“Not that I have heard.” Taim was watching him cautiously, as if he expected another outburst. “Most of the students come through gateways now, and with all the people on the roads, it cannot be easy to pick out a man heading here unless he talks too freely.” He paused, “They could be disposed of easily enough in any case.”

“No.” Was Lews Therin really gone? He wished it, and knew he would be a fool to believe. “If they start taking men, I’ll have to do something, but as it is, they’re no threat out in the country. And believe me, nobody Elaida sends is likely to join those Aes Sedai in the city. Either lot would probably welcome you before they did each other.”

“What about those who are not in the countryside? Eleven of them? A few accidents could reduce that to a much safer number. If you don’t want to soil your own hands, I am willing to—”

“No! How many times do I have to say, no! If I feel a man channel in Caemlyn, I will come for you, Taim. I swear I will. And don’t think you can stay far enough from the Palace that I won’t feel it and be safe. If one of those Aes Sedai keels over dead for no reason, I will know who to blame. Mark me!”

“You set wide boundaries,” Taim said dryly. “If Sammael or Demandred decides to taunt you with a few dead Aes Sedai on your doorstep, my veins are opened?”

“They haven’t so far, and you had better hope they do not start. Mark me, I say.”

“I hear my Lord Dragon and obey, of course.” The hawk-nosed man bowed slightly. “But I still say eleven is a dangerous number.”

Rand laughed in spite of himself. “Taim, I intend to teach them to dance to my flute.” Light, how long since he had played the flute? Where was his flute? Faintly, he heard Lews Therin chuckling.

CHAPTER
43

The Crown of Roses

Merana’s hired coach swayed its slow way through the densely packed streets toward The Crown of Roses. Outwardly she was calm, at least, a dark-haired woman with cool hazel eyes, slim-fingered hands folded peacefully on her pale gray silk skirts. Inside, she was not so serene. Thirty-eight years ago she had been in place by chance to negotiate a treaty between Arad Doman and Tarabon that was supposed to put an end to the squabbling over Almoth Plain, with Domani and Taraboners dodging at every turn and three times nearly starting a war in the middle of the exchanges and all the while maintaining smiling faces of utter goodwill. By the time the signatures were dry, she felt as if she had been rolled over rough hills in a barrel full of splinters, and after all that, the treaty turned out to be worth considerably less than the wax and ribbons for its seals. She hoped what she had begun this afternoon at the Royal Palace ended better—it had to—but inside, she felt as though she had just climbed out of another barrel.