“Where can I find your lord or lady?” she demanded impatiently. Mayene was a small nation, but Berelain was unaccustomed to being ignored. “Everyone else seems to have gone mute, but I heard you use your tongue. Well, man? Speak up.”

The fellow stared up at her, licking his lips. “Lord Cowlin … Lord Cowlin is … away. My Lady.” His eyes darted toward Perrin, then flickered away. “The grain merchants.… They’re who you want. They can always be found at the Golden Barge. That way.” He thrust out a hand pointing vaguely deeper into the town, then suddenly scrambled away, looking back over his shoulder at them as though fearful of pursuit.

“I think we should find somewhere else,” Perrin said. That fellow had been afraid of more than yellow eyes. This place felt … askew.

“We are already here, and there is nowhere else,” Berelain replied in a very practical voice. In all that stink, he could not catch her scent; he would have to go by what he heard and saw, and her face was calm enough for an Aes Sedai. “I’ve been in towns that smelled worse than this, Perrin. I’m sure I have. And if this Lord Cowlin is gone, it won’t be the first time I’ve dealt with merchants. You don’t really believe they’ve seen the dead walking, do you?” What was a man to say to that without sounding a pure wool head?

In any case, the others were already crowding through the gates, though not in any neat array, now. Wynter and Alharra heeled Seonid like mismatched guard dogs, the one fair, the other dark, and both ready to rip out throats at the blink of an eye. They certainly had the feel of So Habor. Kirklin, riding beside Masuri, looked unwilling to wait for that eye to blink; his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Kireyin had a hand to his nose, and a glare in his eye that said someone was going to pay for making him smell this. Medore and Latian looked ill, too, but Balwer merely peered about, tilting his head, then drew the pair of them off into a narrow side street leading north. As Berelain said, they were there already.