Soldiers arrived with their horses, and Ituralde mounted, as did al'Thor, Wakeda, Rajabi, Ankaer, Melarned, Lidrin and a half-dozen lesser officers.

"I've brought a large number of Aiel into your lands," Rand al'Thor said as they began to ride. "I had hoped to use them to restore order, but they are taking longer than I'd wished. I'm planning to secure the members of the merchant council; perhaps once I have them in hand, I'll be able to improve the stability of the area. What do you think?"

Ituralde didn't know what to think. Securing the merchant council? That sounded like kidnapping them. What had Ituralde gotten himself into? "It could work," he found himself saying. "Light, it's probably the best plan, all things considered."

Al'Thor nodded, looking forward as they passed out of the palisade and moved out along a trail toward the edge of the stedding. "I'll have to secure the Borderlands, anyway. I will care for your homeland. Burn those Borderlanders! What are they up to? No. No, not yet. They can wait. No, he'll do. He can hold it. I'll send him with Asha'man." Suddenly, al'Thor turned to Ituralde. "What could you do if I gave you a hundred men who could channel?"

"Madmen?"

"No, most of them are stable," al'Thor said, taking no apparent offense. "Whatever madness they incurred before I cleansed the taint is still there—removing the taint didn't heal them—but few of them were far gone. And they won't get worse, now that saidin is clean."

Saidin? Clean? If Ituralde had his own men who could channel. . . . His own damane, in a way. Ituralde scratched his chin. It was coming at him quickly—but, then, a general had to be able to react quickly. "I could use them well," he said. "Very well."

"Good," al'Thor said. They had left the stedding; the air felt different. "You've got a lot of land to watch, but many of the channelers I'll give you can spin gateways."

"Gateways?" Ituralde asked.

Al'Thor glanced at him, then seemed to grit his teeth, closing his eyes, shaking as if nauseated. Ituralde sat upright, suddenly alert, hand on his sword. Poison? Was the man wounded?

But no, al'Thor opened his eyes, and there seemed to be a look of ecstasy in those depths. He turned, waving a hand, and a line of light split the air in front of him. Men around Ituralde cursed, backing up. It was one thing for a man to claim he could channel; it was another to see him do so in front of you!

"That's a gateway," al'Thor said as the line of light turned around, opening a large black hole in the air. "Depending on the Asha'man's strength, a gateway can be made wide enough to drive wagons through. You can travel nearly anywhere with speed, sometimes instantly, depending on circumstances. With a few trained Asha'man, your army could dine in Caemlyn in the morning, then have lunch in Tanchico a few hours later."

Ituralde rubbed his chin. "Well now, that's a thing to see. A thing to see indeed." If this man spoke truthfully, and these gateways really did work. . . . "With this I could clear the Seanchan out of Tarabon, and maybe off the land entirely!"

"No," al'Thor snapped. "We make peace with them. From what my scouts say, it's going to be hard enough to bring them to agreement without promising them your head. I won't rile them further. There is no time for squabbling. We have more important matters to be about."

"Nothing is more important than my homeland," Ituralde said. "Even if those orders are forged, I know Alsalam. He would agree with me. We won't stand for foreign troops on the soil of Arad Doman."

"A promise, then," al'Thor said. "I will see the Seanchan out of Arad Doman. I promise you this. But we don't fight them away any further than that. In exchange, you go to the Borderlands and protect against an invasion there. Hold back the Trollocs if they come, and lend me some of your officers to help secure Arad Doman. It will be easier to restore order if the people see that their own lords are working with me."

Ituralde considered, though he knew already what his answer would be. That gateway could spirit his men away from this death trap. With Aiel on his side—with the Dragon Reborn as an ally—he really did have

The Last of the Tabac

a chance of keeping Arad Doman secure. An honorable death was a good thing. But the ability to keep on fighting with honor . . . that was a prize far more precious.

"Agreed," Ituralde said, holding out a hand.

AlThor took it. "Go break camp. You're to be in Saldaea by nightfall."

CHAPTER 11

The Death of Adrin

I think he should be beaten again, said Lerian, moving her fingers in the complex motions of Maiden handtalk. He is like a child, and when a child touches something dangerous, the child is beaten. If a child hurts himself because he was not taught properly to stay away from knives, then the shame is upon his parents.

The previous beating did not seem to do any good, Surial replied. He accepted it like a man, not a child, but did not change his actions.

Then we must try again, Lerian replied.

Aviendha dropped her rock into the pile by the watchpost, then turned around. She did not acknowledge the Maidens who watched the way into the camp, and they did not acknowledge her. Speaking to her while she was being punished would only heighten her shame, and her spear-sisters would not do that.

She also didn't indicate that she understood their conversation. While nobody expected a former Maiden to forget handtalk, it was best to be unobtrusive. The handtalk belonged to the Maidens.

Aviendha selected a large stone from a second pile, then began to walk back into camp. If the Maidens continued their conversation, she could not tell, as she could no longer see their hands. But their discussion lingered with her. They were angered that Rand al'Thor had gone to meet with the general Rodel Ituralde without guards. It was not the first time he had acted so foolishly, and yet he seemed unwilling—or unable— to learn the proper way. Each time he put himself in danger without protection, he insulted the Maidens as surely as if he had slapped each one in the face.

Aviendha probably had some small toh toward her spear-sisters. Teaching Rand al'Thor of Aiel ways had been her task, and she had quite obviously failed. Unfortunately, she had a much greater toh toward the Wise Ones, even if she still didn't know the reason. Her lesser duty to her spear-sisters would have to wait for an appropriate time.

Her arms ached from carrying rocks. They were smooth and heavy; she had been required to dig them out of the river beside the manor house. Only her time spent with Elayne—when she had been forced to bathe in water—had given her the strength to walk into that river. In that, she had not shamed herself. And at least this river was a small one—wetlanders might inaccurately call it a stream. A stream was a tiny mountain runoff in which you could dip your hands or fill a waterskin. Anything too large to step across was definitely a river.

The day was overcast, as usual, and the camp was subdued. Men who had bustled just days before—when the Aiel had arrived—were more lethargic now. The camp wasn't by any means unkempt; Davram Bashere was too careful a commander to allow that, wetlander though he was. However, the men did move more slowly. She had heard some of them complain that the dark sky was dampening their moods. How strange wetlanders were! What did the weather have to do with one's mood? She could understand being displeased that no raids were approaching, or that a hunt had gone poorly. But because there were clouds in the sky? Was shade so poorly appreciated here?