“Androl!” Nalaam called. “Come tell these uncultured louts what a Retashen Dazer is!”
“A Retashen Dazer?” Androl said. “It’s a drink. Mix of mead and ewe’s milk. Foul stuff.”
Nalaam looked at the others proudly. He had no pins on his coat. He was only a soldier, but he should have been advanced by now.
“You bragging about your travels again, Nalaam?” Androl asked, unlacing the leather armguard.
“We Domani get around,” Nalaam said. “You know, the kind of work my father does, spying for the Crown….”
“Last week you said your father was a merchant,” Canler said. The sturdy man was the oldest of the group, his hair graying, his square face worn from many years in the sun.
“He is,” Nalaam said. “That’s his front for being a spy!”
“Aren’t women the merchants in Arad Doman?” Jonneth asked, rubbing his chin. He was a large, quiet man with a round face. His entire family—his siblings, his parents, and his grandfather Buel—had relocated to the village rather than letting him come alone.
“Well, they’re the best,” Nalaam said, “and my mother is no exception. We men know a thing or two, though. Besides, since my mother was busy infiltrating the Tuatha’an, my father had to take over the business.”
“Oh, now that’s just ridiculous,” Canler said with a scowl. “Who would ever want to infiltrate a bunch of Tinkers?”
“To learn their secret recipes,” Nalaam said. “It’s said that a Tinker can cook a pot of stew so fine that it will make you leave house and home to travel with them. It’s true, I’ve tasted it myself, and I had to be tied in a shed for three days before the effect wore off.”
Canler sniffed. However, after a moment, the farmer added, “So…did she find the recipe or not?”
Nalaam launched into another story, Canler and Jonneth listening intently. Emarin stood to the side, looking on with amusement—he was the other soldier in the group, bearing no pins. He was an older man, with thin hair and wrinkles at his eyes. His short white beard was trimmed to a point.
The distinguished man was something of an enigma; he’d arrived with Logain one day, and had said nothing of his past. He had a poised bearing and a delicate way of speaking. He was a nobleman, that was certain. But unlike most other noblemen in the Black Tower, Emarin made no attempt at asserting his presumed authority. Many noblemen took weeks to learn that once you joined the Black Tower, your outside rank was meaningless. That made them sullen and snappish, but Emarin had taken to life in the Tower immediately.
It took a nobleman with true dignity to follow the orders of a commoner half his age without complaint. Emarin took a sip of water from the serving boy, thanking the lad, then stepped up to Androl. He nodded toward Nalaam, who was still talking to the others. “That one has the heart of a gleeman.”
Androl grunted. “Maybe he can use it to earn some extra coin. He still owes me a new pair of socks.”
“And you, my friend, have the soul of a scribe!” Emarin laughed. “You never forget a thing, do you?”
Androl shrugged.
“How did you know what a Retashen Dazer was? I consider myself quite educated in these matters, yet I’d heard not a word of it.”
“I had one once,” Androl said. “Drank it on a bet.”
“Yes, but where?”
“Retash, of course.”
“But that’s leagues off shore, in a cluster of islands not even the Sea Folk often visit!”
Androl shrugged again. He glanced over at Taim’s lackeys. A village boy had brought them a basket of food from Taim, though the M’Hael claimed not to play favorites. If Androl asked, he’d find that a boy was supposed to have been sent with food for the others, too. But that lad would have become lost, or had forgotten, or made some other innocent mistake. Taim would have someone whipped, and nothing would change.
“This division is troubling, my friend,” Emarin said softly. “How can we fight for the Lord Dragon if we cannot make peace among ourselves?”
Androl shook his head.
Emarin continued. “They say that no man favored of Logain has had the Dragon pin in weeks. There are many, like Nalaam there, who should have had the sword pin long ago—but are denied repeatedly by the M’Hael. A House whose members squabble for authority will never present a threat to other Houses.”
“Wise words,” Androl said. “But what should we do? What can we do? Taim is M’Hael, and Logain hasn’t returned yet.”
“Perhaps we could send someone for him,” Emarin said. “Or maybe you could calm the others. I fear that some of them are near to snapping, and if a fight breaks out, I have little doubt who would see the rough side of Taim’s punishments.”
Androl frowned. “True. But why me? You’re far better with words than I am, Emarin.”
Emarin chuckled. “Yes, but Logain trusts you, Androl. The other men look to you.”
They shouldn’t, Androl thought. “I’ll see what I can think of.” Nalaam was winding up for another story, but before he could begin, Androl gestured to Jonneth, holding up the armguard. “I saw your old one had cracked. Try this.”
Jonneth’s face brightened as he took the armguard. “You’re amazing, Androl! I didn’t think anyone had noticed. It’s a silly thing, I know, but…” His smile broadened and he hurried to a nearby tree, beside which sat some of the men’s equipment, including Jonneth’s bow. These Two Rivers men liked to have them handy.
Jonneth returned, stringing the bow. He put on the armguard. “Fits like a dream!” he said, and Androl felt himself smiling. Small things. They could mean so much.
Jonneth took aim and launched an arrow, the shaft streaking into the air, bowstring snapping against the armguard. The arrow soared far, striking a tree on a hill better than two hundred paces away.
Canler whistled. “Ain’t ever seen anything like those bows of yours, Jonneth. Never in my life.” They were fellow Andorans, though Canler had come from a town much closer to Caemlyn.
Jonneth looked at his shot critically, then drew again—fletching to cheek—and loosed. The shaft fell true and hit the very same tree. Androl would guess that the shafts were less than two handspans apart.
Canler whistled again.
“My father trained on one of those,” Nalaam noted. “Learned the art from a Two Rivers man whom he rescued from drowning in Illian. Has the bowstring as a memento.”
Canler raised an eyebrow, but he seemed taken with the tale at the same time. Androl just chuckled, shaking his head. “Mind if I have a go, Jonneth? I’m a pretty dead shot with a Tairen bow, and they’re a little longer than most.”
“Surely,” the lanky man said, unstrapping the armguard and handing over the bow.
Androl donned the armguard and lifted the bow. It was of black yew, and there wasn’t as much spring to the string as he was used to. Jonneth handed him an arrow and Androl mimicked the man’s pull, drawing to his cheek.
“Light!” he said at the weight of the pull. “Those arms of yours are deceptively small, Jonneth. How do you manage to aim? I can barely keep it steady!”
Jonneth laughed as Androl’s arms trembled, and he finally loosed, unable to keep the bow drawn for a breath longer. The arrow hit the ground far off target. He handed the bow to Jonneth.
“That was fairly good, Androl,” Jonneth said. “A lot of men can’t even get the string back. Give me ten years, and I could have you shooting like one born in the Two Rivers!”
“I’ll stick to shortbows for now,” Androl said. “You’d never be able to shoot a monster like that from horseback.”
“I wouldn’t need to!” Jonneth said.
“What if you were being chased?”
“If there were fewer than five of them,” Jonneth said, “I’d take them all down with this before they got to me. If there were more than five, then what am I doing shooting at them? I should be running like the Dark One himself was after me.”
The other men chuckled, though Androl caught Emarin eyeing him. Probably wondering how Androl knew to shoot a bow from horseback. He was a keen one, that nobleman. Androl would have to watch himself.
“And what is this?” a voice asked. “You do be trying to learn to shoot a bow, pageboy? Is this so you can actually defend yourself?”
Androl gritted his teeth, turning as Coteren sauntered up. He was a bulky man, his black, oily hair kept long and loose. It hung around a blunt face with pudgy cheeks. His eyes were focused, dangerous. He smiled. The smile of a cat that had found a rodent to play with.
Androl quietly undid the armguard, handing it to Jonneth. Coteren was full Asha’man, a personal friend of the M’Hael. He outranked everyone here by a long stride.
“The M’Hael will hear of this,” Coteren said. “You do be ignoring your lessons. You have no need for arrows or bows—not when you can kill with the Power!”
“We aren’t ignoring anything,” Nalaam said stubbornly.
“Quiet, lad,” Androl said. “Mind your tongue.”
Coteren laughed. “Listen to the pageboy, you lot. The M’Hael will hear of your impudence also.” He focused on Androl. “Seize the Source.”
Androl obliged reluctantly. The sweetness of saidin flowed into him, and he glanced nervously to the side. There was no sign of the shadows.
“So pathetic,” Coteren said. “Destroy that stone over there.”
It was far too large for him. But he’d dealt with bullies before, and Coteren was a bully of the most dangerous type—one with power and authority. The best thing to do was to mind. Embarrassment was a small punishment. That was something few bullies seemed to understand.
Androl wove the requisite weave of Fire and Earth, striking at the large stone. The thin weave held almost all of the Power he could manage, but it only flaked a few chips off the large stone.
Coteren laughed heartily, as did the group of Dedicated eating beneath the nearby tree. “Bloody ashes, but you’re useless!” Coteren said. “Forget what I said earlier, pageboy! You need that bow!”
Androl released the One Power. Coteren had had his laugh; he would be satisfied. Unfortunately, Androl felt men seize the Source behind him. Jonneth, Canler and Nalaam stepped up beside Androl, each of them filled with the One Power and bristling with anger.
The men who had been eating stood up, each holding the Source as well. There were twice as many of them as there were of Androl’s friends. Coteren smirked.
Androl eyed Canler and the others. “Now lads,” he said, raising a hand, “Asha’man Coteren was just doing what the M’Hael ordered him. He’s trying to make me mad so I’ll push myself.”
The two groups hesitated. The intensity of their locked gazes rivaled that of the Power within them. Then Jonneth released the Source. This caused Nalaam to do likewise, and finally gruff Canler turned away. Coteren laughed.