the Madmen had removed these red leathern guises once they left the ground. Roth gulped. He was trying very hard not to think about that.

"May I please continue?" Roth icily enquired.

"Whuh?" grunted Hummer, raising his thick, gingery brows.

"Proceed, Outlander… do resume your fanciful account," sneered Flauter, who Roth had long-since decided was by far the most sarcastic of his new and unasked-for companions… his captors.

"Why, thank-you so very much indeed!" Roth irately responded, then took a deep breath, his eyes glazing over a little. Any turnip-headed dullard could spin a yarn or two, but relating a story properly required skill, wit and a certain detachment, removing oneself from the here and now, casting one's mind back to the past… in this case; many moons ago, halfway through their interminable voyage down to the distant south. The very dawning day when Roth had arisen early one humid morn and gone up on deck to find both of the sailors with watch-duty fast asleep – a flogging offence! He had then beheld, with his own disbelieving eyes, a massive and terrifying–

"Did anyone else see the monster?" Harper gruffly enquired, his dark, flinty gaze filled with suspicion.

Roth scowled. Another bloody interruption! Even though he had not exactly resumed his tale yet, he had flaming-well been about to! So it still counted! Were it not for the fact that his present public was composed of extremely dangerous and partially-deranged male-channelers, potential psychotics to a man, any one of whom might suddenly decided to explode him for no apparent reason… why, the furious Gleeman might have quite lost his temper and roared at them! Ragefully!

"Yes, since you ask, Gen beheld the monstrous creature also," Roth answered coldly, "he was sleeping amidst a coil of big ropes 'pon the foredeck, I noticed him afterwards… he had his fingers over his eyes but was peeking through them." Roth's tones became resentful; "but even though he beheld the sea-monster also, he would not support my interesting report of its appearance with witness testimony, for he is a coward and a lunatic!"

Harper stared at Roth in silence for a long moment, while the young Gleeman repressed the urge to fidget nervously. "What did you say this fellow was called?"

"Gen. I don't think he has any other names…"

The Madmen looked at each other inscrutably. "And who is this 'Gen' to you, Outlander?" Harper eventually enquired, his deep voice devoid of inflection, "please to speak further, concerning this man."

Roth sighed softly. He had a feeling that his tale was done, whether he liked it or not… he had quite lost the thread and besides, these interrupting tattooed thugs who wielded the One Power clearly did not believe in the existence of sea-monsters any more than the crew of the Queen Mab had! The response of Roth's shipmates to his excited description of the vast water-borne organism had veered from contemptuous amusement via open derision to pure anger at being loudly and untimely awoken, then required to stare at a patch of dark and now-empty ocean.

"Gen is one of the castaways from my wrecked ship," Roth wearily explained, "a spry old fellow with tattoos not unlike your own, though much faded by the ravages of time. He has led a hard life, I would expect. Oh, and he isn't quite right in the head, a bit like…" Roth's wary gaze moved to Hummer, who had begun the monotonous droning sound again, his muddy eyes unfocused, stubby fingers making fluttering motions before him… the Gleeman elected to not finish the sentence, for fear of causing offence. And then being made to explode. "Well, anyway," Roth hastily continued, "Gen was supposed to be our Guide, since he lays claim to being a native of this horrid land, but proved completely bloody useless!" Roth thought about it some more, then added as an afterthought; "oh, and he is obsessed with cheese."

"Cheese?" Flauter repeated, raising a narrow, pale eyebrow.

"Yes. Can't get enough of the stuff. Babbles about it constantly, even in his sleep. Most annoying."

Flauter lowered the thin brow. Everything about him was thin, in fact; his face, body, limbs, a tall and gaunt specimen, probably not much use with a sword… but then, he did not need to be. Flauter was, like the rest of these red-masked, torc-wearing fiends, a powerful and deadly channeler of tainted saidin, who might go completely insane at any moment and begin to explode things… a certain talented Gleeman most particularly!

how in the pestilential Pit do I get myself into these dreadful situations? Roth gloomily wondered to himself, and not for the first time. He sighed again, louder on this occasion, leaning back against the uncomfortable withies forming the woven hull, the thin wicker shell of… of whatever this thing was that he currently and so reluctantly travelled in.

"Gen…" Harper growled, exchanging a meaningful glance with his cadaverous comrade, seated opposite.

"So he came back, did he?" Flauter muttered thoughtfully, in response. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Funny… I didn't think he was dead, it would take another Breaking to kill that one, but even so…" Flauter trailed-off, frowning.

Roth was unsure what the significance of these words exactly was, and did not much care in any case. He had himself to worry about, not some drooling, gibbering, cheese-stuffing loon!

Harper's dark-eyed gaze, emerging from beneath a heavy brow set in his broad, strong-jawed face, moved to the ornate gilt article that Roth held. "Mind if I try that out?" he rumbled.

Roth blinked. The red-masked male-channelers who took him prisoner had showed little compunction when it came to confiscating his precious Pipe-ter'angreal and trusty poignard – he did not expect to see either again – but had let him keep his prized harp. Much as he did not like to release it from his possession or allow others to so much as touch the strings, Roth couldn't see how he might readily refuse, without causing offence… which with Harper especially, he really had no wish to do. So, the young Gleeman reluctantly passed the musical instrument over to its namesake, the grim and formidable leader of this mob of Madmen. The burly Souvraniene took the harp gently, ran thick fingers over the strings with surprising delicacy, then deftly began to tune it.

Roth observed, concern vying with confusion. Odd indeed, that Harper had requested the instrument, rather than just taking it… for ruthless and unstable Madmen, his captors had shown surprising vestiges of mannerly behaviour, on the whole. They all seemed to be speaking the Vulgar out of consideration for their prisoner, though Flauter had earlier expressed snide amusement at Roth's attempts to communicate with them in the High Chant, so perhaps it was simply that they did not wish to encourage his eccentric and difficult-to-decipher speech?

A young Madman sitting crosslegged opposite Roth leaned forward; a slim youth with extremely pale eyes which he never seemed to blink. His name was 'Crooner' apparently. "That word you spake perforce, as unto depicting the hulksome fish…" Crooner quietly queried, in mellifluous tones, "skintillating… wherefore of a meaning doth it lay claim to?"

Roth's brow furrowed. Crooner's command of the Vulgar speech seemed every bit as archaic as his own of the Old Tongue! "Scintillating," he corrected pedantically, before revealing; "it means… um… shiny?" Roth frowned. "And it were no fish, it was a… a veritable monster!"

"A serpent of the seas?" Flauter drawled, with a sardonic smile.

Roth vigorously shook his head. "Why no, not at all… 'twas no mere snake, for it quite clearly had limbs! Big ones!"

Flauter snorted derisively. The bulky, fair-haired fellow kneeling beside him leaned closer and, behind a cupped hand, whispered into his ear awhile. Flauter cocked his head, hearkening, then grinned. "Whisperer wants to know; what was the point of saying 'scintillating?' Why did you not just say 'shiny' in the first place?"

Roth scowled. "Scintillating sounds better!" he stated, with offended dignity.

"Well," grunted Harper, "it would seem that you possess a certain talent for describing things, Outlander… even when those things do not exist!"

Roth glared at the doubting Madman, opening his mouth to righteously insist upon the veracity of his account… but then, Harper raised the gilt instrument that he had finished tuning, and began to play. Rapidly, the burly Souvraniene plucked ringing chords and stroked resonant scales from the borrowed harp, evincing the skill and dexterity of a Master Musician. Roth gaped in astonishment. Harper was good… very good. Better than him, in fact! The other Madmen fell silent, listening as intently as the young Gleeman to the melancholic melody that Harper wove from the taut strings, powerful fingers moving swiftly up and down, flashing nimbly with the assurance of long-practice.

Roth closed his mouth, shut his eyes, losing himself in the bittersweet music, temporarily forgetting his troubles. Finally, the plaintive sounds faded into silence, but for the rushing of wind, the creak of wood on wood. Roth opened his eyes. Harper sat still, the gilded harp resting quiescent upon his lap, a distant gaze fixed upon nothing in particular.

"That…" Roth began to say hesitantly, before collecting himself, "…that was an interesting tune you played… not bad… not bad at all…" his brow furrowed. "Though I did not quite recognise the piece?"

Harper blinked slowly, returning to his senses, then eyed Roth neutrally. "No. You would not ken this… 'twas mine own composition."

Roth raised his eyebrows in mild disbelief. Surprising indeed, that this big, brutish fellow could write and play music with such… soul! Harper glanced down at the instrument as though wondering what it was, then passed the gold-chased harp back to Roth, who took it with a combination of relief at it not having been exploded, and professional jealousy that so fine and moving an air had been teased from the strings by fingers other than his own!

"What was the ballad called?" Roth wondered absently.

Harper shrugged his broad shoulders. "A Lament for Donyela," he answered.

"Donyela?" Roth repeated, "I do not believe I know the name? Not from any of the legends with which I am conversant, at least…"

Harper snorted dismissively. "Of course not. Why would you? Donyela was real, and no mere myth. She was my woman. She died many years ago… I barely recall how many. Even the remembrance of her beauty is lost to me, now…"

"Oh…" Roth clutched his golden harp a little tighter. "I am sorry."

"Why?" Harper stared at Roth stonily. "You never knew her."

Roth proceeded cautiously. "Even so, I ask forgiveness for provoking so sensitive a recollection…" Harper continued to gaze upon the young Gleeman in a manner that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Roth elected to change the subject, as quickly as possible; "I must say, you play extremely well, sir!" he complimented Harper, a touch ingratiatingly.

Harper shrugged again. "Well, Outlander, I should… I have had long enough to learn my craft."

Roth's eyes shifted to Flauter as he chuckled softly. "Near two-hundred years, Chief!" the gaunt lieutenant commented. Harper nodded glumly.

Roth stared at Harper in disbelief. "You are that old?" he gasped.

Harper repeated the nod, more curtly this time, but though habitually close-mouthed, as far as Roth had observed, he now seemed of a mood to speak more than was usually his wont. "It is rare for our kind to live such a span, granted. Once the cursed Power afflicts us, we men of Aisle Souvraniene do not tend to last very long. Most saidin-channelers wander into the wastelands at the centre, within the ring of fire-mounts, where they roam abroad causing mayhem whilst their flesh rots away and their minds turn to corruption." Harper's voice was matter-of-fact, as though speaking of the effects of weather upon crops. "It has gone on in this way for a very long time. Madmen almost always kill each other, if they don't take their own lives first…"

"Either that, or the Fox Daemons get them!" Flauter wryly interjected.

Roth eyed the sartorial Souvraniene suspiciously, then dismissively, secure in the knowledge that, while there most certainly were sea-monsters – he had seen one, had he not? – there definitely were no such things as daemons! Roth returned his attention to Harper, in time to note the Madman tapping a fingernail against the bronze torc stretched about his bull-neck. He spoke confidently; "but with this gift of the Laughing God…"

"Praise Him!" shouted the others, making Roth jump, though he should have become accustomed to it by now. They did it often enough, after all…

"…we can stave off the madness, the Taint." Harper's stern mouth twisted in something that was not quite a smile. "For a time, at least."

"And live rich and full lives!" Flauter chimed-in. Some of the Madmen sniggered in response to this blackly comedic remark; the rest merely looked grim.

Harper did neither, again fixing Roth with his dark stare. "I expect that-" he began to say in his deep voice, but fell silent, frowning, as the craft aboard which they travelled gave a violent lurch, buffeted by a stronger gust than was usual. Roth yelped in alarm, clutching at the wicker hull behind him with one hand whilst the other pressed his harp protectively to his chest. Harper gripped a trailing rope while the others likewise secured themselves in various ways… all but Hummer, who had tumbled onto his back and was sprawled out on the deck, staring up at the sky, continuing to hum softly. As the untoward motion of the deck began to settle down, the youth, Crooner, crawled over and helped the odd humming fellow to sit upright.

"Is this accursed thing safe?" Roth demanded, waving a long-fingered hand at the vessel in which they rode. His fellow passengers stared at him, eyed each other, then began to laugh. There was a disturbing note of madness to the mirth that Roth did not care for one bit…

"Safe?" Harper spluttered.

Flauter smiled nastily. "This is Aisle Souvraniene, Outlander, Land of the Madmen," he sneered, "and you speak of safety?!" The laughter redoubled.

Roth felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He had never enjoyed being laughed at, he was no jester! For all that it did seem to occur more often than he liked… "I was only asking," he muttered, stiffly.

Harper jerked a thumb over his wide shoulder, toward the rear of the hull. "Why, then, do you not just ask our pilot about the perils of travelling aboard this conveyance?" he suggested, "tis his invention after all, a creation of his own conception, so who better than he to know?"

Roth glanced beyond Harper, in the indicated direction, and swallowed nervously. Of all the red-masked Madmen he had thus far encountered, he found this one the most disconcerting… why, even for a Souvraniene, the fellow was clearly completely moonstruck! And, which was worse, he was the bloody steersman of this craft, the lunatic who held their lives in his hands!

His name was 'Rhymer.' He stood at the stern of the vessel; a spindly, gaunt figure occupying a raised platform, a sort of abbreviated quarterdeck, staring out over their heads at the sky before him. The sky. Yes, they currently voyaged aloft, drifting through the chill air, far above the solid earth beneath. Very far.

Roth shuddered, trying not to dwell upon his perilous predicament, the severity of his situation… and the extremely long way down, should something disastrous befall him! And his fellow passengers too, he supposed… though they were of less concern, naturally. And did not seem remotely worried about the sheer danger of travelling thus, trespassing upon the aerial realm of birds. And bats also, possibly, though night had yet to fall so they could be discounted. But the others… well, they were mad, after all. Why, 'twas the very reason they were termed 'Madmen' in the first place! It was not just poetic license after all, the name was purely descriptive! And should Roth plummet to his untimely doom, would he even be allotted time enough to dwell upon each of his manifold regrets, ere he struck the ground? Probably not…

"Hoy, Rhymer!" Flauter called out to the pilot, "the nervous Outlander wishes to know if your sky-ship is safe?!"

Rhymer did not respond to this gambit with any immediacy, Roth wondered if he had even heard… but then, the lean, looming man inclined his head, staring down at those sat comfortlessly upon the bare deck below. Roth winced. Rhymer's dome of a skull was entirely bald, whether naturally or from the habitual close-shaving of his shiny scalp, Roth was uncertain. The paucity of hair upon the Madman's head was more than compensated for by the lengthy white beard that obscured the lower half of his face and hung down to well below his belt. His eyes were deep-set and very dark, drilling into all that he gazed upon with hostile intensity, his wide mouth set in a grim line. Between these features resided the most striking distinction to mark Rhymer's face… or rather, the complete absence of such…

Rhymer lacked a nose! Just two hollow slits in the centre of his visage, elongated nostrils, bereft of any kind of proboscis. One of the ubiquitous bronze torcs rested about his skinny neck, but Roth presumed that its efficacy had proved unequal to the task of preventing the Dark One's dread Taint from bringing about this disfiguring mutilation? The pale and parchment-thin skin stretched tightly over the cadaverous Madman's bony face gave his noseless features a disturbingly skull-like quality, if relieved a little by the beard. His ears lay flat against his cranium, and were pierced around their edges with numerous small gold rings.

Rhymer blinked his dark eyes slowly, something malevolent seeming to glitter within their depths, the wind whipping his dark robe about him as he stood easily up on the steering deck above. No matter the forceful disturbances that infrequently shook this ship of the skies, its Steersman never seemed to lose his balance; whilst his fellow Souvraniene and their prisoner might be violently tumbled about, this ancient-seeming Madman ever remained rock-steady upon his bare and thorny feet, as though affixed to the deck of his unstable craft. It was almost as if Rhymer were part of the sky-vessel; somehow attached to this assemblage of wicker and wood.

Rhymer's disturbing gaze moved to Roth, dark eyes narrowing. The young Gleeman flinched; it was a little like being stared upon by the face of Death itself, he imagined… and for some reason, Rhymer did not seem to like him, had been entirely antipathetical towards his unwilling passenger – or cargo? – from the very outset of this hideous voyage amongst the clouds.

Harper spoke up; "our guest requires reassurance, Rhymer. If man were meant to fly, then mayhap the Creator might have given to us wings… what say you?"

After momentary consideration, Rhymer chose to loudly reply, justifying his particular name in so-doing;

"My noble craft sails soaring through the empty, endless sky;

who fears to voyage thus when Fate determines all men die?

'tis ill-advised and hardly wise to wail or wonder why -

One may not out-fly destiny when all are doomed to die!"

Rhymer's gloomy and entirely unreassuring words were delivered in cracked, harsh tones, the couplets recited in the Old Tongue… for of all Roth's captors, this dire Steersman of the skies alone did not care to speak the Vulgar for his passenger's benefit. With his command of the High Chant, Roth comprehended the matter of the poetry well enough, despite the strange accent… and found the implication in the third stanza a little insulting – he had not been wailing! Of course, given recent events, he certainly felt like having a good wail, but that would be beneath his dignity… "But-" Roth began to object, but Rhymer was far from finished. Fixing the Gleeman with a cruel gaze, he continued;

"The winds may shake us fiercely but I scarcely deign to care

since I have chose to travel paths that no-one else would dare;

for in these climes the man who rhymes is Master of the Air!"

Roth viewed this sentiment as being more than a little hubristic, somewhat self-aggrandising even… but did not risk pointing this out. Rhymer's noselessness gave his hard vocal recitation a certain whistling quality… this had nothing to do with the price of fish, as the venerable Falman saying went, though Roth noted it even so. "But…" the Gleeman tried again, "but… what in the Waves gave you the idea to build such a… a…" Roth flapped a hand at the unusual contraption in which he travelled against his will, temporarily speechless, which was extremely rare for him.

Again, Roth's uncomprehending eyes moved over the long wickerwork hull, the slender spars supporting sails belling out to either side, the great gasbag swelling above; all secured by a myriad of ropes, which he fervently hoped were strong ropes.

Rhymer regarded Roth contemptuously, but answered his query even so… clearly, his dislike of the Gleeman was outweighed by enthusiasm for his favourite subject, the desire to speak of it, albeit in his particular and eccentric form of address;

"A sketch within a book from some lost legendary time

when floating 'midst the clouds was deemed as worthy and sublime;

depicting ways and means to quit the land and rise above

so entering the airy realm of eagle, hawk and dove!"

Roth blinked. Birds again! But no bats. "How-?" he began to ask. Rhymer ignored him, overriding his query and warming to his topic;

"Imagination fired I did resolve to do likewise

so fashioned this contraption, lo; a ship to sail the skies!"

"Tis really more of a boat than a ship," Roth muttered, in an unwise fit of pedantry, then immediately wished that he had not been so rash. Rhymer's dark and animosity-filled eyes burned into his and the Steersman, clearly incensed, snapped;

"Thou art a fool and soon shall die;

ending in some cannibal's pie!"

Roth gulped. "Oh dear! I hope not!" he gasped, fervently desiring that Rhymer was merely being unpleasant, his dire prediction wishful-thinking only, and most certainly not comprising dread words of ill-omened Foretelling. Roth was well-aware that there had existed powerful male-channelers in the past, gifted (or cursed) with a talent for viewing the future… the False Dragon, Guaire Amalasan, to name but one. The notorious Dragon of the West, who had spoken the enigmatic Miereallen Prophecy some one-thousand years prior to the birth of Roth Blucha, Gleeman… born on the very spot where the ancient city of the Hill Above the Waves had once stood, now known simply as 'Falme.'

Rhymer snorted disapprovingly, the harsh sound enhanced by the lack of muffling skin and cartilage. He turned his implacable gaze away from Roth, to the Gleeman's profound relief, and resumed staring straight ahead once more, scanning the sky before them in brooding silence. Clearly sulking…

Roth meekly swivelled around, leaning against the wicker hull, nervously running long fingers over his harp strings, producing muted scales. "This Rhymer fellow doesn't seem to like me very much, does he?" Roth whispered to Harper.

The burly Chief of these Madmen shrugged, noncommittal. "Do not let it concern you, incautious Outlander… in truth, Rhymer does not care for anyone."

Flauter grinned, clapping Roth on the shoulder, making him flinch nervously. "True! And our miserable rhyming Steersman was entirely incorrect in his prediction, you know; you'll not comprise the ingredients of a pie anytime soon…"

"Really?!" Roth exclaimed, immediately feeling more positive about things.

Flauter shook his head solemnly. "Nuh-uh! The cannibals… they don't tend to bother with such delicacies as pastry. Should they catch you, they'll just strip the meat off your bones and stuff it into their snaggle-toothed maws, as they always do!"

Roth blinked, then scowled at the smirking Flauter, but declined the opportunity of responding scathingly to his tasteless badinage. He would not give the skinny Madman the satisfaction of knowing that his barb had struck home!

"Tis that which they did to my kith and kin," Crooner observed dolefully, abandoning his quaint Vulgar speech in favour of the Old Tongue, "after they raided the village…" Roth glanced curiously at the young man, discerning his words readily enough. Crooner's pale eyes were fixed on something far away, sights that the Gleeman was glad he did not share in.

"Not this again!" Flauter muttered, witheringly.

Harper shot the sardonic Souvraniene a warning glance, then addressed Crooner, speaking slowly and distinctly. "It does not do to dwell upon the past, youngster," he gruffly advised, "that was all in another life… you are someone else, now."

Crooner did not seem to have heard. His intense, almost colourless gaze focused upon Roth. "A time later, I tracked those murderous savages down," he softly stated, "the cannibal-folk as ate my family and the friends of my childhood..." the youth smiled beatifically; "…I boiled them all alive, cooked whole in their own skins!"

"Oh?" Roth responded faintly, "is that so..?" He had a pleasant voice, this Crooner, doubtless he sang tolerably well… but evidently had some far less pleasant things to say with it. And the ability to match his menacing words to his horrific actions, utilising the dread forces of tainted saidin…

"The sounds they made, when I punished them!" Crooner enthused, leaning closer to Roth, "you should have been there, Outlander! You should!" Roth smiled in sickly fashion, trying to inch further away from the encroaching psychotic without being too obvious about it. "It were a glorious spectacle, such a sight to see!"

"That's enough, Crooner!" Harper growled, "I'm seriously starting to worry about you, lad!"

Crooner blinked his pale eyes slowly, collecting himself. He glanced at Harper apologetically. "Much forgiveness, Chieftain," he mumbled in his odd, antique version of the Vulgar, pressing a trembling hand over his brow, "I doth mislay the sanguine senses of my mind, betimes…"

"Burning ashes!" Flauter cursed, "speak the bloody Old Tongue, boy! You sound flaming ridiculous when you mangle that crude Vulgar speech!"

"Shut-it, Flauter!" Harper snarled, before returning his attention to Crooner; "everything alright now?"

Crooner nodded shakily. "I shall be fine," he assured Harper, slipping back into the ancient language of the Age of Legends. Then, the troubled youth promptly curled onto his side upon the deck, wrapping his fur cloak about him, drawing up his knees and assuming a foetal posture. "My head hurts..." Crooner mumbled, "…methinks I'll sleep awhile."

Roth noted that Harper and Flauter, after watching Crooner closely as he fell swiftly into an unquiet, disturbed slumber, exchanged a glance that held caution… and also perhaps, some dark decision He felt that this did not bode well for the troubled youth. Roth's eyes moved warily back to Rhymer, looming above them, stood steadily upon his pilot's deck. The Steersman's attention was yet firmly fixed upon the skies, seemingly his preferred element. "What-?" Roth began to ask… but then, another powerful blast of air shook them, causing the sky-ship to tremble and shake. Roth groaned, scrabbling for something to hold onto, glad that he had missed breakfast despite his sharp hunger pangs, for he would assuredly have vomited, else. This air-travel was even worse than a sea-voyage for making oneself sick to the stomach!

Harper scowled as he pulled Hummer back into a more-or-less upright position… the strange, squat Madman did not seem to have noticed that he had once more tumbled to the deck. "Curse you, Rhymer!" Harper shouted, "I tire of this! Take us higher…" Roth swallowed nervously. Personally, he would prefer lower, ideally with the end-result of his boots being back on firm ground once more. "Faster would be good too!" Harper loudly added, "time and wind wait for no Madman!"

Flauter smiled goadingly at Roth. "Sometimes, the gusts diminish the further up you go," he explained, unhelpfully adding; "sometimes not. We shall see." His shrewd gaze settled on Crooner. The buffet had somehow not awoken the sleeping youth; there was a tormented cast to his comatose features and his limbs twitched as though he were attempting to run away from something, a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to flee some dread pursuit. Roth returned his attention to Rhymer to see what he would do, though hardly anticipating the prospect.

After frowning briefly at Harper, clearly resenting his brusque commands, Rhymer had taken a milky, crystalline sphere from one of his capacious sleeves, gripping it tightly as he craned his long neck, staring up at the pale gasbag bulging overhead. Roth could not make out exactly what was happening, but above, around the opening in the base of the great ballooning sack, there was a distinct shimmering; reminiscent of a heat-mirage in the Aiel Waste. "What is Rhymer doing?" Roth breathed.

"Warming the contents of yon blimpish bag with Fire weaves," Flauter answered, his gaze also fixed upwards, "hot air rises, don't you know?"

The sky-ship appeared to be rising also, Roth guessed, though it was hard to be sure with no fixed point of reference. A swift and fearful glimpse over the side of the hull seemed to indicate that the dark canopy of trees far below, the snaking, silvery outline of a river, were looking perceptibly further away. Distressingly distant…

Sliding to a seated position again, Roth noted that Flauter's attention had shifted downwards, with more than a hint of envy in his dark eyes… the young Gleeman followed the direction of that gaze, now fixed upon the globe of pale crystal that filled Rhymer's palm. The object was glowing brightly! "What is that shining glass ball?" Roth wondered.

"An angreal," Flauter answered, not taking his eyes off the ancient device.

"Quite a powerful one, too," Harper commented, "there are hardly any of them left down here, in Aisle Souvraniene… and Drummer cannot make more, it lies beyond his abilities, for all that he can produce ter'angreal, after a fashion." He eyed Roth speculatively; "are such common, where you come from?"

Roth shook his head. "I don't think so. The Aes Sedai keep most artefacts of the Power secured deep within the vaults of their White Tower, I believe… though those are presumably just the ones for female-channelers. I am not sure about angreal that men can use… in fact, I am not even entirely certainly what they are for… I get them confused with ter'angreal… "

"Like this?" Harper held up the small, round instrument that conferred temporary invisibility on the user. Roth eyed his magickal pipe (as he always privately referred to it) with regret, presuming that he would be unlikely to get it back again, then bleakly nodded. "An interesting device," Harper commented, tucking the Pipe-ter'angreal back into his belt, "I wonder how you came by it..?"

"We found it, Old Willi and I," Roth muttered, then scowled. "The remainder of the account of the Pipe's discovery involves an oddly-garbed dead man and the enormous great hound that savaged him… since the big black dog in question was the size of a carthorse and therefore a monster, I presume that you will not be interested in hearing about it further, because you don't seem to believe in the existence of m-"

"What is a carthorse?" Harper demanded. Roth blinked, wondering how to respond.

"Wish I had my own angreal," Flauter muttered jealously, still staring at the pulsing crystal, adding spitefully; "Rhymer only got his by sucking-up to the Boss!"

"A time-honoured way of advancing in one's profession!" Roth smugly observed. Flauter shot him an antagonistic glance, but despite the peril of riling a dangerous male-channeler, Roth was still quite pleased with himself for scoring a point, even if it made him appear somewhat petty! Well, he could live with that…

"That is our height taken care of, now for speed..." Harper declared.

Roth looked back at Rhymer in time to see the tall Souvraniene squint to either side purposefully. The sphere of crystal he held, the angreal as these Madmen named it, continued to flare brightly. The triangular sails between which the hull hung suspended grew yet more taught, the spars supporting them creaking in concert. The chill air rushed past at an increased rate.

"We are going faster!" Roth exclaimed, whilst wondering yet again where they were going. No-one had told him… not that he had exactly got around to asking. Not yet, at least. He was waiting for the right moment to glean further details of their destination, as well as his kidnapper's intentions concerning the talented-yet-skilful Gleeman whose reluctant companionship they had so inexplicably chosen to cultivate. Roth only hoped that the answer to this question would not prove too horrific. Some chance! His luck had ever been poor, but had grown markedly worse of late, he glumly considered…

It was then that the addled Rhymer noticed Roth's gaze, which appeared to be fixed on him… though in truth, the young Gleeman's eyes were not particularly focused upon anything whilst his thoughts strayed elsewhere. Roth abruptly realised that he was being glared at poisonously in response to his unwitting observation and hastily averted his eyes. Too late…

"Gaah!" Rhymer angrily shouted.

"What is amiss, good Rhymer?" Flauter casually enquired.

Rhymer accusatively pointed a knobbly, yellow-taloned finger at the offending Gleeman and gave voice to his annoyance, sounding aggrieved;

"I mislike the way he stares at me

if he persists I guarantee

I'll end his present misery;

from strife and life I'll set him free!"

Roth quailed. "I wasn't looking at your nose, honestly!" he frantically whined, "I mean, that is to say… where your nose… used to… be..?" This was clearly the wrong thing to say entirely, as was so often the case with Roth Blucha, Gleeman… but impossible now to unsay it! "Um… sorry..?"

Rhymer redoubled his glare, taking a threatening step toward Roth, who shrank closer to the deck, doing his very best to look as inoffensive as possible. Fortunately, Harper intervened, rising to his large, booted feet, muscular arms crossed over his bare, barrel-chest. "You may not kill the Outlander," he told Rhymer in no uncertain terms, "not yet, at least. The God will certainly wish to speak to him first."

Rhymer hesitated, slowly blinking his dark, glittering eyes.

Flauter spoke-up cheerfully; "he wasn't exactly staring at you, Rhymer, but if you're so burning self-conscious about it then put your bloody mask back on!" Whisperer leant toward him, muttering quietly into his ear. Flauter nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, good idea… or your nose!" he added, relaying the suggestion of the strange, tow-headed young fellow who never seemed to speak aloud.

Rhymer frowned, then shrugged his bony shoulders. "The nose, I suppose," he mused to himself, then dug a hand into the pocket of his robe, pulling out something small and shiny, attached to thin, rawhide straps. Roth watched surreptitiously as Rhymer raised the object to his face, strapping it into place about his hairless skull. When he took his gnarled hands away, a skilfully-wrought, hooked article was revealed; a prosthetic proboscis, worked in silver, covering the distended nostrils betwixt eyes and mouth. Roth gaped… a false nose, of all things! Could this interminable and perilous voyage through the skies get any stranger?

Rhymer swivelled his bald head, peering down a silvered beak at the watching Madmen below. "Better!" Flauter remarked. Rhymer's eyes narrowed and he snorted in a muted way, directing a final warning stare at Roth, in concert with a forbidding warning;

"Your patchwork things won't serve as wings;

'tis a long way down for a colourful clown!"

The cracked voice of Rhymer now possessed a congested quality… with this parting-shot out of the way, the bizarre Souvraniene returned his attention to steering the sky-ship toward its unknown destination. Again, Roth breathed a sigh of relief.

"Actually," Flauter quietly commented, "Rhymer does seem to dislike you a little more than most, Outlander… though I cannot imagine why."

Roth was not listening. "Clown!" he repeated softly, greatly offended. Almost as bad as being called a 'jester' which was what those belligerent Twin Warders of Shrina's had rudely greeted him as after the battle, naming him a Court Fool also! But still… not near so insulting as being termed a Bard! Though come to think of it, Aebel and Blaek had also mentioned something about 'barding' had they not? They had! The nerve! A pair of peevish peas in a pod, the Feruile brothers, that's all they were! Just because Roth Blucha, Gleeman, had been Shrina Tolamani's first love and she probably still secretly liked him best! Envious wretches!

Harper interrupted Roth's furious considerations by sitting down next to him and gruffly stating; "not long now… we'll be there by sundown."

Roth ignored this for the time being and eyed the preoccupied Rhymer cautiously, carefully keeping his eyes hooded. That fake snoot looked absurd! He would not dare say so, however… "Isn't it a little dangerous, keeping someone like your rhyming Steersman around?" the young Gleeman wondered, pitching his voice as low as possible. Flauter glanced over at him, then shrugged, disinterested.

Harper regarded Roth flatly. "What mean you, Outlander?"

Roth hesitated, then ventured; "well… Rhymer's nose… if it has rotted off, then that must mean he's afflicted with the Dark One's Taint worse than the rest of you… who yet retain your noses…"

Flauter smirked. "Amazing powers of observation you possess!" he drawled, then tentatively touched his thin, aquiline nose. "Still there," he exclaimed, "such a relief!"

Roth studiously ignored the sarcastic Souvraniene, doggedly continuing with his theme; "I mean, Rhymer might go mad at any moment," the Gleeman posited, sea-green eyes moving to Hummer, who was droning softly whilst rocking back and forth, "even madder than him!"

Harper shook his head firmly. "Rhymer did not lose his nose to the Taint," he rumbled. "The torc-ter'angreal protect our bodies from the worst effects of the Dark One's curse…" his troubled gaze moved to the sleeping Crooner, who was twitching and moaning in the throes of a nightmare, "…though not so much our minds."

Roth raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Then how-?"

"Rhymer lost his snout in a fight," Flauter revealed, grinning, "a long time ago. Doesn't like to talk about it. Well, rhyme about it, anyway."

Harper nodded sagely, his eyes glazing over a little as he recalled the distant past. "Rhymer and Chanter never got on… hated each other like poison, in fact. They were about equal in the Power, so when they finally tried to kill one another, they went about it in the traditional way for these parts… with fists, feet and teeth."

Flauter chuckled. "Especially the last on the list! Rhymer got the worst of it in the end… Chanter bit his bloody nose off!"

Roth stared. "Urgh! How horrid!" He considered this revelation for a moment. "Who is this 'Chanter' then? Am I going to have to meet him too? I can't say I like the sound of the fellow…"

Harper and Flauter exchanged an exasperated glance. "You do ask a lot of questions don't you, Outlander," Harper observed, before allowing; "Chanter? Why, from what you say, you already know him!"

Roth blinked confusedly. "I do?"

Flauter nodded impatiently. "The old man you call Gen… he was one of us, once, before the fool burnt himself out…" Whisperer had been silently listening and abruptly leaned in, speaking softly and urgently into Flauter's ear… the thin, sardonic Madman eyed the stocky, fair-haired youth askance. "Trying to use the Everstone…" he repeated from force of habit, then demanded; "why do you imagine the prying bloody Outlander even cares about that particular detail?!" Naturally, Whisperer made no overt response to this, the stocky young man merely shrugged wordlessly. Flauter sighed loudly, shaking his head scathingly.

"Gen…" Roth repeated, wonderingly.

Harper nodded. "That was what Chanter was called before he was given his new title by the Laughing God-"

"Praise him!" the others shouted… all but Whisperer, naturally, though he mutely moved his lips at the same time as the others chorused their devotions.

Roth jumped. "I wish you'd all stop doing that!" he complained.

Harper ignored this. "Seems he's gone back to his original name," the burly Madman mused, "or mayhap the Fox Queen told him to…"

"Fox… Queen..?" Roth wondered, distractedly.

Flauter scowled at mention of this name. "Never mind about her," he snarled, "the days of that fell She-Daemon are numbered…" he shrugged, "…a long while back, Chanter was sent to the wastelands to kill the wicked bitch, but failed in his duty… the Queen o' Foxes took him captive, spared his life for some reason known only to her, even made a sort of pet out of him, I heard…" Flauter shook his head in disgust.

"This was before that bad business with the Everstone," Harper added. Whisperer looked up and nodded enthusiastically at mention of this artefact. Harper continued; "back when Chanter could still channel… he was one of our strongest, up there with me and Singer, Whistler… Rhymer too… even Drummer, almost."

"Though not the Boss," Flauter pointed-out.

Harper snorted. "Goes without saying! No-one is that powerful, but for the Seven Sons…"

"Who?" Roth wondered, confused.

"Seven Sons of the Shadow!" Hummer shouted, alarmingly.

"The male Forsaken, of course!" Flauter explained witheringly, "none but the Boss could match them!"

"What about the Dragon Reborn?" Roth suggested, without thinking, "I hear he's uncommon powerful… at, um… well, the sort of things that channelers do…"

Harper, Flauter and the others stared at the young Gleeman intently. "Lord o' the Morning!" Hummer declared, before resuming his perpetual droning noise.

"What know you of the Dragon?" Harper demanded.

"Only that the Champion of the Light has been born anew into this troubled world," Roth glibly answered, "and that, commensurately, the Last Battle is coming…"

Abruptly, Crooner's eyes snapped open and he sat upright. "Tarmon Gai'don!" he gasped, blinking away the sleep. Harper and the others regarded him warily, but the youth did not speak again, relapsing into a more tranquil state.

Roth blithely continued with his news of the reincarnated Dragon, glad to have a more attentive audience now than that which had earlier rudely doubted his exciting tale of the sea-monster… "The latest incarnation of Lews Therin Telamon, that is to say; the new Dragon, is named 'Randal Thorn' apparently… an Andorman, I do believe, hailing from the sheep-infested western wilds, somewhere way out past this ghastly mining-town called Baerlon… I went there once with Old Willi, 'tis an utterly dreadful place! But as for the Dragon Reborn; why, back home in the Westlands, simply everyone is talking about him!"

Harper and Flauter exchanged a long and considering glance, heavy with hidden meaning. Then, Harper's dark, penetrating stare settled back on Roth. "Oh, the God is most definitely going to want to talk to you, Outlander," the burly Chief of the Madmen growled. Roth did not find this assertion particularly reassuring.

"Over and above the other reasons," Flauter added, "the Boss is always interested in news from the north… these 'Westlands' of yours. 'Tis where he originates from, seemingly, though he never talks about it."

"Really..?" Roth responded absently, wondering about something else. "Where… where are you taking me?" he enquired, a note of desperation in his voice, "to this ruined city of yours… Larchin?"

"Larcheen," Harper corrected, adding; "we'll land there ere long, but first, we have a stop to make, along the way…"

"Hob's Hill," Flauter revealed, with a sly smile. There was something decidedly vulpine about him, Roth considered. He had not noticed it before… but then, the words filtered into his consciousness.

"Hob's… Hill...?" Roth repeated wonderingly, "you mean… Caisen Hob? Like in the story?"

"What story?" Harper curtly queried, eyes narrowing irritably.

"Billi beneath the Hill, of course!"

"Never heard of it." Harper glanced enquiringly at Flauter, who shook his head.

"Me neither." The thin Madman grinned at Roth sarcastically, "but you can tell us all about this 'Billi' and his hill on the way, Outlander, since you seem to have a knack for tall-tales!"

Roth shrugged modestly, giving the brightly-hued patches sewn to his cloak a flutter. "Well, songs and stories are my trade, after all…" though in a seated posture, he managed to draw himself up proudly, even so, "…for you see, I am a Gleeman!"

"Yes, we know."

Roth stared at Hummer, abashed, waiting to see if the strange fellow would speak further, but he did not, merely resumed his monotonous droning. "You… know..?"

Harper nodded impatiently. "Aye… Gleeman. Of course we do. Us Red-Masks usually have a hard way with spies, as you would have discovered to your cost… but that fluttery cloak of many colours which you wear… 'tis the sole reason we spared your life." He smiled coldly. "You see, the God has one just like it!"

"He does?" Roth gasped, surprised. This was an unlooked-for development!

Flauter nodded with mock solemnity. "A long time ago… a very long time, longer than you would believe, well… the Boss was a Gleeman too!" The gaunt Souvraniene chuckled in response to Roth's confused expression, then frowned in annoyance as yet again, the thickset youth beside him leaned close to whisper into his ear. Flauter sighed, eyeing Whisperer narrowly, then qualified; "Master Gleeman!"

Roth gaped. "A Master of the Craft..?" he mumbled.

Harper gruffly confirmed this; "aye… the Laughing God-"

"Praise him!"

"-commanded us that should we ever encounter an Outlander who wore a patched cloak akin to his, then we were to bring him directly for an audience."

"Ideally, unharmed," Flauter added, with a menacing leer. Roth gaped wider.

"You're expected, Gleeman!" Harper drolly commented.

"But… what then?" Roth wondered, with a deal of pathos in his voice, "what is to become of me?"

Harper shrugged his broad shoulders, indicating that this was of little concern to him. His cold eyes held nothing whatsoever in the way of sympathy, merely ruthless certainty. "What indeed? One of the same two things that always occur when we bring someone before the God…"

"And what might those be?" Roth felt compelled to enquire, though he suspected that he would not particularly appreciate hearing the answer.

Harper glanced at Flauter, who readily revealed; "well, the Boss will talk to you awhile… then, if he decides that he approves of you, he will spare your life."

"And… and if not?" Roth stammered.

Harper frowned. "If the God disapproves… well, in that event…"

"Yes?" Roth urged.

"He'll destroy you." Harper spoke with grim finality, and for once, Flauter seemed equally serious. The other Madmen observed in expectant silence.

Roth released the breath he had been holding, considering the vagaries of life and death for a long moment. "The Wheel weaves..." he whispered, then sighed softly, feeling oddly at peace, and took another deep breath, preparatory to beginning. "Alright… let's get on with it." Roth's trained Gleeman's voice adopted the cadence of a professional teller-of-tales, with the ease of long practice;

"One fine morning, a likely lad named Billi arose early and looked out of the window to see if the sun was shining… and it was! So; young Billi washed his face, his hands and even behind his ears, got dressed and then, with a spring in his step, set off for the village market to see what was afoot. Now; halfway betwixt Billi's mother's farm and that aforementioned village (which now is called 'Endersole' but in those distant days was yet named 'Eggington') there loomed, large as life and legendary as ever you like, an ancient and mysterious hill…"

---

Act Three : Tidings

The forest clearing was alive with violent motion, echoing with bestial shouts and agonised screams… but even caught-up within the heart of the Dance, a deadly mote of desert sand spinning at the centre of a lethal whirlwind, the mismatched eyes of Cohradin remained affixed on the strange thing, high above. Without troubling to look, he viciously lashed his elbow back, crushing the larynx of one of the dirty savages, barely even aware that he had waked his latest opponent from the Cannibal-Dream, whilst simultaneously plunging his spear-blade into the heart of another of the grimy enemy… these fur-clad, pointy-toothed, stinking fools who had been so rash as to challenge the Sovin Nai! Cohradin gaped upwards in astonishment, even as he wrenched his spear free and swiftly sidestepped the clumsy downward sweep of a crude, wooden club, studded with the serrated fangs of a 'shark-fish.'

"What is that thing up there?" Cohradin cried in wonder to his knife-brothers, as he punched the heel of his hand into the club-wielding native's face, driving the nasal bone into their brain with a wet crunch, killing them instantly.

"I know not, my brother," Chassin loudly responded as he gutted his most recent opponent with both knives, ducked deftly beneath a lunging, flint-tipped lance, then sprang high into the air, lashing out a soft-booted foot in a skull-fracturing kick.

"Gerom?" Cohradin prompted.

The massive Knife Hand hurled the corpse of the cannibal he had throttled at two more of the attacking foe, sending them sprawling back, then leapt forward to finish them with economical thrusts of the spear he had plucked from behind his bow-harness. "Some manner of 'boat' that travels the upper air," Gerom mused, his placid gaze returning to that which held their rapt attention, rising amongst the clouds, "I may have seen a picture of such in an ancient book, though it was so faded I could not be certain… a contraption of the Age of Legends, or mayhap previous to those times…"

A howling female savage leapt at Gerom from the rear, brandishing an obsidian-bladed dagger… without taking his studious attention from the object overhead, the hulking Sovin Nai reversed his spear with a dexterous twirling motion and thrust the blade deep into her abdomen, disembowelling her with a forceful twist.

"But how does it fly in the sky like that?" Cohradin further demanded, whilst he viciously waked three more of the enemy in as many moments, continuing to observe the floating craft in disbelief, "is it a thing of the One Power?"

Gerom shook his head as he yanked his gory knife-hand from the punctured chest of another dead native. "I think not… the large bag beneath which the vessel is suspended, presumably filled with heated air, serves to hold it aloft…"

Chassin grinned as he swept his knives out to either side, thoroughly cutting his adversary's throat, dodging beneath the twin sprays of arterial blood from the deep parallel gashes. "Held up in the air by more air? I think-me that you are full of hot air, Gerom!" the diminutive Sovin Nai jested. Gerom smiled patiently, even as he killed a further victim with his large and powerful hands, a flicker of regret passing swiftly over his placid features. Chassin slew yet another foe without a trace of guilt and glanced speculatively up at the strange shape soaring high overhead. "Only the True Source of the Aes Sedai could make a ship-boat fly like that!" he scoffed, then turned back to the remaining savages.

The score of cannibals loitered hesitantly around the edges of the clearing, clutching their primitive weaponry, clad in rough furs, crudely scarred and tattooed, teeth filed to sharp points. This band of fierce natives lingering at the treeline seemed reluctant to renew their attack… and with good reason. They were clearly disconcerted… bad enough that they were being slaughtered, but worse; these murderous strangers engaged in the slaughtering had not even the decency to pay attention to them whilst they went about their butchery!

"Come face the Sovin Nai, filthy people-eaters!" Chassin yelled belligerently, "there are no Shadow-twisted beastlings in this Land for us to wake, so you point-toothed, hairy fellows will have to serve in their stead! Who wishes first to… to be…" he trailed-off, frowning. "Hoy! Where are you going? Get back here!"

Cohradin tore his blue and red gaze away from the floating sky-thing that fascinated him so, absently wrenching his spear from a dead savage's chest as he did… then scowled as he saw what had angered his knife-brother. Not that it took much to make Chassin angry, of course… The cannibal savages of this Madman's Land, they who attacked strangers on sight (often devouring them also) had clearly never fought Aiel before, and Shaido Aiel at that… they had quite obviously had their fill of the resulting bloody mayhem. The surviving remnants of this unequal skirmish were now running away, fleeing back into the woods with alacrity!

"Cowards!" Cohradin bellowed after the retreating enemy, wondering whether it was worth pursuing and then deciding that he really could not be bothered. Besides, the Sovin Nai had a different purpose… redeeming from captivity the foolish Gleeman, and now (more importantly!) finding-out what that floaty thing up there was!

Cohradin, ever the leal servant of his own curiosity, badly wished to know what the flying boat might be. He had seen all sorts of strange artifices in his short-yet-adventurous life; the vasty tomb of the Nightwatcher's big-brother (now destroyed) replete with mysteries and wonders… the shining pyramid of the Headbelly Men, hid deep within the steaming jungles of Forbidden Shara, as described by Jain-called-Farstrider of Lost Malkier, as corroborated by Red-Eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai! Why, he had even risked the ire of irascible Wise Ones and strode the silent streets of the Hidden City, Rhuidean, before venturing into the twisty redstone doorway of the dishonourable and disturbing Foxmen, which lay at its heart! But never had Cohradin beheld an actual ship that could sail the skies! This was something entirely new, and he strongly desired to learn more about it…

Chassin closed an eye, flipped one of his knives, catching the point betwixt forefinger and thumb, drew back his arm and threw. The blade whirled through the air toward a fleeing savage at the rear of their indisciplined mob, about to disappear into the forest, hot on the heels of the others. With a dull impact, the round steel pommel struck the back of his skull – he grunted, stumbled head-first into a tree-trunk with a crack of bone upon wood, then fell back onto the grass and lay still.

Cohradin eyed Chassin, amused. "Unlike you to strike a foe with the blunt end of your dagger, my brother," he observed.

Chassin scowled. "I did not miss, Cohradin," he objected, "I hit what I aimed at, in the manner that I wished… I meant to take one of these carribals alive!"

"Cannibals," Gerom corrected.

"Whichever!" Chassin snapped.

"Why?" Cohradin wondered, "are you hoping that the nasty fellow will share his foul food with you?!"

"No! To question him, of course!"

"Which questions? About what?"

"That!" Chassin pointed up into the sky with his remaining knife.

Again, Cohradin's fascinated attention returned to the thing far above, Gerom and Chassin moving to stand beside him, stepping unconcernedly over the enemy corpses that thickly littered the clearing, the pools of blood soaking into the loam. They silently stared upwards also. As one, the Sovin Nai tugged down their black veils, since the Dance of Spears was done, then Cohradin closed his blue eye, his real eye, and focused with the red one. The air-boat or ship-of-the-skies or whatever it was sprang closer in his vision; the long hull, the big and bulging bag it hung below, like an overfull waterskin, the sail-things supported on wooden poles, stretching out to either side, propelling it along much as the other manner of sea-craft was moved over water… Cohradin's magnified gaze shifted back to the central compartment, which contained people. He had glimpsed them earlier, just before the savages foolishly attacked… again, he caught a flash of a familiar colourful cloak, patches fluttering in the breeze.

"Roth Blucha is up there, with his captors," Cohradin informed the others, "it will be more of a challenge to find the foolish Gleeman now…"

"I cannot track this flying vessel," Chassin grumbled, "one does not leave footprints in the sky!"

"Of course one does not," Cohradin agreed equably, "but it barely seems to be moving so fast, whatever it is… we can follow along beneath, and wait for it to land once more." With his spear, he pointed down the slope beneath them; "awaiting its passengers, it sat upon the ground here, seemingly, so presumably will return to the earth elsewhere…" Chassin shrugged, Gerom nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

Below lay an extensive, circular area of cleared forest, scattered with weathered tree-stumps, a round stockade of logs raised at the centre. The long grass sprouting in the vicinity bore clear imprints of the tracks which the Sovin Nai had followed to this place; deep marks left by the heavy boots of the seven Madmen, as well as the foolish, distinctively-pointed footwear that the Gleeman wore… all led in this direction, down the slope and into the fortification. There was room within the palisade for a couple of huts, a long cabin and a large patch of flattened dirt from which they had earlier seen the sky-thing arise.

A tall flag-staff projecting from the cabin's steeply-sloped roof held a long pennant, whipping in the wind, depicting a red, laughing face of evil aspect. In addition, a ring of poles was set in the earth about the circumference of the stockade; each had a withered, human head impaled atop it. With the aid of his special red eye, Cohradin could see that every leathery face was marked with dark and faded tattoos, ritual scars, the teeth in the gaping mouths filed to points. Clearly; a warning for the benefit of the savages, not to trespass upon the landing-place of the sky-thing… these red-masked Madmen evidently took their privacy seriously!

Gerom glanced over a wide shoulder. "Our prisoner is getting away," he casually mentioned. Cohradin looked too. It was true; whilst their attention had been diverted elsewhere, the felled savage had regained consciousness to a degree and, rising to his hands and knees, was groggily attempting to crawl back into the woods. Unhurriedly, the three Sovin Nai strolled after him, Chassin retrieving his thrown knife on the way. The crawling native turned his shaggy head, the back of his skull bloody… dark eyes widened at the sight of the trio of drably-clothed, spear-wielding killers closing on him. Further blood marred his forehead from where he had struck the tree and a few stray bits of bark clung there also, partially occluding the crude tattoos inked into his dirty skin. His mouth, part-obscured by an untidy, knotted beard, fell open, revealing yellowing teeth, filed into unnatural sharpness.

"This Madlander is an ugly fellow!" Cohradin commented as they approached.

"You should know, Cohradin," Chassin quipped, "the sight of your face could turn a nanny-goat's milk sour at fifty paces, my brother!" Gerom chuckled softly.

Cohradin merely snorted derisively. "You are but jealous of my impressive scar, Chassin… all you have are those winsome dimples set in your sunken cheeks!"

Chassin glowered, self-consciously touching one of these deep marks in his face, where an arrow-shaft had doubly punctured the skin when shot sideways through his mouth, during the infamous Sand-Storm Dance with the stinking Shaarad. Why, these matching indentations were a sign of honour too, and Cohradin was well aware that he had a great many more scars distributed about his person than that!

The savage attempted to rise, staggered, then dropped down to all fours once more. Gamely, he resumed his attempt to crawl away from the Sovin Nai. Gerom stepped in front of him, immovably blocking his path to safety, whilst Cohradin and Chassin paused to either side, scanning the surrounding forest for further enemies… but there were none. And if the others were stupid enough to return, then over and above the considerable noise they made crashing through the trees, the Knife Hands would likely smell them coming long before they heard or saw them! But no, the dazed and crawling native's brethren were long-gone, and had left him behind.

"He does not give up easily, this one," Gerom commented in his deep tones, eyeing the savage curiously. This native of Aisle Souvraniene rose unsteadily, kneeling upright, a dirty hand fumbling at his rope belt, not finding what he sought.

"Do you seek this, Madlander?" Cohradin enquired, holding up the obsidian-bladed dagger that had earlier fallen from the savage's possession when he ran into the tree. Their prisoner's eyes focused blearily on his crude weapon, then he snarled something in what was presumably the Old Tongue, a statement that sounded defiant. "What did he say, Gerom?" Cohradin idly wondered, glancing over his shoulder to see if the boat-thing was still there, up in the sky. It was, though now moving steadily away from them, heading roughly in a southerly direction. No matter, they could catch up to it easily, once their questions were answered… and they had better be!

"The native tells you to kill him with his own weapon, as is only fitting, and to be quick about it," Gerom interpreted. The savage muttered something else. "He says he does not fear death, or us either, whoever we are…" Their prisoner scowled darkly and spat a further word at them. "He names us; 'Outlanders.'"

Cohradin scowled back at the savage, only more-so. "Huh! I was thinking of waking the vile fellow," he declared, "but now… I shall not! No man tells Red-Eyed Cohradin what to do, or commands him in the manner and time of their death at his fearsome hands… just for that, I shall let the unappealing Madlander live!" The savage blinked his bloodshot eyes, then addressed Gerom briefly. "What did he say this time, my brother? It had best not be more of his insolent orders!"

Gerom shook his large head slowly back and forth. "No, Cohradin, not so… he merely wants to know what you said."

"Oh. Well… tell him, then!"

Gerom sighed gustily, then did so, his own use of the Old Tongue somewhat halting and stilted, but certainly sounding more civilised than the rough speech of their kneeling captive. The injured savage blinked once more as he assimilated these words, whilst rubbing at the abrasion on his forehead, brushing away the small pieces of bark that were stuck to the bloody skin. He examined his gory fingers with detached interest, then licked them clean with relish.

"Ask the carribal why he and his nasty folk attacked us," Chassin urged.

"Cannibal," Gerom corrected again, then translated. The savage stated something abbreviated and to the point in response. "He declares that for strangers to come here is death." The prisoner spoke again. "His people always kill Outlanders, for sport," Gerom further explained. The native added a couple more words. Gerom raised his eyebrows. "And food." The cannibal bared his filed teeth in a fierce smile, then licked his lips and rubbed his stomach, to indicate that he would like to eat them.

Chassin sneered. "It is not meet, to devour the flesh of people," he growled, "that is what the Trollocs do."

"And the Reyn, when they have run-out of goats and cannot find any snakes or lizards!" Cohradin laughed. The others ignored him, preoccupied with examining their prisoner, who was yawning widely, further exposing his fangs. Cohradin frowned, sulkily.

"He certainly smells a little like a Shadow-twisted," Gerom observed, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

Chassin nodded thoughtfully. "True… though he looks more like a-"

"Enough!" Cohradin shouted, then grabbed the native by the front of his ragged jerkin and hauled him roughly to his feet, dragging him to the edge of the clearing. The savage struggled at first, but then went limp. Gerom and Chassin joined them. Cohradin gestured up at the floating craft receding into the southern sky. "What that?" he loudly demanded, "me want know!"

"Why are you speaking thus, Cohradin?" Gerom enquired, curiously.

"It is the manner of speech which the primitive jungle-folk of Forbidden Shara understand," Cohradin laboriously explained, "it was in this wise that I conversed with the odd and unusual Headbelly Men!"

Chassin and Gerom exchanged a sceptical look. "Not this again!" Chassin complained, "Cohradin, no-one believes your foolish tale of men without heads upon their shoulders but with faces set in their midriffs! There is no such thing as the Headbelly Men!"

"There is so! They are not mere stories, they are true!" Cohradin insisted.

"No, Cohradin, in actuality they are stories," Gerom patiently refuted, before pointing-out; "and furthermore, they are Jain Farstrider's stories, not yours!"

Cohradin glared at his knife-brothers, momentarily lost for words.

The savage had first peered at the distant flying vessel, fear in his eyes, then looked back and forth at the arguing Aielmen in surly incomprehension. But at Gerom's words, he gaped, again exposing his carnivorous teeth. "Far… Strider!" he grunted, then; "Charin… Jain Charin!"

The Sovin Nai fell silent, staring at their prisoner in surprise. "You know of Jain Farstrider, the Malkieri explorer?" Gerom rumbled, curious. The native snapped his pointed teeth shut and eyed the Knife Hands disparagingly, mouth compressed to a thin line framed by his untidy beard, refusing to say more.

"Bah!" bahed Cohradin, "this wastes our valuable time and angers me also!" He tightened his grip on the savage's collar and pointed the obsidian blade up at the diminishing speck in the sky. "That!" Cohradin snapped, "what that?" The savage's dark eyes flicked toward the object of his captor's wonderment and again, he seemed scared. Cohradin then shook him a little, not unlike a terrier shaking a rat. With evident reluctance, the prisoner began to speak in his debased dialect of the Old Tongue, relating details at some length, occasionally moving his hands in rough signs. Finally, his explanation ceased; he glared at them silently. Cohradin released his firm hold on the jerkin, wiping the hand on his britches. "Well?" he demanded of Gerom.

The hulking Knife-Hand furrowed his heavy brow a little, then answered slowly and distinctly. "The thing up there… he calls it a 'Sky-Ship.' It is a craft of the Red Masks that we seek, steered by one of their number, a potent channeler whom he names 'Skull-Face.' On occasion-"

"An interesting name!" Cohradin obliviously observed, "though this loathly savage has the aspect of a born-liar and a teller of untruths, so I should like to see this bone-headed Madman for myself and judge whether he-"

"Do you translate or do I? Interrupt me no further, Cohradin!" Gerom grumbled, then continued; "upon occasion, this dread ship of the skies will appear over their villages and spit out lightning and fire to punish them for their sins…"

"Good!" exclaimed Chassin, scowling darkly at the savage.

Gerom frowned at Chassin before proceeding; "though these natives have not seen the Sky-Ship in some time, apparently… but then, it would seem that they have been avoiding trespass upon the domain of this Laughing God also, nor have they raised any of their settlements close to the bounds of his ruined city, Larcheen…"

"Larcheen!" the savage moaned, shuddering…

Gerom asked the prisoner something pointed and he replied haltingly. "He thinks that this ship which sails through the air travels there, to the city which the yellow-haired Aes Sedai sent her eagle to tell us of… but he is unsure." Gerom eyed the savage speculatively, then shrugged. "I do not believe he can tell us anything else of worth…" he touched the spear-haft projecting above his broad back. "Shall I wake him now?"

"No! Let me do it!" Chassin insistently demanded, drawing his knives from their sheaths. The savage eyed them both coldly, not seeming to care that his life evidently hung in the balance.

Cohradin shook his head. "No, knife-brothers, I said I would let the dirty fellow live and shall keep my word… ji'e'toh requires it." Chassin made a rude, snorting sound, which Cohradin pretended not to hear. "Let someone else wake this savage from the Dream," he further pontificated, being overtly magnanimous.

Now it was Gerom's turn to snort, though more quietly. "For these wretched people, it would seem existence is less of a dream, more of a nightmare," he observed.

Cohradin shrugged, disinterested in such speculation, and gave the prisoner a hard shove, causing him to stumble in the direction of the trees. "You go now!"

"Wait!" Chassin dug a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to the lingering savage, who neatly caught it, then looked surprised, as though wondering why he had done so. "Eat that!" Chassin commanded, then helped the freed captive on his way with a kick. The native eyed them confusedly over his shoulder as he staggered off toward the forest, weaving slightly, following in the footsteps of his fellow cannibals who had earlier fled the unequal fight. He paused at the treeline, gave the Sovin Nai a final stare that held hostility, but also curiosity, and then was gone.

Cohradin realised that he was yet holding the savage's obsidian knife and made to toss it into the bushes… but on closer inspection, the dagger proved to be not quite so crudely-made as he had first thought. Running a thumb over the edge of the glassy blade revealed it to be razor-sharp, also. Cohradin sucked at the line of blood on the skin of his digit thoughtfully, then tucked the dark weapon into his belt. He had thrown his own knife into the sea when he decided to become Da'tsang, after all… this cannibal-dagger might prove useful for something.

"What was that which you gave to the savage, Chassin?" Gerom wondered.

Chassin shrugged. "Some dried walaru meat that I cured before we left."

"Why?"

"To encourage the carribal-"

"Cannibal!"

"-cannibal to eat something other than his own kind, of course!"

Cohradin pulled a sour face. "Doubtless, the ill-taste of the walaru creatures was what originally caused these fools to wish to eat each other in stead?" he speculated.

"Presumably," Gerom agreed.

Chassin blinked. "The walaru flesh tastes fine to me," he muttered.

Cohradin shook his head in mild exasperation, then stared up into the air once more. Now only his special red eye could detect the distant Sky-Ship. He turned to the others; "Sovin Nai of Wet Sands… the hunt resumes!" Cohradin grinned his alarming grin. "Let us run!"

---

"This really is too provoking!" Captain Ysmet growled, bewailing their situation and raising her fist, preparatory to pounding it furiously upon the rail.

"Splinters!" Rashiel warned.

Ysmet paused, peering down at the carven teak suspiciously. It did look somewhat smoother than it had, so she supposed Raab must have given it a cursory going-over with sandpaper, in-between his other lowly duties, but even so… Ysmet lowered her clenched hand, scowling. An empty, wooden bucket stood nearby, so she vented her anger by kicking that instead. The bucket sailed across the quarterdeck, colliding with the mahogany housing of the large, spoked wheel set at its centre, and bounced off. The Sea Folk Warder, Jabal, stood at the wheel, his current station… dark, watchful eyes followed the bucket as it rolled away. He declined to comment.

"Is it time?" Rashiel enquired.

Ysmet nodded sullenly. "Let us be away, whilst the easterly wind holds," she muttered, glancing about the quarterdeck, looking for something else that she might kick. The rat-like visage of Raab rose into view from the hatchway abaft the wheel; he blinked his shifty eyes in the bright noonday sunlight. "You'll do!" Ysmet snarled, taking a threatening step toward Raab's curly head, which presented a tempting target, and drawing back her boot. Raab yelped in alarm and swiftly ducked from sight, vanishing back into the below-decks gloom from which he had emerged.

Rashiel chuckled. "Poor Raab! You know; he 'minds me of one of those 'gophers' that live on the Caralain Grass, they are always sticking their cute little furry heads up out of holes and then popping them straight down again!"

Jabal Gaidin made an amused snorting sound. The Ebou Dari women eyed him coolly and he swiftly resumed his composure.

"Tend to your duties, Atha'an Miere!" snapped the Lady Ysmet.

Rashiel Sedai sniffed disparagingly. "Men are always eavesdropping on that which does not concern them!" she whispered to her Noblewoman friend. Loudly.

Jabal rolled his eyes at this, tattooed hands tightening on the wheel. "I should be only too glad to assume my steering responsibilities as Quartermaster," he declared, ostensibly to no-one in particular, "were we not still riding at anchor, and much of the morning gone!"

Captain Ysmet scowled, though privately she was forced to concede that Jabal Gaidin had a point… time was wasting, they should have set off long-since. But there was one, slight problem… the sole member of her crew who claimed to know the way to Larcheen had vanished! "Gen!" Ysmet uttered this ill-omened name as though it were a curse, then recalled with a shudder the behaviour of their addled Guide whilst they were docked in Illian, when he would oft vanish for days at a time, lost amidst the stews and vice-dens of the Perfumed Quarter, drunk and incapable! Well, more incapable... "Where in the Winds have you absconded to this time?!"

"I don't know!" Rashiel answered, exasperated.

"I wasn't talking to you, Rashiel!"

"Who were you talking to then?"

"Gen, of course!"

"Oh. Well, I rather doubt that he can hear you… wherever he is…"

"The one named 'Gen' went away with the Nightwatcher," revealed a clear, high voice. Ysmet turned, scowling, as Manda lithely ascended the ladder-like steps to the quarterdeck. "We Shaido would have gone also, but Vron'cor bid us remain." She shrugged. "The Nightwatcher did not wish the cheese-eater's company either, but the strange and confused former-Souvraniene followed after him anyway…" Manda's brow furrowed; "an odd fellow, this Gen! Yesterday morn, he spied on me from the bushes whilst I bathed myself in water, as soft Wetlanders do, then ran away when I demanded to know his intent!"

"Oh, Gen does that sort of thing all the time," Rashiel airily explained, "it was annoying at first, but one gets used to it…" Manda blinked, then shrugged again.

"Gen!" Ysmet cursed once more, "when I get my hands on that odious little lecher, I shall string him up by the ankles and flog him till High Chasaline!"

"The disciplining of the crew is my duty, Captain," the Bosun firmly reminded Ysmet as he climbed up to the quarterdeck to join them, standing beside Manda. The Spear-Maiden promptly slipped a proprietary arm through his, making the big Tairen sailor shift uncomfortably. Ysmet frowned at the unlikely couple and Manda smiled goadingly back at her. The Bosun sucked his gold-chased teeth thoughtfully. "Though now that I think on it," he mused, "the cat o' thirteen tails was lost in the wreck, along with much else…" he eyed Ysmet enquiringly, "…should I fashion a new whip, milady?"

Ysmet shook her head curtly. "Do not trouble to, boatswain… I have changed my mind. Flogging is far too good for Gen… much more merciful than he deserves!"

"Keel-hauling?" the Bosun suggested.

"Feed him to the lionfishes?" Jabal speculated.

Ysmet continued to shake her head.

"Place a scorpion in his mouth and then sew it shut!" Manda urged.

"I could spank Gen briskly with the One Power?" Rashiel offered.

Ysmet kept up her mute refusal, long braid whisking back and forth against her shoulders. "No… no, for desertion, none of that is severe enough… I shall consider all options…" her eyes narrowed decisively. "Besides, Rashiel, I believe that you have another use for your channeling, do you not? Be about it, forthwith!"

"I am Aes Sedai you know," Rashiel objected as she turned to gaze toward the shore, "the Sisterhood of the White Tower is unaccustomed to taking brusque orders from those not of their sorority…" she sneered over her shoulder at Ysmet, "…even if they do stand fifth-in-line to the bloody Throne of Winds!"

"Fourth," corrected Ysmet testily, "cousin Cheslin got his foolish self killed in a duel last winter, remember? And on the deck of my ship, you shall hop to it when I give you an order, Rashiel Sedai, or your rump shall sting for it, my girl!"

Rashiel muttered something most uncomplimentary under her breath, pitched too low for Ysmet to discern, fortunately. The young Aes Sedai then plucked a dark, heart-shaped jewel from the pocket of her crimson gown, clutching it firmly whilst squinting across the intervening waves at the beach and beyond, focusing her attention on the score of rude huts and cabins surrounded by the vestiges of a palisade, built amongst the dunes nearest the forest. "Are you sure you want me to do this?" Rashiel absently queried, clearly drawing deep on the True Source, since she had that distracted air of hers that Ysmet was accustomed to seeing, prior to channeling saidar.

"Yes!" Ysmet responded briskly, "I'll not leave anything behind that the savage cannibals might make use of… and we won't be coming back here, I can tell you that for nought! Now, Aes Sedai… burn our bloody bridges!"

"Aye-aye Captain!" Rashiel answered with some irony, and raised her free hand, serpent-ring flashing in the sunlight, gesturing evocatively. Immediately; a dozen head-sized balls of fire sprang into existence, hovering above the waves just beyond the hull of their anonymous ship. The sailors on the maindeck paused in their tasks to stare at the blazing orbs in wary wonder. Up on the foredeck, Lord Thaeus had been giving the Sharan youth Hamadi a lesson in the art of the blade; both male-channelers lowered their practice-swords of bundled, thin wooden lathes, to gaze upon the flaming spheres also. There was a certain fascination in their eyes, but incomprehension also… saidar and saidin being mutually exclusive, this was a feat of channeling that they could only admire, not emulate.

At the wheel, Jabal Gaidin blinked in confusion. "Um..?"

Rashiel grinned fiercely, then gestured again, sweeping her hand forcefully forth, toward the abandoned camp. As one, the flaming balls sped forward, shooting toward the shore, growing in size and altering in shape as they did so, assuming the dimensions and appearance of blazing, spinning cartwheels. The fiery missiles streaked unerringly over the dunes toward their target. Some struck the damaged stockade at various points along its length – the logs of the palisade roared into flame at the impact, burning fiercely. The rest of the scorching discs plunged into the walls and roofs of cabins, transforming them instantly into molten furnaces. Within moments, the destruction was complete, their former encampment rendered an immolated ruin, sparks flying outward and thick, black smoke boiling up into the sky.

Rashiel leant on the rail, breathing heavily. Ysmet approvingly patted her friend on the back. "Well done, Rashiel!" she cried, "why, that was most impressive. I have never seen you summon more than a couple of those fiery things before!"

Rashiel smiled wearily, waving the dark jewel at Ysmet. "Well, I did not have my angreal then, did I?" She took a deep breath, rubbing at her brow, "though I think I overdid it a little…"

Ysmet shrugged. "It accomplished our purpose…" She sensed a presence right behind her; turning, expecting to see the Bosun, she frowned at the sight of Jabal Gaidin loitering at her back, his shocked gaze fixed upon the smoking conflagration. "Back to your station, Quartermaster!" Ysmet snapped.

Jabal did not seem to have heard. "Uh… I did not know that Rashiel Sedai intended to do that…" he mumbled, "to burn the... with... with weaves of Fire…"

"What of it?" Ysmet demanded, noting that whilst everyone aboard was staring at the blazing spectacle, Jabal seemed unduly perturbed by the sight.

"I…" Jabal's mouth moved, but seemed unable to form further words.

"Twas my idea, in point of fact… to deny the antithetical natives… a base of, eh… of… that is to say… logistical…" Ysmet trailed-off, beginning to experience a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, occasioned by Jabal's expression. Usually, the Sea Folk Warder just looked impassive, like most Atha'an Miere – a far from emotive people, on the whole. But currently, he appeared worried. Very worried. Clearly, something was wrong… but what? "Why do you overly concern yourself with this, Jabal Gaidin?"

Jabal stared at Ysmet, eyes wide. "Because, Sailmistress, Lord Dagnon and the Twins went back to the camp to ensure that the deserter was not hiding therein!"

"What?!" Rashiel whirled around, gaping at Jabal in horror, her exhaustion entirely forgot and replaced by panic. "Dagnon? Oh-no! Light, no!"

All eyes turned back to the fire-blasted encampment, the blazing ruins, shrouded in smoke. Rashiel channeled frantically – immediately, the manifold flames died-down considerably, though the damage had already been done, it would seem.

"Why did you not tell me they had gone there, you storm-tossed Sea Folk fool?!" Ysmet angrily shouted.

"You did not ask, Shorebound Siren-of-the-Sands!" Jabal yelled back.

"What have I done?!" Rashiel wailed theatrically, the strength going out of her legs… she sat down abruptly, her bottom thumping onto the deck.

"I had no idea that Rashiel Sedai meant to torch the camp! Neither did my Sword-brothers!" Jabal had pushed past, was gripping the quarterdeck rail, staring wildly toward the guttering fires flickering amongst charred logs.

"I have slain the love of my life! I shall never forgive mys-" Rashiel's self-recrimination came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening, full lips parting in a gasp of shock… and delight. "Hold! I can sense Dagnon through the Warder Bond… thank the Creator, he yet lives!"

Whilst helping Rashiel struggle back to her feet, Ysmet breathed a sigh of relief, though was still unsure about the fate of the pretty Twins… a tragedy, should those beautiful brothers have been roasted whole like a pair of plucked pullets!

Rashiel was evincing great confusion. "My Gaidin is seemingly unharmed, no-less… he has not taken any hurts nor burns, I should feel it myself if he had… how in the Winds did-?"

"Look!" Jabal shouted, pointing toward the shore. They looked. Three figures were staggering through the wreaths of smoke, stepping awkwardly over smouldering timbers, quitting the scorched ruins of the camp. As they began to stumble slowly down the dunes toward the shoreline, all could see that it was indeed Lord Dagnon and the Twin Warders, Aebel and Blaek. The trio of Gaidin looked extremely damp and sooty, dazed also, but somehow still alive.

"Quick!" Ysmet commanded, "launch a bloody boat!"

On the beach, they leapt from the longboat before it was even drawn up onto the sand by the oarsmen, splashing through waist-high surf and racing up into the dunes to meet the improbable survivors of the inferno. The Warders awaited them silently, swaying slightly, faces blank but eyes staring, evincing the demeanour of men who have just come through a terrible battle, a severe slaughter… somehow, unscathed.

"Dagnon!" Rashiel cried, flinging herself into the rubbery arms of her Warder, "I am so glad that you did not get scorched into cinders! I feared that… that…" she drew away from the feeble embrace of the tall Murandian Lord. "Uh! You're covered in soot, from head to toe…" Rashiel stared down in dismay at the black and slimy streaks marring her fine, silken robe, "…and now, so am I!"

"Yes, Rashiel," Dagnon wearily and acidly replied, "of a certainty I am much besmirched with stains and scorches… mayhap, because I have just narrowly avoided being scalded to death… by you, I would presume?!"

Rashiel was not paying attention. "It will take ages to clean this off," she grumbled, plucking at the soiled silk, "if it even can be cleansed…" Dagnon sighed.

Ysmet ran a critical eye over the smoke-soiled Gaidin… dark with soot, clothing charred, torn… and wet. Extremely wet. "How in the Seventeen Seas did you sorry specimens survive that?"

The Mayener brothers, faces comically blotched with sooty stains, blinked in unison, then eyed Dagnon, who spoke up tiredly; "we were just heading for the gate, or where the gate used to be, when we heard the fiery wheels spinning toward us…"

"We thought a Madman was attacking," the Twins added simultaneously, giving Rashiel a reproving look. She had the good grace to blush.

"No… just a Madwoman!" was Ysmet's cheerful rejoinder, as she attempted to dispel the accusatory mood.

Rashiel glared at the Noblewoman and sniffed. "The whole thing was your bloody idea, Ysmet!" she hissed.

Dagnon shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, there being little else to do, at my urging we ran directly to the water cistern and leapt in… then stayed under the surface until we could hold our breaths no longer…" he thought about it, shrugged again. "There is not really anything else to say about the untoward incident…"

Aebel and Blaek added;

"Except that we-"

"-did not find Gen."

"Curses!" Ysmet muttered, feeling lost in a strange land without her Guide. Though come to think on it, she felt that way even when Gen was around…

"I am so sorry, Dagnon-dear!" Rashiel Sedai murmured tremulously, pressing close to her beloved Warder once more, despite his sootiness. Lord Dagnon draped an arm about her shoulders, to show that all was more-or-less forgiven. The Twins stared at Rashiel expectantly. Eventually, she noticed. "Oh, and I apologise to you also, Aebel and Blaek," she added offhand, "had I known that you were all in the camp, well…"

"Think nothing of it, Rashiel Sedai."

"Our quick wits and speedy reactions preserved our lives."

Dagnon eyed the Twins coolly. "Jumping into the cistern was my plan!" he reminded them, "you pair of oilfishers were just standing there, gaping and wool-gathering!"

Aebel and Blaek frowned, then opened their mouths at the same time, preparing to argue the point…

"Never mind that!" Ysmet interjected, "all's well that ends well, no harm done and least said, soonest mended..." Her light-brown eyes turned to her new ship, still anchored out beyond the reef where the masts and hull of her former command yet arose from the waves; a silent reminder of the perils of a storm-tossed lee-shore. "High-time we got underway, methinks…"

They tramped back down through the dunes toward the waiting longboat, the smoking ruin that the castaways had called home for several months languishing, already forgot, behind them. "How far can you take us along the coast, Jabal Gaidin?" Ysmet quietly asked her Quartermaster as they walked together.

Jabal frowned. "I have only been so westerly as this 'Isle of the Spire.' In regard to navigating beyond that point, we will be sailing blind…"

Ysmet frowned also. "We shall wish to avoid that cursed island and those troublesome Hawx-people…" she muttered.

Jabal nodded, scowling darkly. "Aye, Sailmistress… but should I yet live, then on the way back from Larcheen I mean to stop at their Castle… a thieving, smirking fellow named 'Kor' has my sword, and he shall much regret his villainy when I impale him 'pon its blade, like a spitted sprat!"

"And I shall aid you in retrieving the honoured sword of your House and punishing those brigands for their larceny, Master Lionfish!" promised Dagnon, clapping Jabal upon the shoulder. The Atha'an Miere Gaidin nodded his appreciation.

"We shall come too!" pledged the Twins, who evidently also had a score to settle with their former captors, the vestiges of the Hawkwing's lost Eastern Army.

Ysmet glared at the intrusive Warders who – as bloody usual! – had been shamelessly eavesdropping upon the Captain conferring with her Quartermaster. They did not appear to notice.

"There is the Axe, also," Aebel pointed-out.

"The Howling Axe," Blaek added, providing additional detail.

"Whatever is that?" Rashiel wondered.

The Twins answered with enthusiasm;

"A Hero's weapon, Power-forged…"

"…of eldritch, silvered metal, and four-bladed…"

"…the enchanted axe wielded by the elder brother of Naythan Gaidin…"

"…a giant of a man, he who fought and fell in the War with the Shadow!"

Ysmet raised an elegant eyebrow. "The Shieldman told you of this?"

"Indeed he did, Lady Ysmet," the Twins answered in concert.

"Sounds… interesting," Rashiel commented doubtfully, "an enchanted axe…" She shook her head, then enquired; "but what are the Hawx doing with that?"

"Thieves and net-snatchers!" Jabal declared disapprovingly, as they approached the beached longboat, "they steal all that is not nailed-down and are less trustworthy even than my light-fingered cousin Raab!"

"Hey!" objected Raab, lingering by the boat, evidently within earshot.

"Sorry, cousin," Jabal apologised, "in my righteous anger, I misspoke… these Hawx are clearly worse than you!"

"My thanks, cousin!"

"Though not by much…"

Raab scowled. Jabal turned back to Ysmet as they paused by the longboat, at something of a loss. "Yes, Naythan Gaidin will certainly wish to accompany us when we return to the isle of these looting, pillaging Hawx, since it would seem that he sets great store by his brother's ancient weapon…" he frowned, furiously, "though first, I must find Renn, and free her!"

"And we, Shrina!" the Twins chorused.

Ysmet sighed. "But without Gen or any other Guide, we may not have an easy time finding this lost ruin of Larcheen…"

Rashiel shrugged. "Given that it is reputedly the only city left in this benighted land, then surely there must be someone who knows where it-"

"Squaaa!"

Rashiel ducked as a large and brightly-plumed bird swept low over her head. "Bloody-ashes!" she swore.

The parrot alighted on the Bosun's broad shoulder and began to preen its multicoloured feathers. "There you are, Syed!" the Tairen sailor declared, scratching its feathery head. It pecked him hard. The Bosun grinned, then sucked his sore finger.

Manda released the Bosun's arm, glaring up at the ill-tempered creature. "I like not that bird," she growled, touching her knife-hilt, eyes narrowing.

"Why?" enquired the Bosun.

The parrot cocked its head, peering down at Manda with a dark eye. "Strumpet!" it squawked.

Manda scowled. "That is why," she snarled, "your bird is a… a rude bird!"

Ysmet chuckled. "I don't know, I rather like it," she commented, smiling tauntingly at Manda, who eyed her dangerously.

The parrot swivelled its head, regarding Ysmet. "Harlot!" it declared. Now it was Ysmet's turn to glare at the offending bird.

Rashiel sniggered. "Well, it is certainly a fine judge of character!" she observed with a grin.

The parrot eyed Rashiel. "Trollop! Squaaa!"

Rashiel frowned, and sniffed disapprovingly.

"Are you bringing that vile bird with us, boatswain?" Ysmet demanded.

The Bosun shrugged, causing the parrot perched on his shoulder to squawk in protest and peck viciously at his ear. The big Tairen ignored it. "A speaking bird would cause quite a stir back in Tear," he observed, "should we ever make safe landfall in a southern port, but it is up to you, Captain… if Syed offends, then-"

"Squaaa! Stormfather!" the parrot loudly squawked.

Jabal and Raab narrowed their dark eyes, staring suspiciously at the overly-talkative avian. "That is what the accursed Waketa call the Dark One!" Jabal accused.

"The Shadowsworn bird is ill-omened, Sailcaptain!" Raab warned, "twill bring bad luck!"

The Bosun shook his head, making it difficult for the parrot to continue nibbling at one of the gold rings set in his ear, though it persisted. "Syed is no Darkfriend, milady, for all that his former-Master was a Child of the Storm… I have been discouraging him from saying such things and even begun teaching him new words… listen!" The Bosun poked the parrot to gain its attention, receiving another peck for his trouble. "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of-?" The bird stared at him, silently. The Bosun tried again; "a bottle of-?"

"Rum!" squawked the parrot. "Squaaa!"

"Excellent!" the Bosun encouraged, before prompting; "Praise the Divine-?"

"Creator!"

"Good lad!" the Bosun approved, stroking the talking-bird's feathers. It nipped at his fingers viciously.

Ysmet blinked. "Well, now that is out of the way, let us-"

"Squaaa! Praise Stormfather!"

"No, Syed!" the Bosun chided, "do not say that!"

"Curse Creator!" The parrot disobediently sprang from the Bosun's wide shoulder, colourful wings flapping vigorously, circling over his head. "Curse Dragon! Praise Stormfather! Squaaa! Praise Great Lord!"

These proved to be the unfortunate parrot's final words. A brownish blur from above, a forceful impact, a burst of multicoloured feathers hanging in the air for a moment, before spiralling down to the sand… and it was over. All stared at the corpse of the objectionable bird, lying flat on its back, neck twisted awry… and the large eagle gripping its kill with powerful, rending talons, squawking in triumph.

"Syed…" the Bosun mumbled, regretfully.

"Good!" growled Manda, before eyeing her sailor-lover narrowly.

The eagle lowered its proud head and began to tear into the dead parrot with its cruel, hooked beak. "It's Renn's eagle!" Rashiel declared, when her surprise wore-off, "it came back!" She leaned closer, waving a hand to gain the feeding creature's attention. "Renn? Is that you in there?" The eagle stared at the Aes Sedai disinterestedly for a moment, then resumed its gruesome meal. "I suppose not," Rashiel murmured, considering, then added; "of course not! If Renn were controlling the eagle then she would never have killed that insulting and blasphemous bird, even if it was a Friend of the Dark… Renn loves animals!" Jabal nodded in confirmation, staring dolefully at the eagle.

"Even Shadowsworn parrots?" Ysmet asked tartly, feeling that things were getting a little ridiculous, "that is to say… Darkbirds? Parrots of the Darkness?"

"Yes, them too! Why, Bookworm even likes ravens!"

Leaving the large eagle to its exotic feast, they splashed out to the longboat that the sailors had launched into the shallows, and were rowed swiftly back to their nameless ship. Once on board, Ysmet gave the order to weigh anchor, then strode up to the quarterdeck, Rashiel following, Dagnon looming right behind, her protective and sooty shadow. Jabal had preceded them and was already stood at his station, gripping the spoked wheel with tattooed hands, watching critically as down on the maindeck, the crew strained at the windlass, drawing the heavy anchor up from the seabed in response to the Bosun's shouted commands.

Ysmet noted Aebel and Blaek opposite on the foredeck, all-but obscured by the intervening masts… the handsome-yet-dangerous channelers, Lord Thaeus and Hamadi, were grinning at the Twin's besmirched and dishevelled appearance, making a show of attempting to dust them down. The Mayener brothers were presumably explaining what had befallen them, waving their arms about as they chattered; then, as one, all eyes turned toward the quarterdeck.

"Bloody men!" Rashiel muttered in aggrieved tones. Ysmet glanced at her Aes Sedai friend, raising an eyebrow; she was also watching the exchange. Rashiel continued; "doubtless, that pair of pretty peas are telling our two strapping mad-lads all about how I nearly cooked them to a crisp! Saying rude things about me… and you as well, Ysmet, since it was mostly your fault, after all… the menfolk are always such terrible gossips!"

"You all-but baked me too, Rashiel!" Dagnon reminded his Aes Sedai, "like a potato!"

"Shut-up, Dagnon! Don't be churlish! Anyone can make a mistake…"

"That eagle is back," Jabal observed, staring upwards. Ysmet followed the direction of his gaze. The bird-of-prey was now perched on the mizzen-top, high above, peering down at them with predatory yellow eyes, blood besmirching its beak. It squawked loudly, as if to attract their attention.

"What does it want?" Ysmet wondered.

"Are you sure that isn't you in there, Renn?" Rashiel shouted up at the eagle, hands cupped around her mouth. It squawked again, an imperious sound. Then, the eagle extended its great wings and fell from the mast, soaring away from the vessel, pinions spread as it rode the air-currents with unconscious skill. Heading west.

"Anchor raised, Captain," the Bosun reported, glaring darkly up at the predatory bird that had slain and consumed his prized pet.

"Very-well, boatswain… hoist mains and staysails," Ysmet commanded, her distracted eyes still fixed on the eagle. She glanced back at Jabal; "set your heading due-west, Quartermaster," she ordered, entirely unnecessarily, but the Sea Folk Warder placed an obedient hand over his heart, then spun the wheel skilfully.

"The eagle returns," Rashiel reported.

Ysmet looked. The noble bird was indeed gliding back to the ship; it circled the quarterdeck once, twice, then with another loud and authoritarian squawk, flew west once more. "It is as though it wants us to follow it…" Ysmet mused.

Rashiel's eyes widened. "Of course! Why did I not think of it before? Renn has sent her eagle to show us the way – to lead us to Larcheen!"

Ysmet blinked. "Do you really think so?" Hope bloomed in her heart, at the prospect of having a guide after all… albeit a mute and feathered one! But now there was the chance that they might make right landfall at the dead city of the Madmen… and Roth would be awaiting her there. The opportunity of freeing those Aes Sedai friends of Rashiel's was equally a consideration… but over and above this, most of all, Ysmet badly wanted her husband back! Despite his faults… or perhaps even because of them. Though far from the perfect partner, Roth nonetheless provided the essence of something that Ysmet needed, to be happy… whatever that was! Roth completed her, made her feel like a whole person; she would not be content until her foolish-yet-adorable Gleeman was back in her arms. And if any red-masked Souvraniene tried to stand in the way of this reunion, then they would swiftly find themselves kissing the business-end of her rapier!

Captain Ysmet scowled ferociously, whilst at the behest of sailors swarming along the yardarms, sails broke out aloft, canvas spreading and stretching taught in the easterly wind. Foam frothed against the hull and the ship began to roll with the motion of the waves as they finally got under way.

"Follow that eagle!" Ysmet shouted. She should have felt foolish for giving so absurd an order… but for some reason, did not. Eagle… her mouth dropped open, eyes widening. "Of course!"

Rashiel Sedai, steadying herself on the pitching deck by leaning against the reassuring solidity of Dagnon Gaidin, arched an elegant eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I… I finally know what to name our ship!"

"Oh..? What?"

Ysmet pointed forward, indicating the great, golden-brown bird-of-prey, powerful wings beating steadily, flying several spans ahead of the bowsprit, leading the way to distant Larcheen. She pointed at the Eagle. "What do you think?!"

---

"Ellyth! Ellythia Sedai?! Are you there?"

N'aethan's voice resounded through the infinite darkness… no twinkling points of light to indicate sleeping dreamers, no mirrored reality reflecting the World of the Wheel in an endless variety of possibilities and impossibilities… and no Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Ajah that was, apparently, blue. N'aethan sighed gustily as the echoes faded into empty nothingness. No him either, in fact, when he really considered it… not in any kind of physicality at least, just his consciousness, his will… and his words. "If you can hear me, Ellythia Sedai, take heart!" N'aethan called encouragingly, "I shall come for you ere long, Mistress of my Soul!"

N'aethan blinked, though presently possessed no actual eyes to blink with. Where had that phrase originated? It sounded like something from a light romantic opera of the sort he had always avoided, preferring the more serious tales of tragedy and retribution. But somehow, what he had said felt right...

"I suppose that I must be in love!" N'aethan muttered, for all that he had never found himself in this particular emotional state before. Romantic love for another, at least, as opposed to the filial love he had felt for Father (as well as, at a distance, the Dragon), the maternal love that had undoubtedly existed between himself and Latra Sedai, though never acknowledged… or brotherly love either, which had not really been reciprocated, since Taw had only known how to hate things, not love them.

Added to which, there was that bit about his 'soul.' This was something that N'aethan rather doubted the existence of, in a personal sense at least. Ordinary people had souls, he believed, but Lightborn most probably lacked this mysterious spiritual accoutrement… the Divine Creator had not fashioned him from clay and then breathed life into him, as the Shaido Aiel claimed. No, Father had made him, in an altogether less fanciful way than that described in those foolish and inaccurate stories concerning 'the Nightwatcher' which, for several millennia, the Da'shain had been telling to their children. Not for the first time, N'aethan wondered where such absurd faery tales had originated? He certainly held certain suspicions concerning the identity of their ancient author…

N'aethan could think of little else to say, even in the unlikely event that his beloved Ellyth could possibly hear him… so he settled for; "till next we meet… farewell, sweet Servant of All!" Then, he made himself wake up.

N'aethan blinked open his strange eyes and sat upright, rubbing at a crick in his neck and yawning widely behind a bare hand. The river flowed past to either side, too close for comfort. N'aethan was fastidious about water, preferred it when it was hot. The interior of the ridiculous coracle was cramped, unsurprisingly, but Gen was sitting as far from his Lightborn passenger as possible, perched at the end of the rough plank which served as a bench for this odd, circular boat.

N'aethan eased himself onto the bench also, moving carefully, though the coracle tipped unsteadily to the side even so. Gen watched warily, pressing a little closer to the bent withies and ox-hide that formed the meagre hull. In one grimy hand he held the paddle, steering them in a desultory way, in the other something that he was eating, holding it to his mouth and gnawing slowly with his few remaining teeth.

"Where are we?" N'aethan wondered, glancing to either side and seeing more of the same dull scenery that had been drifting by when he decided to take a nap and visit Tel'aran'rhiod… tall reeds lining the banks of this unknown river, scrubby trees and bushes beyond, rocky hills rising in the distance. Gen did not answer, continuing to eat, dark eyes fixed on N'aethan with caution… but also, a touch of reverence. "Did you not hear me?" the Lightborn demanded, "I said…" he trailed-off. Gen had placed a gagging hand over his mouth and was shaking his head back and forth. "Oh, of course… I forgot." N'aethan sighed. "Very well, you may speak, provided that you do not irritate me further!"

Some chance of that… Gen was easily the most irritating person N'aethan had ever met, even worse than Uncle Gwili! At an earlier point in this interminable journey aboard the absurd boat, Gen had become so annoying that N'aethan was forced to forbid him from speaking. For his own good. Clearly, it was in Gen's best interests to let blessed silence reign awhile, for otherwise N'aethan might have been forced to do something savagely fatal to the unbelievably obtuse and confusing old fool! To ensure Gen's compliance in the matter of muteness, N'aethan might have mentioned one or two of the things he had done to captured Beastmen in his time, to gain information under duress… the nervously silenced castaway had taken the hint.

"Did you slumber well, King o' the Cats?" Gen enquired.

"No. And cease calling me that," N'aethan muttered wearily and ineffectually, knowing that Gen would continue to address him with feline-themed names no matter what he said, or even threatened. The lunatic did not seem to be able to stop himself from doing so… forbidding the practice had become little more than a reflexive act by now.

"You did mumble and grumble in your sleep, Mog Majesty," Gen reported helpfully, returning to his repast.

"I did neither!" N'aethan denied, incensed, "especially the grumbling… I never grumble or complain, or whinge and whine, though the Creator-knows I have been given more than enough reason to…" Gen shrugged, gnawing away. "Besides, I was not really asleep," N'aethan continued, speaking to himself as much as to his fellow mariner of stupid round boats, "I went to Tel'aran'rhiod to look for…" N'aethan fell silent, staring at Gen, who was clearly not listening to him. The Lightborn's stomach growled. "What is that you are eating?" he enquired.

"It do be the finest of cheeses, Prince Puss… did you wish some?"

N'aethan sniffed, eyeing with distaste the crumbly, yellowy green lump that had been thrust toward him. "It smells rotten," he observed, "looks mouldy, too…"

"Oh, it does be a little aged, my Cat King, but all the better for it!" Gen continued to gnaw and munch with relish, his lack of teeth not seeming to hinder him.

N'aethan frowned. "I think I'll pass…" He peered over the side, squinting down into the murky water. "I wonder if there are any edible fish in this river?"

"There do be no fishes left, for the wicked crocodilians did eat 'em all up!"

"They are called 'crocodiles' you eccentric nincompoop!" N'aethan growled, then narrowed his eyes at a flash of movement beneath the surface, swept a hand down into the river, claws spread, deftly scooping out a broad, flat fish. He caught it neatly by the tail and slammed its head against the side of the boat, killing it instantly.

"That there must be one fishy as did get away from them hungersome crocs," Gen commented owlishly.

"Well, it did not escape from me," N'aethan muttered, raising his catch to his mouth with both hands and sinking sharp teeth into its flesh. He chewed and swallowed, methodically. Raw fish was not his favourite food, but it would do for now. Gen watched the Lightborn eat awhile, before returning to his elderly piece of cheese, which had clearly seen better days. Still, each to their own… and given that N'aethan rather suspected Gen of being a former-cannibal in addition to a former-Souvraniene, then it could, of course, always be worse. But then, that might well be said about most things…

Twilight had begun to encroach upon them by the time N'aethan finished his piscine meal. After tossing the fishbones into the river and wiping his hands clean on Gen's walaru-skin cloak when the wearer wasn't looking, the Lightborn recalled his unanswered question… "Gen?"

"Yes, King Cat?"

"Call me not by that name. Where are we right now?"

Gen blinked, then smirked provokingly. "Upon the river?" he ventured.

"I know that!" N'aethan took a deep, calming breath. "How long till we reach Larcheen?"

"It do no be long…"

"How long?"

Gen looked uncomfortable, then leant forward, his eyes crossing a little, hands gesturing fluidly as he spoke; "in truth, I know not quite the sum of it, in most precise measure of time, for it hast been long indeed since last I journeyed unto the City of Blackest Midnight…"

N'aethan gaped, his mouth falling open, sharp teeth flashing. Gen was using the High Speech! With the thick local accent, granted, and lacking inflection or much in the way of syntax, but even so… for once, the addled castaway sounded almost civilised!

Gen continued with his wordy answer, adopting an oddly lecturing tone; "though I would surmise a further day of river travel to the Great Bay and thence, we might venture forth upon the estuary of Larcheen itself, in the expectation of-"

"You are speaking the High!" N'aethan exclaimed in the same ancient tongue, bringing the exposition to an abrupt halt.

Gen blinked. "I do be talking the high what?" he wondered, slipping back into his rustic approximation of the Vulgar.

N'aethan winced… it had been so pleasant not having to listen to that awful pidgin speech, albeit for only the space of a couple of sentences! "The Old Tongue," the Lightborn impatiently specified, "you actually spoke to me in a tolerably sophisticated manner!"

Gen frowned. "Which I does do that betimes," he muttered, "use the native talk of Aisle Souvraniene without a-knowing of it…"

"Why do you not speak it all of the time?" N'aethan demanded, adding; "I certainly wish that you would!"

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay, Rightful Ruler of Catkind, 'tis not meetsome to so do! Which I do far prefer the civil tongue of the Northlands, of fair Illian where I did first learn the right speech of honest folk who do no eat manflesh!"

N'aethan stared silently at Gen for a long interval. Eventually, he spoke. "You're weird!"

Gen blinked, then shrugged. "Thou art a queer creature thyself, Chumira," he muttered in the Old Tongue, seemingly unaware that he was doing so. Then, Gen sighed nostalgically, shifting back to the Vulgar; "ah… Illian! In all truthsomeness, 'tis an uncommon fine place!"

N'aethan sighed, shaking his head wordlessly for a moment, while Gen's eyes glazed over and he smiled lecherously, presumably at some pleasant memory. Or more likely, a remembrance that all might find unpleasant but he!

"If ever I return to the Westlands," N'aethan growled, "I shall avoid this 'Illian' like the plague… or worse, dogs…" he shuddered, "…imagine! An entire city full of people who sound like you, Gen!"

Gen's refutation of this low opinion of what seemed to be his favourite place was impassioned; "tis not near so bad as all that, Cat King! I did enjoy my time amongst the Illianers most fulsomely, and did drink much ale and play at games of chance in the District of Perfumes, where bosomy ladies of the night do profusely loiter!"

"Yes, I would imagine so…" N'aethan agreed vaguely, now correctly interpreting why Gen had been leering in that lewd manner whilst recalling his activities abroad!

Gen sighed regretfully. "In course, the luscious Captain Ysmet did no like it when I did go a-sneaking off the ship to carouse away the night… which she did oft send her hook-handed boatswain to find me and drag me back aboard the Queen Mab, where she did scold me something fierce!"

"Serves you right!" N'aethan snapped, with righteous reproval.

"But good times they did be," Gen concluded, "and I would that I had stayed in dear old Illian, the Swampsome City… but I did needs return unto where I were birthed, for to die…"

"I don't see why you had to come back to the Land of the Madmen," N'aethan objected, "one can expire pretty much anywhere, so why did it have to be here?"

Gen shrugged, unconcernedly. "Tis my destiny…" he whispered.

"Well, there's no avoiding that."

They drifted downriver for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, while the fiery orange sphere of the sun sank gradually beneath the eastern hills. N'aethan had no conception of the ideation occupying what passed for Gen's mind, and by the peculiar old man's dark expression, was glad of it… but for his part, the Lightborn could only dwell upon that which had obsessed him since receiving the message… the summons. His Sister. The Fourthborn. As well as her… companion.

Gen had been able to tell N'aethan but little concerning the Gholam which, given that he existed in a state of perpetual confusion, was hardly surprising. Only that it was indeed the same Gholam that had been sent to assassinate Father, the one that he had captured and reconditioned, forcing it to obey his will, as opposed to that of the Forsaken. One of the three Gholamin that had been made to resemble a female human… when N'aethan had still been Tro, during his adolescence, spying upon the dread Shadow-wrought killer in its cell, he had always been surprised by how… ordinary it had looked. Nothing outwardly remarkable about it at all…

N'aethan had subsequently thought much the same of the male-appearing Gholam, one of the other three deadly Shadow-Constructs, the one that had been tasked with the elimination of Latra Sedai. That Gholam had taken some killing, and the young Lightborn had barely survived the encounter. N'aethan had a nasty feeling that disposing of Father's Gholam would be far more of an ordeal. The fell creature had inhabited the world for a millennia or more… it would have learned a great deal in that time, knowledge which would make it a much more formidable opponent that its Brother, whom N'aethan had bested when it was still newly-spawned and inexperienced.

But however difficult and dangerous a confrontation, whatever attrition he suffered as a result, N'aethan knew that he must destroy this Gholam, or die trying. It was too dangerous a Shadowspawn to be allowed to exist any longer, to walk free upon the earth… but over and above this consideration, N'aethan felt compelled to kill it by something more powerful than reason. Instinct. The countering and neutralisation of the Gholamin assassins was what he had been primarily made to do by Father, long ago, in another Age… and so, he must do it. It was why he had been Constructed. There was no choice, no other option, and he was entirely content with that state of affairs.

"Gen…"

"Yes, King Cat?"

"Avoid using that terminology forthwith. I was wondering… this Gholam that my Sister consorts with..?"

Gen shook his head firmly. "Nay, Noble Liege of Cattendom! The Queen o' Foxes does durst not lay with the blood-beast, betimes! 'Tis not to her taste so to do!"

"What?"

"Feir the Fourthborn did take lady-loves to share her blankets, on occasion, which I did find diverting to secretively look upon… there were this buxom young Witch with flaming-red hair, I do recall, the pretty Wolfmaid also, awhile… but never was the dread drinker o' gore her close-consort! Why, she-"

"Silence!" N'aethan scowled. "I am not speaking of sex, you blithering imbecile! When I say 'consort' then I… I mean…" The Lightborn came to a gradual halt in his correction of Gen's misunderstanding, blinking rapidly as a wave of new awareness began to filter into his consciousness.

Gen stared at N'aethan curiously; "whichever does you mean, Catsome Highness? When I did live amongst 'em, the Fox Queen and her Shadowy servant, never did I have congress with the Gholam neither, perish the thought! I did no like the way it did oft look upon me, a-licking of its lips and thirsting after my bountiful blood! Why, once I-"

"Shut-up, Gen! I am trying to concentrate, damn-it!"

Gen's mouth closed, slowly and reluctantly. He watched the Lightborn expectantly, fidgeting, clearly wishing to continue with his peculiar reminisces. Then; N'aethan blinked slowly in a feline way, a gratified smile curving his lips, spreading across his wide-mouthed face whilst his eyes hooded, oval pupils expanding to all-but eclipse his cobalt irises. "What do be the jest, Thirdborn?" Gen wondered, stirred from silence by curiosity. In his preoccupation, N'aethan did not even notice that Gen had neglected to use one of the annoying cat-names in favour of his original designation.

"Sammael…" N'aethan breathed.

Gen's eyes widened and he gasped. "Sammael!" he groaned, "him! Even he! The scar-faced man who does come at night and stuff bad children in his sack!"

Sack? N'aethan blinked. "Huh?"

Gen grinned self-consciously. "Forgiveness, King Cat, but when I were a little lad, my old foster-ma, she did tell me spooksome tales of the Forsaken Ones at bedtime… which she did used to scare me off to sleep with 'em!"

"Oh? She did?"

"Twere most frightful indeed… some nights I did shake so hard 'neath the sheets that I did fall out of bed!"

"I see. Your foster-mother sounds like a charming woman."

Gen nodded, smiling in melancholy fashion. "Oh aye, she did be most alarming… you have the right of it, Cat King."

N'aethan scowled. "I did not say alarming, I said… oh, never mind!" His thoughts returned to the knowledge that had so enigmatically come to him, as it always did for Lightborn, for his Brothers also, though Father had never understood quite why or how… which had annoyed the ancient Aes Sedai considerably. "Tel Janin Aellinsar," N'aethan mused, considering the tidings with great satisfaction.

"Who?" Gen wondered.

N'aethan ignored Gen, lost in consideration of the past, its effect upon the future… assuming that any of them had a future, with Tarmon Gai'don coming…

"Who?" Gen repeated.

"What are you, a bloody owl?" N'aethan snapped.

"No, I do no be a-"

"Tel Janin is Sammael, you nitwit! Whoever else? Or at least, he was… that was his original name when he was Aes Sedai, before he turned traitor to the Light and went over to the Shadow in the fourth year of the War, the sneaky turncloak!"

Gen raised his sparse eyebrows, the faded tattoos on his forehead wrinkling. "Oh. Sammael… and his big scar, all upon his face…"

"Yes, the scar. The Dragon did that." N'aethan chuckled softly. "Middle Brother was there when Lews Therin Telamon duelled Sammael, gave the treacherous cur something painfully permanent to remember him by… Taw told me all about it later." N'aethan considered a moment, then muttered; "it was one of the few times I ever saw Middle-Bro smile…"

Gen blinked. "So… what about Forsaken Sammael then, O King of the Cats?"

"What indeed?" N'aethan grinned savagely. "He just got himself killed."

---

Denouement : Song of Somnolence

Jebedah the Laughing God gave Shai'tan a farewell pat on the neck; the big stallion tossed his head proudly, dark mane flailing... then, with an echoing whicker, the remembrance-summoned steed galloped away, fading further into insubstance with each long stride until there was just the disembodied sound of plunging hooves in the distance. Finally, this too was gone. Jeb sighed, feeling lonely… but then collected himself, turned and strode confidently through the rectilinear portal that he had channeled into being, passing from the World of Dreams back into the World of the Wheel in the span of a single step.

As Jeb emerged into the glade, the very first thing he noticed was the smoke… for a moment, he presumed that the tendrils of dark vapour, pregnant with ash, had originated from the burning of Stedding Dashai. But no, in the middle-distance Jeb could see that the variegated woodland of the Tia Avende Alantin stedding yet rose into the dawn sky, the Great Trees towering beyond. Hardly any sign of a conflagration over there… he frowned.

Jeb considered leaving the gateway to Tel'aran'rhiod open, tying-off the weave… long experience had taught him the value of always having a way out of any potentially dangerous situation, a line of retreat. But it might not be wise to provide an entrance to that otherworldly plane which could be utilised by anyone, or anything. A delicate balance existed within the Dream World; should any people or wild animals – or Ogier either, for that matter, whatever they counted as – trespass through the portal, there could be serious repercussions. Jeb was well-aware that he was not the only traveller between differing realities to make extensive use of the World of Dreams, for the accomplishment of his goals. He had encountered others there before, with varying consequences, and did not particularly wish to incur the enmity of certain powers by allowing intrusive elements to physically access the Dreaming Realm, wherein they might cause chaos.

The Forsaken in particular… for the time being, the Chosen of the Great Lord were to be avoided at all costs; Lanfear, Daughter of the Night, most especially. Jeb smiled coldly. For now, at least. If all went as planned, transpired as he had foreseen, then it would not matter much longer… although his Dark Design, near a century in the preparation, was greatly dependant on securing the co-operation of the captive Aes Sedai, possibly the Sharan woman also. Well, he would see…

Larcheen could wait for now, Jeb had other irons in the fire. His frown returned. The fire that by all rights should have been raging fiercely through Stedding Dashai, dispossessing those accursed, meddling Treebrothers of their last stronghold within his Land! So… where was the smoke coming from, if not the burning of trees? Letting the gateway to the World of Dreams close firmly shut, the hovering portal revolving and diminishing into a line of silvery light that then winked from existence, Jeb went to find out…

The heavy, smoking clouds proved to be emanating from the south, closer to the stedding, where the siege-lines of his invading force should be arrayed. Jeb made his way purposefully through the diminishing forest, then paused at the treeline, staring out across the wide expanse of grassland that bordered Stedding Dashai. "Tsag!" he swore.

The origins of the smoke stood revealed; tents, stores, watchtowers and worst of all, his half-dozen massive catapults, the product of much ingenuity and labour… all had been burned to the ground. The vestiges of timber, ropes and cloth were just smouldering now, but had evidently been fully ablaze until relatively recently.

Scowling furiously, Jeb strode down to investigate further, descending into and wending his way through the intervening network of trenches, dug to encircle the stedding. No immediate sign of the slave-labourers who had done the digging, nor their overseers neither. At first. But then, rounding a corner within the earthworks, Jeb stepped upon a corpse.

Jeb drew back his boot, examining the dead man incuriously. Grimy, bearded, clothed in rags… one of the slaves, clearly; a native of this primitive land, with the crude facial tattoos and filed teeth common to his kind. He had been killed with a deep stab-wound to the chest, lay on his back, sightless eyes staring. Jeb moved on.

Further down the trench, Jeb discovered additional bodies, sprawled in attitudes of brutal demise; two more slaves and an overseer, his rough leather mask torn askew to partially reveal brutish, anonymous features. The slave-labourers bore similar fatal injuries to the first, the blood-stained flint blade still gripped in the overseer's stiff hand attesting that he had likely been responsible for one or both of these slayings… though from the bruises and livid striations about his neck, it was apparent that he himself had been forcibly strangled to death. It would seem that some sort of an uprising had occurred amongst the enslaved workforce…

Jeb raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching. "The slaves are revolting!" he exclaimed, then chuckled softly, though it was a very old joke, and hardly original.

As Jeb proceeded toward Stedding Dashai, he discovered further signs of bloody turmoil; violently-slain overseers, soldiers and slaves… though not enough corpses of the latter to indicate that all had perished here. Jeb scowled as he strolled past further dead slave-labourers, sneering down at them, speculating about the whereabouts of their fellows…

"Run-off back to their miserable hovels, I would expect," Jeb muttered resentfully. He would, in all probability, have done the same in their unenviable position. But really, though! He had spared the wretched lives of those debased, cannibalistic savages, fed them, clothed them, put them to work at useful endeavours; a great improvement over the constant and pointless blood-feuds with rival tribes that would otherwise have occupied them… and how did they repay his kindness, his generosity? By killing their guards and decamping into the forest the first chance they got! The faithless ingrates!

Jeb paused briefly and blinked, considering… but what had given the slaves that opportunity? What had happened here? He would need to ask someone, and soon… if he could find any of his men that yet lived. The vicinity of the siege-works seemed entirely bereft of his modest horde of soldiery… and as for the red-masked Souvraniene who served their Laughing God so faithfully; well, the apparent absence of these individuals concerned Jeb most of all. He had sent a score of his Madmen to this place, for the purpose of besieging and destroying the stedding, numbering several of the more powerful male-channelers amongst them. He had given the command to Singer, who had a talent for destruction, the intent and ability to accomplish his warlike ends. Jeb frowned again, continuing south.

When Jeb finally did find somebody who yet lived, he rather wished that he had not, all things considered... At the end of the wide trench he traversed, carelessly passing more slashed and gory bodies as he made his way along, lay a broad ramp of beaten-earth, leading up out of the siege-works. Numerous torn corpses littered this slope, mostly slaves by the looks of it, with a few dead overseers interspersed amongst them… but Jeb's attention was primarily focused upon the lean, wiry figure, crouching over one of the slain.

Jeb hesitated, curiously eyeing the sole sign of life that he had discovered. Did he know him? He was unsure. Whoever it might be wore just a fur pelt wrapped about his waist, a long tail of pale, knotted hair extending down the line of his spine… and was completely covered in dark, dried blood!

Jeb raised a fist to his mouth and coughed pointedly, a throat-clearing sound to gain the attention of this gory fellow. The stratagem was successful – immediately, the feral man turned his head, revealing a notched ear with a rawhide cord pierced through the lobe, then rose swiftly, rounding menacingly on Jeb, fingers clawed, ferocious green eyes glaring from a snarling, bloody mask. Despite the obscured and gore-smeared features, Jeb instantly recognised this bestial personage as one of his own, a male-channeler and follower of the Laughing God.

"Howler!" Jeb cried, then because he was at something of a loss with regard to the Madman's current besmirched appearance, vaguely added; "uh… how goes it?"

The blood-drenched Souvraniene stared at Jeb in hostile fashion, baring his teeth, the incisors sharpened to canine keenness. Though tall, his spare body corded with muscle, he stood poised on the balls of his feet, knees bent, leaning forward… this put their eyes on more-or-less the same level, despite Jeb's diminutive height. Then, the atavistic red-mask threw back his head and howled, a wild and mournful sound that rose into the smoky sky.

"Now I remember why you are called that," Jeb commented wryly. Howler lowered his gaze, resuming his aggressive stare, little hint of recognition in his eyes. Jeb noted two things; the corpse that Howler had been crouched over had a red, leathern mask obscuring the dead man's features and showed definite signs of predation. And in addition… "Where is your torc, Howler?" Jeb demanded, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Madman's bare and bloodstained neck. It would seem that he had removed his protective bronze ter'angreal...

In response, though it was not much of a response, Howler again gave voice to his distinctive ululation, louder this time. Jeb sighed, repressing the urge to stick his fingers in his ears. It wasn't really Howler's fault, he allowed, all of that unpleasant noise; the crude fellow was an orphaned foundling and had been raised in the wilds by feral dogs, after all… in fact, it was he who had tamed and trained the hunting hounds used by the Laughing God's forces, a useful contribution to the cause. However, what was Howler's fault…

"You've been eating forbidden-flesh again!" Jeb accused, "that dead chap behind you – one of us, I might add – has a distinctly gnawed appearance!" Howler glanced back at the fallen Souvraniene who bore his teeth-marks, shrugged broad shoulders, then pinned Jeb warningly with a bloodshot gaze, venturing a threatening movement forward. "Well, Howler? What do you have to say for yourself?" Howler gave no immediate answer, taking another loping step toward Jeb. He could talk, after a fashion, they had taught him speech when he first came to them, cursed with the One Power… but Howler did not bother to speak very often, as a rule. "You know that devouring people is wrong, Howler, I forbade it! And as for taking off your torc… why, 'tis dangerous!"

Howler made a low, growling sound, then snarled in a rough and disused voice; "I wear dog-collar no more, Master! And eat what I wish, when I want! 'Tis my right!" For all his bravado, the gore-stained Souvraniene then gave his mouth a swift wipe with the back of his hand… the blood he dislodged from his lips, unlike the rest of that which liberally coated him, looked fresh.

Jeb sighed, feeling dejected. It always troubled him, when this happened… Many of his followers were somewhat unstable, crazed even, it went with the territory… as was he, if not more so, the Laughing God was forced to admit. But clearly, Howler had taken that final step over the edge of the precipice, leaving the firm foothold of sanity irrevocably behind as he fell deep into the abyss of madness. There was no coming back from that, only death awaited him now. Despite the dubious protection of the torc-ter'angreal, it occurred amongst Jeb's red-masks often enough for him to recognise the distinctive signs – not that, in Howler's case, they were remotely obscure! – and but one remedy for the demented state of such an unfortunate existed…

Having cleansed his mouth, though it made little difference to his frankly horrifying appearance, Howler shot an oddly guilty glance at his Laughing God… but then, rebellion flared anew in his wild and staring eyes. "My right!" he repeated, before howling up at the sky once more.

A rare fury arose within the Laughing God. "Your right?" he thundered, "by what leave do you defy me, you howling mutt?! Do you claim Godhood also, as do I, or more as those pathetic, rotting mendicants who wander the wastelands in search of death and destruction?"

Howler shook his head vehemently. "Nay!" he shouted, "I no mere God akin to you, Laughing-One!" Abruptly, his demeanour shifted with the disturbing rapidity of the truly insane. The wrath melted away in an instant, leaving something sinister in its wake. Howler smiled wickedly, spoke softly; "clear to me now, it is, revealed stands truth… you see… I am…" he paused dramatically, before declaring; "the Creator!"

As Jeb assimilated this alarming revelation, he sensed the One Power flaring about Howler, saidin flowing into the extremely mad Madman in a copious torrent… but despite this indication that he was about to be attacked with whichever deadly weaves his adversary saw fit to use, he was not overly concerned at the prospect. Howler was strong in the Power compared to some, but in comparison with the Laughing God… well, it would hardly be much of a contest. Even so, Jeb regretted the necessity of destroying the feral Souvraniene… he had always quite liked Howler, though was unsure why. Perhaps because the wild red-mask, though habitually smelling strongly of the kennels, at least was pleasingly taciturn, not constantly providing unasked-for opinions and observations. But all things changed...

"Well, Howler…" Jeb began to say.

"Divine Creator, call me!" Howler angrily insisted.

Jeb grinned. "If you're the Creator, then I must be the Great Lord of the bloody Darkness!"

Howler gaped. "You are Dark One?" he enquired, in wonderment.

"No! I was being ironic!" Jeb squinted over Howler's shoulder, commenting; "though in actual fact, I do believe that Shai'tan is standing just over there, looking at us…"

Howler blinked in surprise, turned to look… and the Laughing God promptly killed him. Afterwards, Jeb strode up the earthen ramp, stepping over the bloody shreds of the howling Souvraniene that lay widely scattered about. The larger pieces of Howler, at least… it was too much trouble to avoid the smaller bits, so Jeb did not bother. Whoever the other red-mask had been, was impossible to say… the corpse, caught in the blast, was rendered unrecognisable. That was the problem, when one used the Power to tear apart an adversary; it made such a mess of everything.

"You cannot make an omelette without exploding a few eggs," Jeb muttered truculently, coming to a halt at the top of the earthen ramp, shaking his head in disbelief as he considered the success of his simple ruse… "I cannot believe that even someone as credulous as Howler fell for that!" he mused. Attempting – but not quite succeeding – to dismiss the recent unfortunate events from his mind, Jeb's shrewd gaze took in the view. His unwilling eyes beheld much the same as that which he had seen from the glade previously, though of course, closer now. Jeb set out to see what he could find… if with little expectation of encountering anything fortuitous. After his ill experience with Howler, he found himself descending into a rather gloomy mood…

As Jeb approached a smouldering heap of charred timbers – the regretted ruin of a prized catapult – the smoke hanging in the still air grew thicker, intruding upon his lungs. Jeb coughed, spat, then drew the bronze fox-mask from a pocket of his Gleeman's cloak and pulled it down over his face, breathing a little easier within its confines. Through the holes set in the ancient Mask-ter'angreal, Jeb's pale blue eyes scanned his surroundings. Unlike the scene of carnage within the earthworks, there was no indication of death up here; not a single corpse lay upon the scorched grass… and nary a hint of life in sight either, for that matter, nothing moved but himself. Jeb's confusion increased, in-tandem with a growing sense of disturbance and disquiet. He could almost imagine that he was being watched…

"Lord!" shouted a desperate voice. Jeb turned, swiftly reaching for the jagged blade sheathed at his belt. A skinny, fur-clad man emerged from the smoke, dark eyes staring wildly through his red, leathern mask, etched with a laughing mouth. Though by the sound of it, the Souvraniene seemed in no mood for laughter; he was panting heavily, his panicked breathing indicative of the fact that he had run far and fast… and was scared. Jeb watched expectantly as the dishevelled Madman staggered toward him, pausing to regain his breath, bent forward, hands resting on his knees.

"Oh… hello there…" Jeb muttered absently, glancing around to see if there were any more of his followers about, any survivors at all… seemingly not. "Which one are you?" Jeb enquired. The red-mask, unable to answer, continued to struggle for breath, the smoke wreathed about them hindering his efforts, causing him to commence coughing also. "Take that mask off!" Jeb commanded, waving a hand and weaving a whirling column of wind to dispel the smoke in their vicinity. He used the last of the saidin in his Well to do so… that remainder not expended by the powerful surge of Earth and Fire he had channeled to destroy Howler. The beaten copper storage ter'angreal would need to be refilled, and soon… but Jeb had no present desire to engage in the struggle for dominance that seizing the One Power would entail. Not yet, at least…

The anonymous Madman straightened and yanked off his red mask, revealing a thin and unremarkable face, flushed and sweaty, the gaping, buck-toothed mouth gasping for air. Though the unprepossessing fellow looked familiar, Jeb did not immediately recognise him; but then, he had always possessed a poor memory for faces… and there were rather a lot of his followers about these days, given the increase in those born with the spark, he could hardly be expected to remember them all. The Souvraniene drew in a shuddering breath, then hoarsely declared; "it ith me, Bosth!"

Jeb blinked. "Bosth?" he repeated, incredulously.

"Yeth! You should not be here, Lord… tith dangerouth!"

Realisation struck Jeb… there was but one of his men who talked like that! "Lisper, my boy!" he cried, grinning, "but of course it is you! Long time, no see!"

The skinny Souvraniene nodded enthusiastically; "yeth Bosth, it ith I, Lithper… but-"

"Where in the Pit is Singer? I want to know-" Jeb's mouth snapped shut and he started with surprise as Lisper abruptly cocked his head to one side, listening intently - then whirled, sweeping out a hand in a hurling motion, casting forth a hastily-summoned fireball! The blazing orb roared fiercely into the smoke, impacting against a large boulder. Flames leapt high, shattered rock-shards erupting all around. Lisper lowered his arm, peering about cautiously. "What are you doing, Lisper?" Jeb angrily demanded, "are you taken by the bloody Dragon?!"

Lisper blinked at Jeb annoyingly. "No, Lord… thought I heard thomething…"

"You'll hear the sound of one hand slapping the back of your empty skull if you do anything like that again!" Jeb growled, adding; "there could be more of our people out there… we don't want to roast them to a turn, do we?" Lisper looked doubtful, in addition to contrite, but nodded slowly. "Whither Singer?" Jeb reiterated, "I wish to be informed concerning what has become of my k'jasic siege, and that warbling fool had better provide a credible explanation, or… or I…" Jeb trailed-off.

Lisper was shaking his head back and forth dolefully. "Thinger ith dead, Lord… your followerth hath fled or been thlain, only I alone thurvive!" His voice rose in volume, attaining a trace of hysteria; "she killed them all!"

Through the eyeholes in his bronze, fox-faced mask, Jeb stared at Lisper in disbelief. "Dead?"

Lisper nodded cautiously, before venturing; "perhapth Howler yet liveth, but he ith inthane now, he thlew thome tholdiers… and then murdered Caller, when he tried to thtop him…"

"Oh, that was young Caller who Howler was dining on, was it? Pity… he had potential…"

"…Howler wath tho upthet about the wolveth killing hith dogth that I think it unhinged him and cauthed an epithode of-"

Jeb impatiently interrupted, recalling now what a chore it was having to listen to Lisper explain things! "Never mind about Howler, he's crow-bait… but the rest of the lads… all dead?"

"Yeth! All! We mutht leave thith plathe now, or-"

"Hold! Who killed them? Who would dare?" Jeb felt wrath rising within him, a powerful urge to punish whomsoever was responsible for such a severe reverse in his fortunes. "This 'she' to whom you refer… who might that be?" In actuality, Jeb was certain he knew who was behind the mayhem, but it was best to be sure…

"The Daemon… the Fox Queen! She aidth the Ogier, fighth for them!" Lisper blinked rapidly, sucked at his protruding front-teeth, then added; "and there are two more of their human allieth, they who thet the fireth… the Wolf-Witch and a warrior who may be one of the Hawk-folk… she ith an… an…" the skinny Madman took a deep breath, then with some difficulty managed to utter; "athathin!"

"A what?!"

"An… ath… ath…"

"Oh! Do you mean 'assassin' perhapth?"

"Yeth, Lord…"

Jeb realised what he had done, glared at Lisper furiously. "Perhaps!" he pronounced distinctly, before grumbling; "curse it, now you've got me doing it too!" He sighed, shaking his head. "Dear me, that impediment of yours actually seems to have got worse since last we spoke…"

"Thorry!"

"Not your fault, Lisper, but do try not to shower me with spittle quite so much… now, what of the rest?"

"Retht, Bosth?"

"Turn to the side a little, when you speak. Yes, Lisper… my soldiers? Remember them?"

Lisper shook his head reluctantly. "They are gone, Lord, routed, there wath a battle to the wetht, the Treebrotherth came out of the thtedding in forth-"

"Forth?"

"Forth!"

"Oh, force… I see… pray continue, Lisper."

"Yeth, Lord, thank-you. The Ogier attacked and defeated your armthmen, drove off the thurvivorth, purthued them into the foretht…"

"What of the slaves?" Jeb's voice took on a hopeful note; "dead also?"

"Only thome, Lord, the remainder abthconded, they ran away…"

Jeb sighed. "So, in other words, it looks as though we can count this one as something of a loss?" Lisper blinked slowly, wisely electing not to attempt answering what was presumably a rhetorical question. "Come along," Jeb growled, striding away, muttering vengefully; "I am not going to bloody-well take this lying down!"

Lisper hurried after his Laughing God, dark eyes darting about fearfully. "Where are we going, Lord?" he gasped, managing to avoid any 's' words for once.

"We go to Stedding Dashai…"

"W-why?"

"To turf those pompous, tree-singing birds out of their nests, of course! The arcane atmosphere of the stedding won't stop me, for I have a Well-ter'angreal, Lisper, more potent far than the one I gave to Singer…" Jeb stopped and turned; "you are certain sure he is dead?"

"Very dead! I thaw Thinger's corpth! Hith throat wath thlithed!"

"Sliced?"

"Yeth!"

"You could have just said 'cut' you know… oh well. Too bad… not the nicest of people, was Singer… but he did have perfect pitch. I shall miss his fine voice, if not his poisonous personality…" Jeb stroked the chin of his bronze fox-face thoughtfully; "any sign of that Well I gave to him? A medallion, Power-wrought of black iron…"

Lisper shook his head. "We thearched for it, Lord, but it wath taken by hith killer, theemingly…"

"Curses! Those things are hard to come by… oh well…" Jeb turned, heading for Stedding Dashai once more, "enough chatter! Let's torch some trees!"

"But Bosth…"

Jeb whirled around angrily, glaring at Lisper, who quailed. Glowing, guttering timbers, wreathed in wisps of smoke, lay spread all around them, though no signs of life, but for themselves. "Stick to Lord, since it contains no sibilants! What is it now?"

Lisper lowered his impedimented voice cautiously; "Lord, the Daemon-Queen of Foxeth… she may thtill be about… there ith danger!"

Jeb sneered. "Speak-not of ought that is dangerous, not to me! I have returned intact from Shayol Ghul, fought in the armies of the Dragon King, faced-down the Red Ajah and even survived the bloody Ways! Think-you the Laughing God is afeared of some vulpine abomination, an Eelfinn half-breed, the dregs of Sindhol? Danger, say-you? Hah!" Jeb turned on his heel and stomped away.

Lisper hesitated, then scuttled nervously after. "What courthe of action do you mean to take, Lord?" he breathlessly wondered.

Jeb's answer was brief and to the point; "I am going to burn Stedding Dashai to cinders, as Singer and the rest of you incompetents so singularly failed to do!" Jeb smiled nastily. "And I shall enjoy doing so… you see; I don't like Ogier!"

Lisper's aggravating voice spoke from further behind; "you hath mentioned thith antipathy before, Lord... but have a care, for the athathin and wolfgirl may be- urk!"

Jeb blinked. "May be urk?" he repeated to himself, wonderingly, then glanced back to demand of Lisper his meaning. He stared. The skinny Souvraniene lay flat upon the grass, face-down. For an instant, Jeb wondered if he had tripped… but the fallen Madman made no attempt to rise, nor any movement at all. It was only then that Jeb noticed how Lisper's head was twisted at an unnatural, fatal angle… he was quite dead. Jeb glanced warily about, glimpsing nothing within the smoky environs.

Immediately, if reluctantly, Jeb seized the True Source, but for once the struggle to maintain control over those raging forces did not seem so great an ordeal… raw saidin flowed into him, a cataract of the One Power's male aspect, magnified considerably by the golden-handed sa'angreal secured within his Gleeman's cloak. It felt marvellous to be suffused with such an essence… but also; horrendous. Jeb could feel the chaotic consequences of holding so much saidin mounting inexorably, the entropy inherent in being connected to the unstable and Tainted half of the True Source beginning to overwhelm him… hastily, he refilled his Well-ter'angreal with all the Power that it could hold, well-knowing that he might not be afforded another such opportunity.

His eyesight made keener by the potency that filled him, Jeb suspiciously continued to search his surroundings, but saw no sign of any hidden enemy. The thick smoke lingered all around, reducing visibility. With a stark sensation of both loss and gain – strength exchanged for stability – Jeb released the Source. He staggered as a wave of dizziness swept through him, his vision doubling, but these ill-effects soon wore off. Jeb took a deep breath, attempting to calm his mind and body. Frowning with cautious confusion, he then considered the situation… whoever – or whatever – killed Lisper had been fast, very fast, coming out of the smoke to snap the hapless Madman's neck before disappearing back into the haze with equally alarming rapidity. Unnaturally swift… Why, then, had they not attacked him also? Jeb thought he knew the reasoning behind this apparent oversight… the killer was making a point. Toying with him…

The Laughing God smiled grimly. This, he could understand… he liked to play games with his foes also, and even more than that, loved to win. Deadly contests for supremacy, imaginative ways to triumph over a mortal enemy, satisfyingly poetic victories to relieve the boredom of an unnaturally extended existence. Even so… the unseen presence that hunted him, which was undoubtedly watching their prey from the cover of the smoky fog right now… they had made a mistake. The killer should have attempted his death when they had the chance. They would not get another…

so you wish to play, do you? well, now it is my turn!

Within the fox-mask, Jeb's savage smile faded as he looked upon Lisper's corpse with faint regret. But he had lived amongst death in all of its cruel aspects for so long, it barely affected him anymore. He reached down, tugged the bronze torc-ter'angreal from about the slain red-mask's crooked neck, stuffing it into a pocket. "You had an irritating manner of speech," Jeb told the dead Souvraniene, "in fact, you were a rather irritating person, irregardless. But you made for a loyal and faithful servant… and there was no malice in you. Be at peace, Lisper."

"He was the last." The clear, cultured voice echoed out of the pall of smoke, emanating from no direction that Jeb could readily identify. "I sought him since yester-eve. Your Madmen are all accounted for, now. I have hunted-down and slain every one."

Jeb noted that the unseen killer spoke the Old Tongue in an antique mode that he had not heard the like of in a very long time, since his days at Davian's Royal Court. Though the cadences of this ancient speech sounded more venerable even than that... seemingly, he was actually hearing the language of the Age of Legends itself! In addition; there was a decidedly throaty quality to these sophisticated, taunting tones, a growling, snarling note that set the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright…

"All? I actually slew one myself," Jeb argumentatively declared.

An eerie, yipping sound emerged from the smoky occlusion… it took Jeb a moment to identify it as laughter. "That howling psychotic?! The blood-drenched, cannibalistic dog-man? I let him be, since he abetted my purpose, only adding to the chaos." A brief pause, then the voice pointedly added; "I favour chaos!"

"As do I," Jeb concurred.

This statement was ignored. "Now, there is just you, Scion of Souvraniene."

Jeb snorted disparagingly, the noise echoing within his bronzed fox's face. "You shall find me more challenging prey than my men, your Highness! Show yourself, do!" Silence greeted this invitation for a pregnant pause in the proceedings… then in response; something moved in the smoke, stalking forward with lithe grace. The shape resolved itself into a tall and slender maiden, pale of skin, clad in loose black trews and shirt, feet bare. Those toes, her fingers also, bore long, claw-like nails. Jeb's gaze rose to her face. The palest eyes he had ever seen, large and lustrous, watching him intently. A russet mane of hair, swept back into a crest, revealing slightly pointed ears. Clearly; not human. Inhuman.

"I am no Queen," the predatory female announced, as she halted a dozen paces away from Jeb, hands arranged on slim hips, adding menacingly; "so call me not Highness!" Sharp, carnivore's teeth flashed betwixt full lips as she spoke.

Jeb smiled mockingly, for all that his face was hidden, the expression going unseen. "Oh, but all modesty aside, verily you are Royalty, my dear…" he bowed, fluttering the patches of his Gleeman's cloak exuberantly. "I am honoured to meet you at last, Fox Queen!"

"Huh! My use-name is Feir… Feir-called-Fourthborn." Feir smiled slyly. "And given that you claim Godhood, I would suppose the honour to be all mine…" Jeb shrugged, continuing to surreptitiously smile. Feir's unearthly eyes narrowed. "Though you do not appear to have much to laugh about now, Laughing God…"

Jeb's smile widened behind the mask. "Considering recent events, I am in no mood for mirth, presently… perhaps later. After all; 'he who laughs last…'"

"Laughs longest?" Feir's upper lip curled with contempt. "Your laughing days are over, tyrant. But before your timely demise, answer me this one question…"

"Which is?"

Feir scowled, pointing a clawed nail accusingly. "What in the Nine Hells do you think you are doing, wearing Uncle Gwili's damn Fox-Mask?!"

Jeb's brow furrowed. "Uncle… Gwili..?"

"Yes! Gwilimin Sedai! The Leafwright! Uncle Gwili never let anyone else wear his precious Mask-ter'angreal, not even me! So how came you by it, despot?"

Jeb shrugged. "Well… if you must know, I found this bronzed fox-face a goodly time ago… hid deep beneath Hob's Hill. I think-me it was your mysterious Uncle who yet wore the mask, but since he had clearly been dead long years, I did not believe he would mind if-"

"Grave-robber!"

"Not-so! 'Twas no tomb I found him interred in, he sat seated in a chair, this 'uncle' of yours, whoever he was… an Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, I presume? And I expect that he would have wanted me to have the ter'angreal, in any case…"

"Liar!"

"…and this, also!" Jeb swept the golden hand from his cloak, pointing the extended index finger at his accuser. "Ha-hah!" he cried, then felt a little foolish.

Feir stared, pale eyes widening in surprise. "Father's sa'angreal too! Thief!" Those disconcerting eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What else have you stole from my kin?"

"Nothing!" Jeb denied, then considered. "Well, there was that silver horn…"

Feir blinked. "Horn? What damned horn?" She glared at Jeb in frustration. "Enough! I might have known it would prove a waste of time speaking to you, Laughing God, or whatever your true name is…"

"Call me Jeb!"

"Jeb? Seriously?" Jeb nodded in mute affirmation, the fox-mask tilting up and down. Feir sighed, shaking her head slowly, long russet hair whisking against her shoulders. "Well, 'Jeb,' you two-faced fibber in your garish, clownish cloak…"

"I be no clown! A Master Gleeman, am I!"

Feir's brow furrowed. "A… glee… man?"

"Master Gleeman, if you please!"

"What is that? Is it like a Bard?"

"Certainly not!" Jeb objected, offended. He had played the Bard in his time, of course, but that had merely been idle pretence… Gleemanry was his true calling.

Feir shrugged, uncaring. "Yes… well… anyway, Laughing Jeb, since you are clearly madder than a Maighdal Hare, I believe that I shall converse with you no further, for the sake of my mental stability…" she took a stalking, threatening step forward, "…I have been meaning to put an end to you and your villainy for some time now…" another footstep, "…and good things oft come to those who wait." A final step; Feir was now within pouncing range of her prey. "Time to die, Souvraniene."

"I think not." Accessing his Well-ter'angreal, Jeb channeled. Instantly, a wall of fierce flames sprang from the ground about him, encircling the Laughing God in a protective ring of burning, orange fire. Feir snarled with rage and warily backed away, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the blazing barrier. She looked angered… but most uncomfortable, also. "Your people do not care for fire, do they?" Jeb commented.

Feir stared furiously at Jeb through the scorching shield he had summoned, her face twisting with distaste at the proximity of the flickering flames. "I don't like fires one bit," she hissed, "but I have no people… my race is Lightborn; but for my Brother, I am unique!"

"What of the Eelfinn, the Foxes who prowl the endless halls of Sindhol?" Jeb conjectured, "are they not your close kin?"

"Of course not!" Feir spat, her gaze reluctantly lingering upon the fiery circle, "you will find that I have little in common with those wicked creatures!"

"That remains to be seen." Jeb considered… "The Fox-Daemons, then? Your precursors… their descendants… whatever they are. The savage creatures who first named you Queen?"

Feir sniffed disapprovingly. "I claim even less kinship with those debased monstrosities, I am certainly not their Queen, they may fear fire but I do not, since I fear nothing!" Feir took a deep breath, crouching beyond the blazing wall, clearly forcing herself to remain even this close to the hated, burning light. "I just don't much like it, that is all," she muttered, before her pale and predatory eyes fixed upon Jeb, a promise of dread retribution in that cold stare. Despite himself, he shivered.

"How have you summoned this horrid blaze?" Feir demanded suspiciously, "by all rights, my aura should have disrupted your…" she paused, blinked her large eyes slowly, then hissed; "you have a Well, don't you?!" Jeb nodded solemnly, the smiling fox-face tilting again, then pulled up his coat to reveal the serpentine belt-buckle, wrought in copper, tinged with greenish corrosion. Feir examined the ancient ter'angreal, sneering. "I've not seen one like that before," she commented, raising her pale gaze back to Jeb, glaring at him reprovingly through the detested, intervening flames. "It could use a good cleaning," she pointed-out, "and anyway, what of it? So your snaky saidin-store is a way around my ability to prevent you from touching the Source… 'tis but a temporary measure. Finite, whereas my patience is-"

"Infinite?" Jeb interjected, sarcastically.

Feir smiled coldly. "I wouldn't go quite that far… but you might be surprised by how long I can wait, to get what I want." Again, that sly, vulpine smile. "Your grotty old buckle is only a well, fool… and wells eventually dry-up!"

"As do those who talk too much!" Jeb responded, "inevitably, they run-out of things to say…"

Feir ignored this barb. "You cannot channel this vile, fiery shield into being forever," she hissed, "and after it is extinguished, when you may no longer hide behind your cowardly flames, I shall come for you, Laughing God, slowly drain you of every drop of saidin… and then snuff-out your pitiful life even slower than that!"

Jeb reached up, raising his fox-mask to the top of his head, revealing his pallid face, his crafty smile. "I am sure you shall," he allowed, before cheerily adding; "but might the doomed chicken be permitted a final request of his foxy nemesis?"

Feir smiled faintly, then shrugged. "I care not. Ask-away, little chick!"

Jeb bowed again, taking the opportunity to slide a hand behind his Gleeman's cloak. "My thanks, Majesty, you are gracious indeed…" He straightened, lips twitching; "my requirement is that you listen most attentively to this!" And with that, Jeb unslung the lute from his back, where it had lain hidden beneath colourful, patched cloth. As the burning barrier began to dissipate, Jeb grinned wildly, raising the instrument, fingers moving to strings and frets with swift, practiced ease.

Feir's eyes widened with alarm, her mouth falling open in dismay, sharp teeth flashing as she cried; "no! That's not fair!" She attempted to flee beyond the range of the lute's sound, springing back, but it was too late… Jeb's fingers danced over the strings, picking out a complicated melody with a rapid tempo. At the same time, he slipped into the rustic, Vulgar speech and loudly sang;

"The Queen of Foxes came to town,

bought an ale and drank it down,

poured another for her brother –

so they might their sorrows drown!"

"Damn you!" moaned Feir, her feet stumbling, habitual grace deserting her as she staggered, "curse y-" she yawned widely, raising a long-nailed hand demurely to her mouth to cover the bared incisors. Her eyelids growing heavy and drooping, she swayed as the music wrought its soporific effect upon her. Jeb continued to play and accompany himself with raucous song, launching into the next verse with gusto;

"The King of Cats quaffed mighty deep

afore too long began to weep;

told his sister that he'd missed her -

too late, she were fast asleep!"

Feir sank to the ground, yawning extravagantly. As she curled onto her side, pale eyes sliding shut, she managed to mumble; "devious… troubadour! You… cheated!" Feir closed her eyelids tightly, falling swiftly into a sound slumber, her steady breathing gradually slowing to the rhythms of deep sleep. Jeb continued to strum his lute all the while, though ceased the singing. There was another verse – he had composed this simple drinking-song especially for the Fox Queen some time ago, as a precaution should they ever meet – but Jeb did not think he need give voice to any further words. The music alone seemed to have accomplished its hypnotic effect.

Still playing, Jeb let the final, flickering flames die down, then stepped over to the sleeping Feir, examining her carefully, just in case she was faking… but no, her comatose state proved quite genuine. With a flourish, Jeb brought the rendition to a close, though kept his lute handy, should the sleeping Fourthborn abruptly wake.

"You're more Eelfinn than you like to pretend, my dear," Jeb softly told his entranced captive, "since that ballad knocked you out every bit as fast as with your accursed cousins, the Foxes!" He grinned triumphantly; "faster, if anything!" Jeb's grin faded slightly, his brow furrowing. "Troubadour..?" he muttered. That was a word he had not heard in a long time. They were musicians of the Age of Legends, he distantly recalled, cultural forerunners of Bards and Gleemen… well, he could always ask Feir about Troubadours later, when they were safely back in Larcheen.

Jeb had a great deal of questions for his prisoner, in fact, and there would just about be enough time to ask them… World enough, and Time. At least, until the Laughing God seized his destiny with both hands, and broke both! Jeb smiled widely, baring his teeth, insanity flickering behind his eyes like an incipient fever.

Jeb yet maintained access to the saidin in his Well, and since there was just enough of the Power left for his purposes, channeled the same complicated weave he had cast back at the Castle of the Hawx. Had that only been half a day ago? It had. A gateway to Tel'aran'rhiod promptly opened nearby, a silvery line rotating into a rectangular portal, hanging in the smoky air. Jeb glanced toward the stedding, recalling that he had been planning to reduce it to ash… but then shrugged. "I'll do it later," he muttered, "if I remember to…"

Slinging the antique lute on his back, Jeb stooped and lifted the unconscious Feir, surprised by how heavy she was, given her slim build. He was strong for his size, however, and managed well-enough. As he approached the gateway, his dormant burden cradled carefully in his arms, Jeb commented; "well now… that went a lot smoother than ever I thought it would…"

For some reason, this struck the Laughing God as amusing… so as he stepped through the portal, bearing his unearthly hostage, quitting the World of the Wheel for the World of Dreams, he lived up to his name - as well as his promise - and laughed, long and loud... and last.

---

RIP Syed the Darkparrot… his demise was... poignant...

GB