Down on the Farm
Four men sat in a line on a long wooden bench, set against the old stone wall of the manor-house, next to the kitchen door. Their seven feet were propped up on a high stone lip a span before them, part of some much older road that had once run through what was now the large rear courtyard. A stable bordered the courtyard ahead, out-buildings and stone barns walling it to either side, as well as a high arch and large double-gates that stood open. A chicken walked slowly through, scratching at the dust. The sun was not yet set, but would be in an hour. One of the men drained the last of his cider from a finely-worked wooden tankard and rose, stretching one arm while looking down at the vessel in his other hand. It was identical to those the others drank their cider from, smooth polished grain, worked with vines and leaves.
"This is sung-wood," muttered Gwil Raef the Peddler. "I was not sure, but…"
"Aye, Gwil," agreed the squat, broad-shouldered man who was hosting them all, "it's sung-wood alright. There's a lot of nice old Ogier bits and bobs knocking about the place… there's an enormous great bed up in the attic, we could always drag it down but I don't suppose we'll be having any Ogier guests anytime soon… or any other guests for that matter…" Vin Stoneheath the Factor grinned at the other two men. "That's why it was nice to see you two! You're the first bloody guests we've had here since the last time you were here, and then there weren't any for more than twenty bloody years!"
"What about your Gleemen friends, Vin?" asked Abel Cauthon.
Vin frowned. "They don't really count as guests, Abel. Mistress Hardyn always makes them sleep in the barn, and lucky she does even that! She doesn't like Gleemen… though everyone else on the estate does, we've had some fine dances in the same place the poor fellows have to spend the night (though not always alone, and Mistress Hardyn doesn't like that sort of thing any more than she likes the bloody Gleeman who's doing it!) Why, if we have a couple of Gleemen here for the night, folk even come from the villages and Baerlon."
"But you're a Gleeman, Vin," pointed-out Tam al'Thor, in the same, burring west Andor accents as Abel, "are you saying Mistress Hardyn doesn't like you?" The two Andormen and the Peddler grinned.
Vin shrugged. "Oh, she likes me well enough, in my place. Even though I'm supposed to be the Factor of the Manor and she's just the House…" Vin glanced a little nervously at the kitchen window, which was slightly open. He did not complete his sentence. The two west Andormen (though they were in west Andor, they came from further west than this) exchanged smiles with the Peddler. The Housekeeper had him well-trained!
"Besides, even though I earned my journeyman's cloak from old Billi back before I joined the…" Vin glanced at Tam, who nodded his head slightly, "the Companions, well, I've been a soldier, a sailor, a carpenter… I've even been a bloody peddler!" Vin grinned at Gwil the Peddler, who grinned back.
"Watch-it you!" exclaimed Gwil. "There's nothing wrong with peddling, it gets you out and about to see the world, you're always meeting new people and selling them useful things for more than you paid! What could be better than that?"
"What indeed? Well, even though I'm only half a bloody Gleeman, I'm lucky she doesn't make me sleep in there as well!" Vin glanced at the open window again, the grin fading from his face, and took a swig of cider.
"We're fine in the barn by the way, Vin," said Tam. "I wouldn't want to get you into trouble with your Mistress Hardyn."
"Are you joking? You slept in the barn on the way to Tar Valon when she didn't know who you were, but now-" Tam was glaring at him. Vin closed his mouth. It was difficult to not mention certain things, especially since he had already told Mistress Hardyn exactly who Tam was, or who he had been, rather.
Gwil the Peddler knew who Tam had been as well, but had been told to just call him 'Tam' as the other had mentioned 'Abel' as being his name – no, Master al'Thor or… what was the other one, he had only said it once… Cauldron? Something like that. Odd names these Two Rivers men had, he had been most places but he had never been there. It was Padan Fain's patch and no Peddler went where another might go regularly, it was not done. Besides, he had never met a Peddler who had crossed Fain and not regretted it… the fellow had murdered three other Peddlers to his knowledge, but what could you do? There was no proof. They had just disappeared out between the towns somewhere, and that was that.
There was not much that made Gwil Raef the Peddler nervous – he had faced-down thieves and murderers aplenty, and cracked a few skulls with the heavy cudgel that always hung at his belt. But Padan Fain made him nervous. He thought Fain might have Friends in low places, but wasn't sure… he had met a few people over the years he was convinced had been Darkfriends, especially the one who tried to murder him beside a shared fire out in the wilderness, and got his head split open for his trouble. Padan Fain seemed a likely candidate, but Gwil was not a bloody Questioner (though he had once put his sword through the neck of a nasty looking fellow with a red shepherd's crook on his white cloak, and enjoyed doing so) so thought the best policy was to avoid Fain whenever possible… and avoid Fain's territory, unless he wanted to end like the probable Darkfriend he had killed in that lonely place, the still-warm corpse tipped unceremoniously into a ditch.
Gwil set the finely-worked tankard down on the stone lip regretfully, wishing that it was his… he knew of a Cairheinin Lord called Dobraine who collected sung-wood, and there were four matching tankards, maybe even more in the kitchen… he did not bother to ask how many. Everything in the Manor House was the property of its absent Lady, and it would never occur to Vin the Factor to sell so much as a spoon that was not his, anymore that it would have occurred to Gwil to offer to buy it.
Besides, Gwil was a Peddler, not one of the thieves who had learned to fear the speed of his cudgel. He had not been in the Companions for long back when he had been young and stupid, but Bannerman Aendwyn had once said he had fast hands, which coming from that stern Far Madding Blademaster was praise indeed, especially since he rarely said anything at all! Far Madding men were always bloody quiet specimens – being raised by and married to women who did not give them leave to speak without first gaining permission, probably had something to do with that!
Gwil was an honest man (for a Peddler, at least) and therefore looked on the sung-wood tankards with the simple envy of someone who does not own something and wished he did. And tried not to think about the delightful haggling he could have engaged in with Lord Dobraine's steward, or perhaps even Lord Dobraine himself if he really wanted them. On the one occasion when they had met, the cold-eyed Cairheinin Lord had almost seemed excited at one point, his pale, solemn face flushing at the cheeks a little at the prospect of adding the fine sung-wood ladle Gwil had brought for his perusal to his large collection of other antique sung-wood kitchen utensils…
It was odd, what some people became excited about! Gwil liked sung-wood, he thought it was beautiful, but an ordinary tankard to put his cider in would have been well enough – it always had been on his visits to see his old comrade Vin before… but then, he was not the special guest. He was not the Second Captain of the Companions.
Strange that Captain al'Thor had grabbed him by the arm when he saw him and whispered; 'we were old soldiers in the Greencoats of Illian together, Gwil, and that's all. I've told Vin too, and now I'm telling you – I don't want to hear any mention of the Second Captain of the bloody Companions in front of Abel. When I went back home, I went back as me, not as some bloody Hero with a big, dangerous, long-haired fellow carrying a banner behind my bloody back everywhere I went.'
Gwil might be a Peddler now (a man who doesn't get himself killed doesn't always feel the same about warfare after the fact as he did before, when he was younger and stupider, and a lifetime of soldiering had not been for him any more than it had been for Vin) but he had been a Trooper in the Companions and he knew what an order from his old Captain sounded like when he heard it, so he had just nodded and said, 'yes, Master al'Thor.' Unlike Sergeant Vin bloody Stoneheath, who kept almost letting it slip!
"Well, time to get back on the road," Gwil declared.
He hoped they'd finished rebuilding The Stag and Lion, he always preferred to stay there… he had found another nice, slim blade of good Kandori steel, sized just right for a woman's hand and if that girl, Min, was still working in the stables there, he could probably interest her in it. He hoped she hadn't told her aunts that he had been selling her a couple of decent blades here and there, those women would come after him with rolling pins…
It was obvious to Gwil that 'Elmindreda' was never going to settle down and marry some nice fellow and give her aunts babies to coo over – if Min wasn't still at the Inn, that would probably be because she was off hunting the bloody Horn! – but it was none of his business. And if young Min (who he had always liked, despite what some of Baerlon's nastier residents whispered of) was going to go out and see the world, then he was going to make sure she had a couple of good sharp blades that would not turn in her hand for the roads were less safe than they had been… and who better than a travelling Peddler to know of that?
He sold them to young Min at a very reasonable discount, because he had known the girl's aunts for years and was not entirely a Peddler to make profit from others (though he had been quite swingeing with those Aielmen he had met near the Shienar border because he had been to the Waste a few times and knew he would get away with it!) No, he enjoyed the bargaining and the exchange of one thing for another – 'a dog for a hog or a hog for a dog but naught for naught' was an expression in use on this estate.
But it was not just to make money that he did it, though he had a fair bit salted away in Tar Valon… perhaps he would open a shop there when he got tired of the road, though the rents were bloody expensive, he had a friend who owned boat houses and a tackle stall in Northharbour (another ex-Companion) who always said he could come and pitch-in with him if he wanted to. It might be nice to live in Tar Valon as an old man, it was not that different from Andor, though the names were a little different… not as odd as the ones round here though! Gwil had been born in Kor Springs and was not sure he was even in Andor anymore!
"I think I'll head into Baerlon," Gwil added.
Vin protested. "You can always stay here, Gwil, Mistress Hardyn would be happy to put you up in a servant's room since you're not one of my Gleeman friends! She approves of Peddlers, she thinks you are useful people. She liked the sewing box you found for her by the way, the one with the folding trays…"
Gwil shook his head. "I would usually Vin, you know that, but I have a couple of warehouses I need to get to before the bloody competition snap up the best stuff. I passed Jarat Myre's wagon on the way here, stopped outside an Inn, and I'll be burned if I let that old thief get a jump on me!"
"You Peddlers – do you all hate each other?" Vin wondered.
"Yes! Its Baerlon for me, so I'll be taking my leave of you, Vin. It was nice to meet you Abel and good to see you again s- Tam."
Abel Cauthon frowned a little. Had the Peddler just almost called Tam 'sir?' Tam had not said much (when it came to not saying much he could outlast a statue!) but Abel was getting the impression, especially from certain things Vin had let slip, that Tam had been a much more important man in the Companions than he had let on.
Watching and listening to people was useful to find out things… to out-bargain them. The Peddler was not the only one who enjoyed a good haggle, though Abel was more interested in horses than sung-wood tankards… they had brought out the best for Tam on this occasion, unlike when they had come through here on their way to Tar Valon. Vin clearly thought Tam was important and Mistress Hardyn had been very welcoming (unlike to a Gleeman) this time, though she had regarded them both with suspicion on their previous visit, when their arrival had been unexpected.
Obviously, Vin had told her something about Tam since last time when they had slept in the barn… with that bloody Gleeman! Tam had quite liked the fellow, they had even asked Vin to bring them out a stones board and even though he had eventually won, the young Gleeman had told Tam that he was the best player he had faced since old Thom, whatever that meant… though had not the Gleeman on Winternight been called Thom something? But Abel had thought him a little full of himself… what was his name? It had been months ago… from somewhere out west, Toman Head on his tongue… something 'Blewker?' Odd names, these ocean-coasters had… that song he sang for them, about the man who hunts the Horn of Valere to get away from his scolding wife, who follows him, finds it and drags him home by his ear… that had been quite funny, it was unusual to meet Gleemen who scorned the old favourites and mostly wanted to sing their own songs, usually satirical… and then it turns out it's not even the real Horn, but one that summons a bunch of Sages in old white robes who the wife then throws out into the street!
Mat would have liked that, the young Gleeman had been a bit like him in some ways (though less so, or Abel might have tossed him out into the courtyard.) Abel was not as worried about Mat as he would have been if he had not had Rand and Perrin with him, as they were steady sensible lads (which he wished he could say of Mat!) but even so, he was still worried. Oh well, he had been to see the Amyrlin bloody Seat about it (now there was a scary lady, eyes that could bore holes in a stone sheepcote wall!) though she had been surprisingly pleasant to them, well, at least after she found out who they were. She was obviously a very busy woman but had snapped at her tall graceful secretary (now there was a pleasant armful) to leave them be and had talked to them out on the balcony, even pouring glasses of punch for them. When he left the Two Rivers to find out where the Aes Sedai had taken his boy, he had not expected to be poured punch by the Amyrlin! She had provided a certain reassurance… though the truth they heard might not be the truth they told.
Even so, it intrigued Abel to think that Tam had been more than just a Sergeant or a Bannerman in the Companions… maybe even much more… But he was worried about his son and thinking about Tar Valon so he just clasped hands with the Peddler and walked as far as his pack horse, which still wore its half load. The horse looked well cared for, he was pleased to note. Some Peddlers treated their pack beasts abysmally…
Vin retrieved his crutch and followed them, his peg-leg thumping in the dust of the courtyard. Tam followed on. The Peddler un-tethered his horse.
"Baerlon for me 'til next time, Vin. Nice to meet you, Abel."
"You should come down to the Two Rivers some time," Abel suggested.
The Peddler looked a bit nervous for a moment. "That's Padan Fain's territory…"
"Not any more," said Abel with a grin, ignoring Tam's warning look, "not since we found his wagon burned to the ground, perhaps with him in it… Fain must have fallen asleep with his pipe smouldering." Abel then glanced at Tam reprovingly. Tam shrugged apologetically. Did he think that Abel was going to start shouting about Trollocs? It had taken long enough for the rumours of what happened on Winternight to die down, he did not intend to start any new ones.
"Fain's dead? Good! Might see you in the spring, then."
They stood and watched as Gwil Raef the Peddler walked his horse away, hooves clopping on the cobbles. He paused at the gate and waved. They waved back, watching as he disappeared from sight.
"This is a fine place you have here, Vin," said Tam, approvingly, his dark eyes moving across the courtyard, taking in the weathered stones of the old manor-house.
"Oh, it's not my place," Vin responded, "it belongs to her Ladyship."
"Is she about?" Abel enquired.
"Light, no, the Lady Desiama has never so much as visited the manor."
"Desiama..?" Tam muttered. Now, that was a name he had heard before…
The prisoner lay on his red cloak in the camp bed. It should have been a white cloak, but was sodden with blood. He was surely in a lot of pain – he had a broken-off crossbow bolt sticking out of his hip – but nonetheless, was insouciantly whistling some soft air under his breath. He was a tough-looking character with cold, dark eyes, the same one who had killed several of the Illian regulars and shoved his reins into Pedron Niall's bloody hands!
Tam had seen the whole thing happen as he led his men in a desperate counter-charge. They had already saved the army if not the Illian King from the consequences of his own foolishness, and now there might be a chance to take Niall, or to just take Niall's head, and put an end to this nasty little unnecessary war at a stroke – perhaps, a stroke of Tam's Heron-mark blade!
But not if Niall got onto the horse that the other Whitecloak was offering.
The head Whitecloak had tried to refuse, so this Whitecloak had slapped him in the face, Tam had seen him do it, and shouted something, before Pedron Niall, glaring, scrambled onto the horse and dug his heels in. They had tried to catch him, they had tried bloody hard, but the fox had escaped them on this fellow's horse.
The Whitecloak had watched his commander gallop away, then turned, raising his Heron-mark blade to meet the crossbow bolts, two of which he had managed to knock out of the air, or they might have ended-up in his face. He had used Sweeping the Willows for that, Tam had noticed, he had never thought to use that particular sword-form to defend against arrows… but another bolt took him in the hip. The crossbowmen had been foolish enough to move in closer and the Whitecloak had killed three of them before surrendering to Tam and his men at sword-point.
Tam wondered about the slap but kept it to himself for now, since he had an Aes Sedai with him. She was a formidable presence, she had just come striding into the camp demanding to know where the worst wounded were and had proceeded to Heal every one of them, whether they wanted her to or not. She had left the tent before the fellow regained consciousness. Probably just as well…
The wounded Whitecloak looked up at him coolly as Tam stood over the bed.
"I recognise you – you are the Bannerman who told the Illian scum not to cut my throat." His voice was level, he spoke with the cultured accents of Amador.
"Yes sir." Tam called him 'sir' even though he was a Whitecloak, even though he had seen him kill the Illianers. The golden knots of rank of a Lord Captain on his torn, blood-drenched cloak entitled him to the word. And then, there was the slap, his giving up his horse so that his commander could escape. Tam found the Whitecloak intriguing…
The Whitecloak nodded. " 'Sir,' I like that… well, I was caught and taken by the Companions I suppose, though I would rather have killed you and taken your horse, Bannerman!" He laughed softly. "Still; 'sir.' Better than 'Whitecloak dog.' " He laughed again and this time Tam unthawed a little and laughed with him. "You are good fellows, you Companions, and what you did was very brave, though you did it for a King who was not worth a Tinker's curse. I will tell you something, Bannerman," he added, confidingly;
"When I was but a small, foolish boy, I did not particularly wish to join the Children of the Light, though that is what the men of my House have done ever since there was a House…" he smiled and leant forward, wincing a little at the pain in his hip this movement intensified, but otherwise ignoring it, lowering his voice conspiratorially; "in stead I wanted to go to Illian and become a bloody Companion! Perhaps even rise to be First Captain and feature in my own Gleeman's song!" He leant back, laughing.
Tam got the feeling the Whitecloak did not say 'bloody' very often – and oddly, when he did, it had the hint of a west Andor burr to it…
"Ah, to be a small fellow again…"
Tam laughed too. "You should have run away from home and done it, sir – that's exactly what I did!"
The Whitecloak shrugged. "Aye, I might, but in Illian they do not allow we Amadici or even the Altaran scum to join the Companions, though they seem friendly enough with each other at the moment, yes? Ah, to be a boy again and not care about anything so large as politics, to wish only to wield a shining blade and impress all the pretty girls, yes?"
Tam frowned quizzically. "If you don't mind me saying so sir, you are a little different that the other White- the other Children we have captured…"
"Feel free to say 'Whitecloak' Bannerman, I do not mind in the least and never have – there are worse terms for us and I have been called all of those as well! Though I might be better described as a red cloak by the looks of it… no that cannot be laundered, though perhaps I can remove the knots, if not the actual sunburst, gold embroidery is so ruinously expensive…" The Whitecloak prisoner shook his head sadly over the state of his cloak.
The fellow was very well dressed and Tam had heard he was some powerful Amadici Lord with a great deal of land, probably enough money to buy Emond's Field, with Deven Ride and Watch Hill thrown in. Taren Ferry too, though Tam might have warned the Whitecloak not to buy that place… and yet, there was something oddly penurious about him! He seemed genuinely saddened that his cloak was now fit only for rags and that he might have to buy a new one – like Cenn Buie cursing fate because his splintered, rotten ladder was too unsafe for thatching-work and he would have to pay Samel Crawe a whole silver penny to knock him up a new one… not that Cenn would pay it straight away, not for ages at least, and only after Master Crawe had reminded him patiently a dozen times!
The Whitecloak raised his head, from shaking it sadly over the fine cloak that would no doubt cost several silver marks to replace, and realised that Tam was smiling fondly at some recollection… "Forgive me my mind is elsewhere, I dare say it is the pain. It has a somewhat distracting effect, I am amongst the enemy, after all and chattering away like a silly Tanchico fishwife!"
"Would you like some juice of the poppy, sir?"
"No thank you, Bannerman, I never touch the stuff… although a drink would be well… I wonder…" The Whitecloak glanced around the tent and sighed. "I would suppose that my belt pouch was looted, though I made sure to keep a firm grip on my sword until you took it from me."
"Your sword is safe, sir." It was currently lodged securely under Trooper Aendwyn's large arm. "And your pouch is over there, in the chest, would you like me to fetch it?"
The Whitecloak nodded. The pouch proved to contain the writing pad and paper a commander often wrote orders for messengers on, a fine golden pen and a thick-glassed, firmly-stoppered jar of ink. Also; a silver flask engraved with the snarling head of a wildcat. Tam held it up, and the Whitecloak beamed.
"Excellent! A good job a Companion caught me, or I doubt I would have been left so much as my gold tooth! Thieving Illianer dogs…"
The flask contained some very fine brandy, certainly the finest Tam had ever tasted, he usually preferred the apple brandy his da made to any of this rough southern stuff, but was quite content to sip the fiery liquor that the Whitecloak filled a small silver cup that doubled as a lid with and presented to him, before taking an oddly delicate sip from the flask himself.
"That is not too bad," the Whitecloak commented, "I do not usually buy the fine Sea Folk article – it is hideously dear – but when one takes one's Legion to war, one takes only the best to eat and drink, for one may not be coming back, yes? That is what my father always told me… apparently, it was a stipulation of Lord Luco himself, so for a thousand years the men of my House have been squandering coin on delicacies and fine brandywine that could have been better spent elsewhere! Perhaps Lord Luco was in league with my wine-merchant!" And he laughed again. He laughed a lot, for a man who had a crossbow bolt stuck in his hip.
After a while, he refilled Tam's cup and glanced at Tam's blade.
"I see you have the rather elegant bird decorating yours, also… a Blademaster Bannerman! You will, I think, go far in the Companions, fellow – if I do not take your head at our next encounter! Which I certainly shall, and mount it on a wooden plaque to decorate the grand hall of my manor-house!"
Tam chuckled. "How will you take my head if I have already taken yours, sir?"
"Ha! You have a sense of humour, Andorman. It is good to see that Andorans are not as humourless as Illianers or…" (his face writhed with distaste) "Taraboners… though, while I dislike the Altaran scum intensely, I must admit they tell some good jests – particularly those they tell of Amadici! I heard one when I was in Ebou Dar… briefly! They did not like us to remain, it seemed! Have you heard this one? 'What is the difference between a Darkfriend and a man who might as well be a Darkfriend?' "
Tam said that he did not know.
" 'A stupid golden sunburst on his stupid white cloak!' "
The Whitecloak chuckled, shaking his head, and Tam's accompanying laughter, whilst genuine (he had not heard that one but had heard many like it) held a note of surprise. He could not help but feel a tinge of grudging respect for this Lord Captain of the Children of Light, who not only laughed while he had a crossbow bolt embedded in his hip, but told jokes against himself as well.
Tam found himself wondering what the fellow's name was, but did not enquire. Perhaps he would find out later. Here he was in the infirmary tent waiting for the Aes Sedai to return – she was taking her sweet time, but then again, considering whom she intended to perform surgery on, the Whitecloak was bloody lucky she was taking any time at all! Tam did not care for Aes Sedai and avoided them whenever possible, but if the Whitecloaks called him a witch and tried to kill him, hang him, burn him… well, he wouldn't be too keen on healing any of them! Even a Whitecloak who told Whitecloak jokes!
Tam held out the small silver cup to be filled again. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you are the oddest bloody Whitecloak I have ever met!"
"Thank-you, Andorman. You say bloody just like my- yes, well, you are my enemy after all, and the first rule I follow when I sit my horse (Pedron had best have made sure the beast was fed and stalled properly before he saw to his own accursed needs!) at the head of my Legion looking upon the men we are about to kill is – do the unexpected! Keep them on their bloody toes!" There it was again, that odd burr…
"But in addition to my fine white cloak with the golden sunburst that I associate with the Light, while others may not… there is something else that I am first, before I am a Whitecloak."
"And what is that, sir?" He had never heard a Child call himself that before.
"A Desiama! I may be a Child of Light, Bannerman, but I am a Desiama first! We take pride in going our own way, in putting family first, irregardless of whether we do so within the constraints imposed by the Children. It has always been so. It will always be so, until the Wheel stops turning."
Sergeant Vin Stoneheath appeared at the tent flap.
"It's the Aes Sedai, sir, she wants to know if the Whitecloak will let her tend him?" Tam glanced at this Lord Desiama (he had a name to put to him now, odd names these Amadici had…)
Lord Desiama shrugged. "I do not mind," he murmured, "provided that the Aes Sedai promises to not use the One Power to transform me into a frog!" He chuckled. "I like not the taste of flies!"
Tam smiled and turned and nodded to Vin, who looked uncertain. Doubtless, he wondered why Tam was drinking and laughing with the Whitecloak…
The Aes Sedai came into the tent. Her name was Romanda Cassin. Her hair was dark, streaked with grey, bound back from her brow in forbidding fashion. She wore finely-stitched woollens and a yellow shawl. She glared down at her patient.
"Mark me well, Whitecloak; I lost a Warder to you swine a long time ago," she snapped, "so any of your funny business and there is going to be trouble, young man."
"Yes, Aes Sedai, I understand. There will be no trouble from me. Today."
Lord Desiama spoke to her levelly, but not without respect.
The elderly Aes Sedai sniffed, and pulled the bandages away from where the Whitecloak's uniform britches had been cut away, so the end of the bolt could be sheared off. While she looked at his wound, Tam al'Thor kept his hand on his Heron-marked hilt, watching the Whitecloak closely in case he tried to harm the Sister, though he had been searched for concealed weapons. He did not think this Desiama fellow would attempt to break her neck, though he was probably strong enough to do so if she didn't manage to stop him with the One Power first. But he did not think he would try… not that he might not want to or would fear for his own life – Whitecloaks were certainly fanatical enough, as he had discovered in this rather nasty little war – but simply because to do such a thing would be… uncivilised.
"The bolt will have to be cut out first," the Aes Sedai muttered, "I shall need a barber-surgeon's tools… fetch some, Bannerman."
"Forgive me, Romanda Sedai, but I must remain here to guard the prisoner."
The Aes Sedai rose, glaring at him, and stormed out of the tent. Tam found himself exchanging a look with Lord Desiama. A look that men occasionally exchange, but only when the woman in question is safely out of viewing range.
"So that is what an Aes Sedai is like, up close," Lord Desiama mused. "I had a great-aunt who was rather like her… unfortunately!"
Tam found himself chuckling with the fellow, who refilled his cup again.
"You are from the west of Andor, yes?" Lord Desiama enquired.
"The Two Rivers."
"Ah, I have heard of this place, where King Aemon fell… the story was first told to me by my wife."
"She is Andoran, sir?"
"She is. Her family's lands are near to a small place called Baerlon, do you know it?"
"Aye, I do… though the first time I saw it, I did not think it so small…"
"But then you went to Illian to be a Companion, and you appreciated that it was, yes?"
Trooper Aendwyn came in, Lord Desiama's sword still under his arm.
"There's a baby Whitecloak come to see his daddy," he growled rudely, eyeing Lord Desiama with cold distaste.
"Show him in, Atual. And leave the sword on the bed."
"Yes, Bannerman." A last cold stare at the enemy, and Aendwyn tossed the Heron-mark blade onto the other bed as he left.
"He seems a formidable fellow," the Whitecloak commented, "despite the silly long hair."
"Oh, he is. Earned himself a promotion today, to Bannerman."
"The same rank as you."
Tam shrugged, neglecting to mention that he was to be promoted also. It had been a bloody day for the Companions. The Third Captain had been killed in the fighting, and he had not been the only one. Far from it. War always left gaps to be filled, but he wished that it did not feel like stepping into a dead man's shoes.
Tam knew who the 'baby Whitecloak' was, he had arrived earlier with his men to talk to the First Captain, under a flag of truce. The important Lord was to be exchanged for someone the Whitecloaks had captured.
"You are to be exchanged, sir," Tam told Lord Desiama.
"Already? The Lord Captain Commander must miss me. Or wish to execute me for slapping him and saving his life! Do you know whom I am to be exchanged with? Surely not the King?"
"You will be wanting to keep him, sir." Tam bit back further comment. The captured Mattin Stepaneos was not a good commander. They were welcome to him! "I had heard it was Prince Toriam, the grandson of the King of Altara."
"That fool? Is there no-one better?"
"No, Lord Captain."
Lord Desiama sighed, gustily. "Very well, if it must be it must – but I would have preferred to be exchanged for someone of equal or greater value, not that… fool!" There was silence, then Lord Desiama turned to Tam, confidingly. "A hog for a dog, a dog for a hog and a Lord Captain for a strutting, arrogant peacock who gets his men killed," he snapped.
Tam blinked… 'a hog for a dog…' they said that around Baerlon he thought…
It did not smell particularly bad in the tent, but the expression on the face of the young man who entered suggested differently. His white cloak was resplendent, with single knots of rank gleaming golden at his shoulders. His burnished mail shone like silver. He rudely ignored Tam and bowed to the man on the bed.
"How is your uncle, Child Bornhald?" enquired Lord Desiama.
"He is well, my lord, he always speaks of you with affection in his letters."
"Affection? And a snake might so well speak of legs! Though he is a good enough fellow I suppose, for a Bornhald… when last you saw him, was he still using the saddle with the running silver wildcats chased on it?
"Yes my lord, it is his favourite saddle."
"It was my favourite saddle, you mean! The next time you write to your uncle, tell him that I wish the saddle I lent – not gave, Bornhald, lent – returned, or if he cannot bear to part with it then he owes to me an item of equal value!"
"Yes… yes my lord!"
"Or greater, though that would be a cold day in the Pit. He has been borrowing items from me since we were cadets together and has never yet returned one of them. Your uncle is a bloody thief, Bornhald!"
Bornhald did not seem to think it odd to hear his uncle called a thief by this odd Whitecloak, he must be used to it. It sounded like friendly ribaldry to Tam, if in a rather constrained Amadici way… though he had not thought Whitecloaks engaged in such raillery.
The Aes Sedai returned with a pair of pliers, as well as several other gruesome-looking devices, pushing past young Bornhald, who stared at her. As she leant over Lord Desiama, he snapped; "get away from him, witch!"
Tam scowled and touched his hilt and the Aes Sedai straightened, regarded the youth with cold disdain and opened her mouth to lambaste him, but Lord Desiama pre-empted her;
"Child Bornhald, you will be standing at attention and not slouching like a drunken sentry, yes?"
Bornhald stared, then straightened.
Lord Desiama continued; "irregardless of what certain Questioners may have to say on the matter, the title of the woman who is about to remove a rather painful crossbow bolt from where it is lodged in my hip, Bornhald, is as far as I am concerned, 'Aes Sedai' and not the word that you have just used, a term as ill-advised in present company as it is ill-mannered. Do you comprehend my meaning, Bornhald? You may certainly nod your head if you do."
Bornhald nodded, sulkily.
"Then you will use the correct term when you apologise to the Sister, which you will now do, yes?"
Through gritted teeth, Bornhald muttered, "I ask your… pardon… Aes Sedai."
Romanda Sedai scowled. Tam grinned. She would have been running the Women's Circle back home. He knew what she was thinking… Where was the fun in the snot-nosed little Whitecloak being ordered to apologise to you? She had wished to extract that apology herself, like a stubborn tooth. She snapped her pliers together. Snap snap!
"Oh, just get out of my sight, you stupid boy," Romanda Sedai hissed, "I have an injured White-" she paused, looked at Lord Desiama who looked up at her… and raised his bloody eyebrow – he was a cool customer! "-Child who needs tending to."
"Indeed Aes Sedai," Lord Desiama agreed, "for the Illian steel of the bolt in my hip is no doubt covered in good Illian dirt, and should not stay there, no?"
Tam snorted a bit and the Aes Sedai glared at him.
Bornhald was still there – he would be dismissed by no witch by the looks of it. Lord Desiama regarded him with disfavour.
"Child Bornhald… go and tell the men in the wagon to bring a stretcher…"
"Wagon my lord? We came on horses!"
"Bornhald, I have a bloody crossbow bolt sticking out of my hip, does it look as though I intend to ride to the hunt anytime soon? Why did you not bring a wagon?"
"I did not think…"
"You did not think. When I agreed to take you as my Legion adjutant, I did not realise that your uncle would be sending me a complete imbecile! I am in a great amount of pain and am growing angry. Go and find a wagon, I saw some Tuatha'an earlier, perhaps they will lend you one. And ask the Travelling People nicely, and pay them for your trouble out of your own pocket, look on it as a penance for your rudeness, or I will know the reason why and you shall feel my boot in your-" Lord Desiama lowered his voice and collected himself, "your pardon, Lady," he muttered to the Aes Sedai.
Bornhald was still standing there, looking confused and concerned.
"Oh, just make yourself scarce, Bornhald!"
The young Whitecloak did so.
"If I wasn't an old friend of his uncle's…" Lord Desiama muttered, under his breath.
The Aes Sedai's not-inexhaustible patience was clearly at an end. "If I might be permitted to continue?" she enquired frostily.
"Please do, Romanda Sedai."
"You know my name?" She seemed surprised.
"The Bannerman mentioned it. And who has not heard of the famous former Yellow Sitter? I trust that you are enjoying your retirement?"
The Aes Sedai scowled. "I was until an army of Whitecloaks decided to march through my back garden! They crushed all of the vegetable rows, and knocked over my bird-bath, chipping the edge! Should I apply to Amador, to the Dome of… of Falsehoods, for redress?"
Lord Desiama turned to Tam; "pen and paper, Bannerman," he barked, as though Tam were his Bannerman! Tam grinned and passed him the pad, pen and ink from the pouch.
Lord Desiama dipped the pen and scribbled hurriedly, then tore off a sheet and passed it to the Aes Sedai. "These are my Factor's details. Please apply to him for the redress of any damage caused by the Legions."
The Aes Sedai squinted at the scribbled lines suspiciously and with ill-humour. "They may not have been your Legion," she pointed-out, reluctantly.
"Indeed they may not, I always tell my men to make a point of not marching through crops and market gardens, but do you see any other Whitecloak about this tent offering to pay?" He smiled. "I have a considerable fortune and you have a trampled garden… a hog for a dog but nothing for nothing, yes?"
Tam stared. There was that odd phrase again, he might have heard it around Baerlon. Tam had never seen a Whitecloak call himself a Whitecloak before, always Child this and Child that… a Whitecloak with a sense of humour? Well, a rather constrained, Amadici humour, but it was there.
Lord Desiama stood the resulting operation with grim fortitude, draining the last of the brandy from the flask beforehand, then staring up at the roof of the tent whilst the Aes Sedai set about cutting the bolt from his hip. Tam's admiration for the man increased, he did not cry out once, just sucked in deep breaths through his nostrils and occasionally winced as the probes and cutting tools did their grim work.
"You bore that rather well," the Aes Sedai admitted grudgingly, when it was all over, "none of the flinching and crying out that one usually gets from men."
Lord Desiama said nothing, he was as white as his cloak should have been, sweating, clearly relieved to have it over with.
"I shall wait for one hour, then return to Heal the wound."
Lord Desiama shook his head weakly. "That will not be necessary, Aes Sedai, just dress it again if you please and I will have my Legion's hedge-doctor take care of it from there."
"Your… hedge… doctor?"
"He is a capable man. In Amadicia, the men are the healers."
"I am aware of that boy, there is little in this world you are aware of that I am not. Hedge doctor indeed!" She rose. "Have it your own way then, but you will have a limp."
"Better a live limper than a dead…" He glanced at Tam, raising an eyebrow.
"Walker?" Tam supplied.
"I suppose…"
"Forgive me for interrupting!" snapped the Aes Sedai, "but you will have a limp and may not be able to ride a horse if you leave it to your… hedge-doctor…" she spoke the words as though they were covered in filth.
"Oh, I shall ride a horse again, even if the whole leg rots off, of that I do assure you, Aes Sedai. But my… doctor… will do well enough, now that the worst is over…"
"I could Heal you of this wound in an instant, there would not even be a scar."
"I am aware of that Romanda Sedai, as I am aware that you led the Yellow Ajah for many years, the healing Ajah – that is why I did not send that stupid boy back to the camp for the doctor as well as a wagon. He is skilled, but he is not you. And I am sorry about your garden."
"Why will you not let me Heal you, you fool?"
"Because you are Aes Sedai and I am a Lord Captain of the Children of Light, and we are who we are. Laws are often stupid things, but we must put up with them, for without Law, what is there?" A smile appeared, wavering on that pale, sweaty face. "Though should you find yourself in the vicinity of a cook fire and a kettle, then a cup of soothing herb tea might be most welcome?"
The Aes Sedai rose and stalked out, muttering uncomplimentary things.
Lord Desiama shook his head, and looked down at his bandage. "A fine piece of surgery, though I am glad it is over." He grinned. "I detest tea, by the way!"
Tam joined him in laughter.
"Well, now just to wait for the wagon, I suppose. I am sorry to be taking up your time, Bannerman."
"Not at all, sir. It has been… interesting."
"Pass me my sword, would you?"
Tam went to the bed and returned with the sword.
"A fine blade, sir."
"As is yours, Bannerman. Odd, how they never seem to need sharpening…"
Something about the way he said it…
Tam looked at Lord Desiama, who was grinning. He nodded to the blade as Tam placed it on the bed next to him. "Power-wrought, just like yours. It has been in my House as long as there has been a House. The Law states that I may not allow an Aes Sedai to place her hands upon me and use the One Power to Heal me… necessitating me to limp for the rest of my life… a lad who wanted to kill me and take my weapon and Blademaster's rank both would not find it too difficult now, but we shall see." He blinked, looking at Tam. "Forgive me, my mind is wandering…"
Tam shrugged. "That is quite alright sir… if I had just had a crossbow bolt pulled out of my hip with pliers, I would probably be asleep, though!"
"Yes, well, I shall sleep later. And pain is only pain after all, it can be ignored if it cannot be overcome. I think it is that I am unaccustomed to drinking that much brandy, yes? It has made me talkative… what was I..? Oh yes, irony! Do you appreciate irony, Bannerman?"
"I suppose, sir…"
"Then here is some irony for you, yes? I may not let the grim Sister (who reminds me strongly of dreadful old Great-Aunt Malythia each time she speaks!) Heal me with the Power and yet, I lead my Legion of Children onto the field brandishing a weapon that was, a very long time ago, made with the Power… made by a bloody witch herself!"
"That is a bit ironic, sir."
Lord Desiama shrugged. After they had compared swords, there had not seemed much else to do, and no sign of a wagon still… So, at Lord Desiama's suggestion, Tam sent Trooper Gwil Raef for a board and pieces and they played a game of stones. A plank of wood laid across the bed on two chair backs, served as a table. A game of stones then, which the Whitecloak could have clearly won much sooner than he did, but seemed to enjoy the setting of his pieces, the slow gathering of his forces. While they played, they talked;
"A good move, Companion. You play well."
"Thank you sir…"
"I sense an unasked question in the air… you are wondering about the horse?"
"Not so much that, sir, it was brave of you to sacrifice yourself to rescue Niall, but I was more wondering about the slap!"
"Oh, that – the silly fool tried to refuse my horse. The slap was to remind him that he was my superior and owed it to me and all the rest of his subordinates to gallop like the wind before the Illian scum caught him! As were my rather harsh words meant to remind him also." Lord Desiama scowled broodingly. "That is why he exchanges me for the Prince, a calculated insult, a slap in the face in return for my own, since the man has the sense to not ask satisfaction (unfortunately.) He always was a schemer, Niall, ever since we were cadets together… Geoff and I used to call him 'the sly fox.' "
Eventually, the wagon arrived, Bornhald returning to the tent with a brightly dressed Tinker in tow. He had grey in his hair, but walked with the brisk, graceful step of a younger man. Lord Desiama nodded to him.
"Good-day to you, Tinker. You have been paid for your trouble?"
The Tuatha'an man spread his hands, shaking his head. "If a wounded man wishes to be taken somewhere, in a direction we are already going, then there is no trouble and the People do not require payment. You may lie on the bed in my wagon while we travel, it is the most comfortable."
"Thank-you, Mahdi. That sounds better than the back of a dung cart, yes?"
The Tinker blinked, perhaps surprised that the Whitecloak knew what he was. Tam suspected that the fellow was probably an avid reader, with a large library.
"But I do not believe in something for nothing," Lord Desiama went on, "so you will accept this gift in return for your kindness, yes?"
The Tinker looked at the fine silver flask that had been pressed into his hand.
"Thank-you, Lord. The Wildcat is very finely worked."
"Wildcats are the symbol of my House, I get tired of looking at the bloody things sometimes, you will be doing me a great favour by removing it from my sight." The Tinker blinked again, and left, Bornhald remained.
"Fetch four men to carry the whole bed as far as the wagon, Bornhald, I think that will be the best way…"
Bornhald bowed and departed the tent, Lord Desiama turned to Tam.
"Before I go, I wish to know your name, Bannerman."
"Tam al'Thor of the Two Rivers."
"Lord Guye of House Desiama. You are a good fellow, Bannerman al'Thor, and if you served in my Legion you would be an officer by now, for it is in those ranks that you clearly belong. It was pleasant to play stones with you, al'Thor. And pleasant also to hear that burr on your lips, it reminds me of my wife's way of speech… well. I wish you a good life and strong sons, al'Thor." They clasped hands. Lord Desiama's grip was powerful, for all that he was recovering from surgery.
"And I thank you for preventing those Illianers from cutting my throat, it would have upset my wife to lose me… yes, well, I rather hope that we do not meet in battle. Though if we do, I shall certainly kill you without hesitation, though I will feel sorry for it afterwards." And he smiled that strange smile again. "That is, if you have not already killed me!"
"Indeed, sir."
"I like the west of Andor, I hold title to a small estate near Baerlon, the house my wife grew up in… why, it was in the woods nearby that she first caught me and informed me that I was to be her husband!" He laughed. "I do not seem to remember being given much of a choice, but there it is. My wife, Elenia, is a rather formidable woman, very slight and dainty to look at, but with a core of finest steel beneath! Do you have any children, Bannerman al'Thor?"
Tam shook his head. "I would like to, as would my wife, but…" he shrugged.
"The Creator has not yet blessed you. Well, I hope that He does. It is worth all of the sleepless nights and the occasional broken window, let me tell you!"
"What are you thinking about, Tam?" Vin was wondering.
"That name… Desiama. I think I might have met her Ladyship's father once. The wounded Whitecloak in the infirmary tent, after Soremaine."
"Oh yes, I remember him… he upset the Aes Sedai. She came out of the tent with a thunderhead on her face, as I recall!" Vin laughed.
"That she did. Strange to hear that name again, after all these years."
The sun was going down. Abel yawned. "Well, I'm for bed." He retrieved his blanket-roll and started toward one of the barns. Tam made to follow.
"Now hold on a moment!" Vin was looking flustered. "I don't care what you say, the Second Captain of the Companions isn't going to sleep in a bloody barn!"
Vin's mouth snapped shut and he looked apologetic whilst Tam glared at him. Abel eyed his friend with interest. "Second Captain, eh?" he muttered. "Well, you're a dark horse, Tam, and no mistake…" He snorted. "And take it from me, I'm a man who knows his horses!" Abel went into the barn, shaking his head.
"Sorry, sir," said Vin.
"What's done is done," Tam sighed. He glanced at the former Sergeant, who had lost a leg in the Aiel War. "So Lord Desiama's daughter inherited the place?"
"She did, sir, but she's never been here to see it." Vin lowered his voice significantly. "She went to Tar Valon, you see."
"Where we've just been."
"That's where all her letters come from, at any rate."
"Letters?"
"Aye, I've a whole box full of correspondence from her upstairs, she's been writing for years, and me and Mistress Hardyn write back, apprising her of the doings of the place; the accounts from the salt mine, which mares have foaled, what tenants are living in the estate cottages… she's interested in everything that goes on here. She often sends suggestions for the better management of the manor and it's mostly sensible advice."
"She sounds like a responsible young lady," Tam commented.
"Oh, she is." Vin sighed gustily. "I wish the Lady Ellythia would visit at least once, though… I hear she takes after her mother… It's not that far to come from Tar Valon…" He shook his head. "Why, it's not as though she's on the far side of the World!"