His instructions had been clear. Stabling his horse at The Red Bull, in the New City, he walked a mile to a tall stone house on a side street, the house of a wealthy merchant discreet about her gold, marked with a tiny painted sigil on the doors, a red heart on a golden hand. The hulking fellow who let him in was no merchant’s servant, with his sunken knuckles and sullen eyes. Without a word, the huge man led him deeper into the house, then down, toward the basements. Hanlon eased his sword in its scabbard. Among the things he had seen were men and women, failures, led to their own very elaborate executions. He did not think he had failed, but then again, he had hardly succeeded. He had followed orders, though. Which was not always enough.
In the rough stone basement, lit by gilded lamps set all around, his eyes went first to a pretty woman in a lacetrimmed dress of scarlet silk, with her hair caught in frothy lace net. He did not know who this Lady Shiaine was, but his orders had been to obey her. He made his best leg, smiling. She simply looked at him, as if waiting for him to notice what else the basement held.
He could hardly have missed it, since except for a few casks the room held only a large heavy table, decorated in a very strange fashion. Two ovals had been cut in the tabletop, and from one stuck the head and shoulders of a man, his head wrenched back against the wooden surface and held there by means of leather straps nailed to the tabletop and fastened to a block of wood jammed between his teeth. A woman, prepared the same, provided the other decoration. Beneath the table, they knelt with wrists tied to ankles. Quite securely held for any sort of pleasure. The man had a touch of gray in his hair and the face of a lord, but unsurprisingly, his deepset eyes rolled wildly. The woman’s hair, spread out on the table, was dark and glossy, but her face was a little long for Hanlon’s taste.
Suddenly he really saw her face, and his hand leaped to his sword before he could stop it. Releasing the hilt took some effort, which he made pains to hide. An Aes Sedai’s face, but an Aes Sedai who let herself be fastened like that was no threat.
“So you have some brains,” Shiaine said. By her accents, she was a noble, and she certainly had the commanding air, sweeping around the table to peer down into the bound man’s face. “I asked the Great Master Moridin to send me a man with brains. Poor Jaichim here has very few.”
Hanlon frowned, and smoothed it away immediately. His orders had come from Moghedien herself. Who in the Pit of Doom was Moridin? It did not matter. His orders had come from Moghedien; that was enough.
The hulking fellow handed Shiaine a funnel, which she fitted into a hole bored through the block of wood between this Jaichim’s teeth. The man’s eyes seemed ready to leap from his head. “Poor Jaichim here failed very badly,” Shiaine said, smiling like a fox looking at a chicken. “Moridin wishes him punished. Poor Jaichim does like his brandy.”
She stepped back, not so far that she could not see clearly, and Hanlon gave a start as the hulking man came to the table with one of the casks. Hanlon did think he could have lifted the thing unaided, but the big man tipped it easily. The bound man shrieked once, and then a stream of dark liquid was pouring from the cask into the funnel, turning his cry to gurgling. The rough smell of crude brandy filled the air. Secured as he was, the man fought, thrashing about, even managing to heave the table sideways, but the brandy kept pouring. Bubbles rose in the funnel as he tried to shout or scream, but the steady stream never faltered. And then his thrashing slowed and stopped. Wide, glazing eyes stared up the ceiling, and brandy trickled from his nostrils. The big fellow still did not stop until the last drops fell from an empty cask.
“I think poor Jaichim has finally had enough brandy,” Shiaine said, and laughed in delight.
Hanlon nodded. He supposed the man had, at that. He wondered who he had been.
Shiaine was not quite finished. At a gesture from her, the hulking man ripped one of the straps holding the Aes Sedai’s gag off of its nail. Hanlon thought the wooden block might have loosened a few of her teeth coming out of her mouth, but if so, she did not waste time on them. She began babbling before the fellow let go of the strap.
“I will obey you!” she howled. “I will obey, as the Great Master commanded! He set the shield on me to dissolve so I could obey! He told me so! Let me prove myself! I will crawl! I am a worm, and you are the sun! Oh, please! Please! Please!”
Shiaine stifled words if not whimpers by putting a hand over the Aes Sedai’s mouth. “How do I know you won’t fail again, Falion? You have failed before, and Moridin left your punishment to me. He gave me another; do I need two of you? I may give you a second chance to plead your case, Falion — perhaps — but if I do, you will have to convince me. I will expect true enthusiasm.”
Falion began screaming pleas again, making extravagant promises, the moment Shiaine’s hand moved, but soon enough she was reduced to wordless shrieks and tears as the gag was replaced, the nail driven through the strap again, and Jaichim’s funnel placed above her gaping throat. The hulking man stood another cask on the table beside her head. The Aes Sedai seemed to go mad, bulging eyes rolling, flinging herself about below the table till it trembled.
Hanlon was impressed. An Aes Sedai must be harder to break than a plump merchant or his roundcheeked daughter. Still, she had had the help of one of the Chosen, it seemed. Realizing that Shiaine was looking at him, he stopped smiling down at Falion. His first rule in life was never to offend those the Chosen set above him.
“Tell me, Hanlon,” Shiaine said, “how would you like to put your hands on a queen?”
He licked his lips in spite of himself. A queen? That he had never done.
Chapter 29
(Dragon)
A Cup of Sleep
“Don’t be an utter woolhead, Rand,” Min said. Making herself remain seated, she crossed her legs and kicked her foot idly, but she could not keep exasperation out of her voice. “Go to her! Speak to her!”
“Why?” he snapped. “I know which letter to believe, now. It’s better this way. She’s safe, now. From anyone who wants to strike at me. Safe from me! It’s better!” But he stalked up and down in his shirtsleeves between the two rows of chairs in front of the Dragon Throne, his fists whiteknuckle hard, glaring to beat the black clouds beyond the casements that were laying a new blanket of snow on Cairhien.
Min exchanged looks with Fedwin Morr, who stood by the suncarved doors. The Maidens now let anyone who was not an obvious threat walk in unannounced, but those Rand did not want to see this morning would be turned away by the husky boy. He wore the Dragon and Sword on his black collar, and Min knew he had already seen more battles — more horror — than most men three times his age, yet he was a boy. Today, casting uneasy glances at Rand, he seemed younger than ever. The sword on his hip still lo
