Page 168 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

“Excellent,” Nynaeve said, handing her lantern to one of them. “You three, come with me.” She strode into the mansion, the three soldiers scrambling in behind.

It was late—the ghost procession appeared only at midnight—and the mansion slumbered. The intricate chandelier in the entryway had been extinguished, and the hallways were dark. Testing her memory, she picked a direction and walked down it. The whitewashed walls were as immaculate here as they were in other sections of the mansion, but they were unornamented. Her instinct proved correct as she soon entered a small pantry, where servants would prepare platters of food before taking them to the dining room. The hallway she had chosen led out to the mansion sitting rooms; another hallway at the back led to the kitchens. The room was furnished with a big sturdy wooden table and some tall stools. Those were occupied by a group of men playing a game of dice, wearing green and white linen shirts—the livery of Milisair’s house—with thick work trousers.

They looked up with shock as Nynaeve strode into the room; one of the men actually leaped to his feet, his stool toppling to the floor behind him. He pulled off his hat—a lopsided brown thing that even Mat would have been embarrassed to wear—looking like a child caught poking his finger into the pie before dinner.

Nynaeve didn’t care what they were doing; she had found some servants of the mansion, and that was all that mattered. “I must see the dosun,” she said, using the local term for the head housekeeper. “Fetch her for me.”

Her soldiers entered the room behind her. All three were Saldaeans, and if they were somewhat oafish, they walked with the swaggers of men who intimately understood fighting. She doubted that these simple servants needed any more intimidation than an Aes Sedai, but the soldiers would likely prove useful later.

“The dosun?” the worker with the hat finally said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see the steward or—”

“The dosun,” Nynaeve said. “Bring her to me now. Give her time to throw on a robe, but no more.” She pointed at one of her soldiers. “You, go with him. Make sure he doesn’t speak to anyone else or give the woman a chance to escape.”

“Escape?” the worker yelped. “Why would Loral want to do that? What did she do, my Lady?”

“Nothing, I hope. Go!”

The two men—one worker, one soldier—hurried off, and the other three workers remained at the table, looking uncomfortable. Nynaeve folded her arms beneath her breasts, considering her plan. Rand had determined that his hunt for the Domani king had hit a wall with the death of the messenger. Nynaeve wasn’t so certain. There were others involved, and a few well-placed questions might be very illuminating.

It was unlikely the dosun had done anything wrong. But Nynaeve did not want the worker who fetched her letting his tongue wag to the people he might meet along the way; better to instill into him a sense of danger and use the soldier to keep him quiet. Not to mention punctual.

Her foresight proved effective. Within minutes, the worker hurried back into the room, towing a disheveled, elderly woman in a blue evening robe. Gray hair poked out from beneath her hastily wrapped red kerchief, and her aging Domani face was absolutely white with apprehension. Nynaeve felt guilty. How this woman must feel, awoken at night by a terrified servant claiming that one of the Aes Sedai wanted her immediately!

The Saldaean soldier followed, then stood guard beside the doorway. He was bowlegged and squat, and he wore one of those long Saldaean mustaches. The other two lounged beside the doorway Nynaeve had come through, their casual air only serving to make the room more tense. They had picked up on something of her intent, it seemed.

“Peace, goodwoman,” Nynaeve said, nodding to the table. “You may sit. You others, go to the main entryway and stay there. Don’t speak to anyone.”

The four workers needed no further prodding. Nynaeve told one of the soldiers to follow them and make certain they did as she said. The late hour was working to her advantage; with so many of the servants and Rand’s attendants asleep, she could investigate without alerting those who might be guilty.

The departure of the workers only made the dosun more nervous. Nynaeve sat at the table on one of the vacated stools. The men had left their dice behind in their haste, but had—of course—made sure to take their coins. The room was lit by a small lamp, burning with an open flame on the windowsill. The Saldaean had taken her lantern with him when following the workers.

“Your name is Loral, is it not?” Nynaeve asked.

The dosun nodded warily.

“You are aware that Aes Sedai do not lie?”

The housekeeper nodded again. Most Aes Sedai couldn’t lie, though Nynaeve technically could, since she hadn’t held the Oath Rod. That was part of what earned her a lesser status in the eyes of the others. Undeservedly so. The Oath Rod was only a formality; Two Rivers folk needed no ter’angreal to make them honest. “Then you will believe me when I tell you that I do not suspect you personally of having done anything wrong. I just need your help.”

The woman seemed to relax a bit. “What help do you need, Nynaeve Sedai?”

“It has been my experience that the head housekeeper knows more of a house’s workings than the stewards, or even the owners of the property. Have you been employed here for long?”

“I have served the Chadmar family through three generations,” the old woman said with no small measure of pride. “And had hoped to serve another, if Her Ladyship had—” The housekeeper cut off. Rand had imprisoned “Her Ladyship” in her own dungeons. That didn’t bode well for there being another generation to serve.

“Yes, well,” Nynaeve said, covering the uncomfortable silence. “The unfortunate circumstances involving your lady are part

of my task this evening.”

“Nynaeve Sedai,” the aged woman said, growing eager, “do you suppose you can see her to freedom? Restore her to the Lord Dragon’s good graces?”

“Perhaps.” Doubtful, Nynaeve added in her mind, but anything is possible. “My activities tonight may help. Did you ever see this messenger, the one your mistress imprisoned?”

“The one sent by the King?” Loral asked. “I never spoke with him, Aes Sedai, but I did see him. Tall, handsome fellow, curiously clean-shaven for a Domani man. I passed him in the hallway. Had one of the most beautiful faces I rightly think I’ve ever seen on a man.”

“And then?” Nynaeve asked.

“Well, he went directly to speak with Lady Chadmar, and then. . . .” Loral trailed off. “Nynaeve Sedai, I don’t mean to be getting my lady into any more trouble, and—”