The smile went at last. “My Lord Captain Commander,” Carridin protested. “How could I foresee what happened? Yet another false Dragon. Tarabon and Arad Doman finally going to war after so long merely growling at each other. And Aes Sedai revealing their true selves after three thousand years of dissembling! Even with that, though, all is not lost. I can find and destroy this false Dragon before his followers unite. And once the Taraboners and Domani have weakened themselves, they can be cleared from the plain without —”
“No!” Niall snapped. “Your plans are done with, Carridin. Perhaps I should hand you over to your own Questioners right now. The High Inquisitor would not object. He is gnashing his teeth to find someone to blame for what happened. He would never put forward one of his own, but I doubt he'd quibble if I named you. A few days under the question, and you would confess to anything. Name yourself Darkfriend, even. You would go under the headsman's axe inside a week.”
There was sweat beading on Carridin's forehead. “My Lord Captain Commander...” He stopped to swallow. “My Lord Captain Commander seems to be saying there is another way. If he will but speak it, I am sworn to obey.”
Now, Niall thought. Now to toss the dice. Prickles ran across his skin, as if he were in battle and had suddenly realized that every man for a hundred paces around him was an enemy. Lord Captain Commanders did not go to the headsman, but more than one had been known to die suddenly and unexpectedly, swiftly mourned and swiftly replaced by men with less dangerous ideas.
“Child Carridin,” he said firmly, “you will make certain that this false Dragon does not die. And if any Aes Sedai come to oppose rather than support him, you will make use of your 'knives in the dark.' ”
The Inquisitor's jaw dropped. Yet he recovered quickly, eyeing Niall in a speculative fashion. “To kill Aes Sedai is a duty, but... To allow a false Dragon to roam free? That... that would be... treason. And blasphemy.”Niall drew a deep breath. He could sense the unseen knives waiting in the shadows. But he was committed, now. “It is no treason to do what must be done. And even blasphemy can be tolerated for a cause.” Those two sentences alone were enough to kill him. “Do you know how to unite people behind you, Child Carridin? The quickest way? No? Loose a lion — a rabid lion — in the streets. And when panic grips the people, once it has turned their bowels to water, calmly tell them you will deal with it. Then you kill it, and order them to hang the carcass up where everyone can see. Before they have time to think, you give another order, and it will be obeyed. And if you continue to give orders, they will continue to obey, for you will be the one who saved them, and who better to lead?”
Carridin moved his head uncertainly. “Do you mean to... take it all, my Lord Captain Commander? Not just Almoth Plain, but Tarabon and Arad Doman as well?”
“What I mean is for me to know. It is for you to obey as you are sworn to do. I expect to hear of messengers on fast horses leaving for the plain by tonight. I am certain you know how to word the orders so no one suspects what they should not. If you must harry someone, let it be the Taraboners and Domani. It would not do to have them kill my lion. No, under the Light, we shall force peace between them.”
“As my Lord Captain Commander commands,” Carridin said smoothly. “I hear and obey.” Too smoothly.
Niall smiled a cold smile. “In case your oath is not strong enough, know this. If this false Dragon dies before I command his death, or if he is taken by the Tar Valon witches, you will be found one morning with a dagger in your heart. And should any... accident... befall me — even if I should die of old age — you will not survive me the month.”
“My Lord Captain Commander, I have sworn to obey — ”
“So you have,” Niall cut him off. "See that you remember it. Now, go!
“As my Lord Captain Commander commands.” This time Carridin's voice was not so steady.
The door closed behind the Inquisitor. Niall rubbed his hands together. He felt cold. The dice were spinning, with no way of telling what pips would show when they stopped. The Last Battle truly was coming. Not the Tarmon Gai'don of legend, with the Dark One breaking free to be faced by the Dragon Reborn. Not that, he was sure. The Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends might have made a hole in the Dark One's prison at Shayol Ghul, but Lews Therin Kinslayer and his Hundred Companions had sealed it up again. The counterstroke had tainted the male half of the True Source forever and driven them mad, and so begun the Breaking, but one of those ancient Aes Sedai could do what ten of the Tar Valon witches of today could not. The seals they had made would hold.
Pedron Niall was a man of cold logic, and he had reasoned out how Tarmon Gai'don would be. Bestial Trolloc hordes rolling south out of the Great Blight as they had in the Trolloc Wars, two thousand years before, with the Myrddraal—the Halfmen—leading, and perhaps even new human Dreadlords from among the Darkfriends. Humankind, split into nations squabbling among themselves, could not stand against that. But he, Pedron Niall, would unite humankind behind the banners of the Children of the Light. There would be new legends, to tell how Pedron Niall had fought Tarmon Gai'don, and won.
“First,” he murmured, “loose a rabid lion in the streets.”
“A rabid lion?”
Niall spun on his heel as a bony little man with a huge beak of a nose slipped from behind one of the hanging banners. There was just a glimpse of a panel swinging shut as the banner fell back against the wall.
“I showed you that passage, Ordeith,” Niall snapped, “so you could come when I summoned you without half the fortress knowing, not so you could listen to my private conversation.”
Ordeith made a smooth bow as he crossed the room. “Listen, Great Lord? I would never do such a thing. I only just arrived and could not avoid hearing your final words. No more than that.” He wore a halfmocking smile, but it never left his face that Niall had ever seen, even when the fellow had no reason to know anyone was watching.
A month before, in the dead of winter, the gangly little man had arrived in Amadicia, ragged and halffrozen, and somehow managed to talk his way through all the layers of guards to Pedron Niall himself. He seemed to know things about events on Toman Head that were not in Carridin's voluminous if obscure reports, or in Byar's tale, or in any other report or rumor that had come to Niall. His name was a lie, of course. In the Old Tongue, Ordeith meant “wormwood.” When Niall challenged him on it, though, all he said was, “Who we were is lost to all men, and life is bitter.” But he was clever. It had been he who helped Niall see the p