“Never with you around,” Trom grumped goodnaturedly. “And I'd sooner let the farrier pound my head with his hammer than practice against you.” But he let Galad start him for the door with only a regretful look at the two women. As they left, Galad shot a glance back at the table, full of frustration and indecision.
No sooner were they out of sight than Elayne stood. “Nana, I need you upstairs.” Mistress Jharen materialized at her side, inquiring if she had enjoyed her repast, and Elayne said, “I require my driver and footman immediately. Nana will settle the bill.” She was moving for the stairs before she finished speaking.
Nynaeve stared after her, then dug out her purse and paid the woman, making assurances that everything had been to her mistress's liking and trying not to wince at the price. Once rid of the woman, she hurried upstairs. Elayne was stuffing their things into the chests any which way, including the sweaty shifts they had hung on the ends of the beds to dry.
“Elayne, what's the matter?”
“We must leave immediately, Nynaeve. At once.” She did not look up until the last article was crammed in. “Right this minute, wherever he is, Galad is puzzling over something he may never have faced before. Two things that are right, but opposite. To his mind it is right to tie me to a packhorse if necessary and haul me to Mother, to salve her worries and save me from becoming Aes Sedai, whatever I want. And it is also right to turn us in, to the Whitecloaks or the army or both. That is the law in Amadicia, and Whitecloak law, too. Aes Sedai are outlawed here, and so is any woman who has ever trained in the Tower. Mother met Ailron once to sign a trade treaty, and they had to do it in Altara because Mother could not legally enter Amadicia. I embraced saidar the moment I saw him, and I won't let it go until we are far from him.”
“Surely you exaggerate, Elayne. He is your brother.”
“He is not my brother!” Elayne drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We had the same father,” she said in a calmer voice, “but he is not my brother. I will not have him. Nynaeve, I've told you time and again, but you will not take it in. Galad does what is right. Always. He never lies. Did you hear what he said to that Trom fellow? He didn't say he did not know who we are. Every word he said was the truth. He does what is right, no matter who is hurt by it, even himself. Or me. He used to tell on Gawyn and me for everything, and on himself, too. If he decides the wrong way, we will have Whitecloaks lying in ambush for us before we reach the edge of the village.”
A tap sounded at the door, and Nynaeve's breath caught in her throat. Surely Galad would not really... Elayne's face was set, ready to fight.
Hesitantly, Nynaeve cracked the door. It was Thom, and Juilin with that fool hat in his hand. “My Lady wants us?” Thom asked, with a touch of servility for anyone who might overhear.
Able to breathe again, not caring who was listening, she snatched the door the rest of the way open. “Get in here, you two!” She was growing tired of them looking at one another every time she spoke.
Before she had the door shut again, Elayne said, “Thom, we must leave right away.” The determined look had left her face, and anxiety filled her voice. “Galad is here. You must remember what a monster he was as a child. Well, he is no better grown, and he is a Whitecloak besides. He could —” The words seemed to catch in her throat. She stared at Thom, mouth working soundlessly, but no more wideeyed than he stared at her.
He sat down heavily on one of the chests, never taking his eyes from Elayne's. “I —” Clearing his throat roughly, he went on. “I thought I saw him, watching the inn. A Whitecloak. But he looked the man the boy would grow into. I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise he grew into a Whitecloak at that.”
Nynaeve went to the window; Elayne and Thom hardly seemed to notice her passage between them. Traffic was beginning to pick up in the street, farmers and farm carts and villagers mingling with Whitecloaks and soldiers. Across the way, one Whitecloak was sitting on an upended barrel, that perfect face unmistakable.
“Did he —?” Elayne swallowed. “Did he recognize you?”
“No. Fifteen years changes a man more than it does a boy. Elayne, I thought you had forgotten.”
“I remembered in Tanchico, Thom.” With a wavering smile, Elayne reached out and tugged one of his long mustaches. Thom smiled back almost as unsteadily; he looked as if he was contemplating a leap from the window.
Juilin was scratching his head, and Nynaeve wished she had some idea what they were talking about, too, but there were more important matters at hand. “We still have to leave before he brings the entire garrison down on us. With him watching, it won't be easy. I haven't seen another patron who looks like they have a coach.”
“Ours is the only one in the stableyard,” Juilin said. Thom and Elayne were still staring at one another, plainly not hearing a word.
Driving off with the curtains down was no protection, then. Nynaeve was willing to bet that Galad had already learned exactly how they had come to Sienda. “Is there a back way from the stableyard?”
“A gate wide enough for one of us at a time,” Juilin said dryly. “And what's on the other side is little more than an alley, anyway. There aren't more than two or three streets in this village wide enough for the coach.” He studied that cylindrical hat, turning it in his hands “I could get close enough to crack his head. If you were ready, you could drive off during the confusion. I could catch you up on the road.”
Nynaeve sniffed loudly. “How? Gallop after on Skulker? Even if you didn't fall out of the saddle inside a mile, do you think you would even reach a horse if you attacked a Whitecloak in that street?” Galad was still there across the street, and Trom had joined him, the pair apparently chatting idly. She leaned over and yanked Thom's nearest mustache. “Do you have anything to add? Any brilliant plans? Did all your listening to gossip yield anything that might help?”
He clapped a hand to his face and gave her an offended look. “Not unless you think there's help in Ailron laying claim to some border villages in Altara. A strip the whole length of the border, from Salidar to So Eban to Mosra. Is there any help in that, Nynaeve? Is there? Try to pull a man's mustache out of his face. Somebody ought to box your ears, for once.”
“What would Ailron want with a strip along the border, Thom?” Elayne asked. Perhaps she was interested — she seemed interested in every fool twist and turn of politics and diplomacy — or perhaps she was just trying to stop an argument. She used to try smoothing over things all the time, before she became wrapped