Remen looked like any of a dozen towns to Perrin — it was full of manmade aromas and man smell; with a strong smell of the river, of course — and he was wondering what Lan could have meant when the hair on the back of his neck stirred as he scented something wrong. As soon as his nose took it in, it was gone like a horsehair dropped onto hot coals, but he remembered it. He had smelled the same smell at Jarra, and it had vanished the same way, then. It was not a Twisted One or a Neverborn — Trolloc, burn me, not a Twisted One! Not a Neverborn! A Myrddraal, a Fade, a Halfman, anything but a Neverborn! — not a Trolloc or a Fade, yet the stench had been every bit as sharp, every bit as vile. But whatever gave off that scent left no lasting trail, it seemed.
They rode into the town square. One of the big paving blocks had been pried up, right in the middle of the square, so a gibbet could be erected. A single thick timber rose out of the dirt, supporting a braced crosspiece from which hung an iron cage, the bottom of it four paces high. A tall man dressed all in grays and browns sat in the cage, holding his knees under his chin. He had no room to do otherwise. Three small boys were pitching stones at him. The man looked straight ahead, not flinching when a stone made it between the bars. More than one trickle of blood stained his face. The townspeople walking by paid no more mind to what the boys were doing than the man did, though every last one of them looked at the cage, most of them with approval, and some with fear.
Moiraine made a sound in her throat that might have been disgust.
“There is more,” Lan said. “Come. I've already arranged rooms at an inn. I think you will find it interesting.”
Perrin looked back over his shoulder at the caged man as he rode after them. There was something familiar about the man, but he could not place it.
“They shouldn't do that.” Loial's rumble sounded halfway to a snarl. “The children, I mean. The grownups should stop them.”
“They should,” Perrin agreed, barely paying attention. Why is he familiar?
The sign over the door of the inn Lan led them to, nearer the river, read Wayland's Forge, which Perrin took for a good omen, though there seemed to be nothing of the smithy about the place except the leatheraproned man with a hammer painted on the sign. It was a large, purpleroofed, threestory building of squared and polished gray stones, with large windows and scrollcarved doors, and it had a prosperous look. Stablemen came running to take the horses, bowing even more deeply after Lan tossed them coins.
Inside, Perrin stared at the people. The men and women at the tables were all dressed in their feastday clothes, it seemed to him, with more embroidered coats, more lace on dresses, more colored ribbons and fringed scarves, than he had seen in a long time. Only four men sitting at one table wore plain coats, and they were the only ones who did not look up expectantly when Perrin and the others walked in. The four men kept on talking softly. He could make out a little of what they were saying, about the virtues of ice peppers over furs as cargo and what the troubles in Saldaea might have done to prices. Captains of trading ships, he decided. The others seemed to be local folk. Even the serving women appeared to be wearing their best, their long aprons covering embroidered dresses with bits of lace at the neck.
The kitchen was working heavily; he could smell mutton, lamb, chicken, and beef, as well as some sort of vegetables. And a spicy cake that made him forget meat for a moment.
The innkeeper himself met them just inside, a plump, baldheaded man with shining brown eyes in a smooth pink face, bowing and drywashing his hands. If he had not come to them, Perrin would never have taken him for the landlord, for instead of the expected white apron, he wore a coat like everyone else, all whiteandgreen embroidery on stout blue wool that had the man sweating with its weight.
Why are they all wearing clothes for festival? Perrin wondered. “Ah, Master Andra,” the innkeeper said, addressing Lan. “And an Ogier, just as you said. Not that I doubted, of course. Not with all that's happened, and never your word, master. Why not an Ogier? Ah, friend Ogier, to be having you in the house gives me more pleasure than you can be knowing. 'Tis a fine thing, and a fitting cap to it all. Ah, and mistress...” His eyes took in the deep blue silk of her dress and the rich wool of her cloak, dusty from travel but still fine. “Forgive me, Lady, please.” His bow bent him like a horseshoe. “Master Andra did not make your station clear, Lady. I meant no disrespect. You are even more welcome than friend Ogier here, of course, Lady. Please, take no offense at Gainor Furlan's poor tongue.”
“I take none.” Moiraine's voice calmly accepted the title Furlan gave her. It was far from the first time the Aes Sedai had gone under another name, or pretended to be something she was not. It was not the first Perrin had heard Lan name himself Andra, either. The deep hood still hid Moiraine's smooth Aes Sedai features, and she held her cloak around her with one hand as if taken with a chill. Not the hand on which she wore her Great Serpent ring. “You have had strange occurrences in the town, innkeeper, so I understand. Nothing to trouble travelers, I trust.”
“Ah, Lady, you might be calling them strange indeed. Your own radiant presence is more than enough to honor this humble house, Lady, and bringing an Ogier with you, but we have Hunters in Remen, too. Right here in Wayland's Forge, they are. Hunters for the Horn of Valere, set out from Illian for adventure. And adventure they found, Lady, here in Remen, or just a mile or two upriver, fighting wild Aielmen, of all things. Can you imagine blackveiled Aiel savages in Altara, Lady?”
Aiel. Now Perrin knew what was familiar about the man in the cage. He had seen an Aiel, once, one of those fierce, nearly legendary denizens of the harsh land called the Waste. The man had looked a good deal like Rand, taller than most, with gray eyes and reddish hair, and he had been dressed like the man in the cage, all in browns and grays that would fade into rock or brush, with soft boots laced to his knees. Perrin could almost hear Min's voice again. An Aielman in a cage. A turning point in your life, or something important that will happen.
“Why do you have...?” He stopped to clear his throat so he would not sound so hoarse. “How did an Aiel come to be caged in your town square?”
“Ah, young master, that is a story to...” Furlan trailed off, eyeing him up and down, taking in his plain country clothes and the longbow in his hands, pausing over the axe at his belt opposite his quiver. The plump man gave a start when his study reached Perrin's face, as if, with a Lady and an Ogier present, he had just now noticed Perrin's yellow eyes. “He would be your servant, Master Andra?&r