Which left him alone with Min again. Which felt awkward for some reason.

CHAPTER
42

The Black Tower

Rand and Min stood looking at one another, not moving, until finally he said, “Would you like to come out to the farm with me?”

She gave a little start at the sound of his voice. “The farm?”

“It’s a school, really. For the men who come for the amnesty.”

Min’s face paled. “No, I don’t think. . . . Merana will be waiting to hear from me. And I should let them know your rules as soon as possible. Any one of them could wander into the Inner City without knowing, and you wouldn’t want. . . . I really ought to go.”

He did not understand. Without meeting even one of the students, she was afraid of them, men who could channel, men who wanted to channel. In anyone else it would be understandable, but he could channel, and she was ready to rough his hair and poke his ribs and call him names to his face. “Do you want an escort back to The Crown of Roses? There really are footpads, even by daylight. Not many, but I would not like anything to happen to you.”

Her laugh was a bit unsteady. She truly was upset over the farm. “I took care of myself while you were tending sheep, farmboy.” Abruptly she had a knife in either hand; a flourish, and they went back up her sleeves, not quite so smoothly as they had come out. In a much more sober tone, she said, “You must take care of yourself, Rand. Rest. You look tired.” Startlingly, she went a-tiptoe and stretched her head up to brush his lips with a kiss. “It is good to see you too, sheepherder.” And with another laugh, this one delighted, she slipped out.

Muttering to himself, Rand put his coat back on and went into his bedchamber to fetch his sword from the back of the wardrobe, a dark, rose-carved thing tall enough and wide enough for four men’s clothes. He really was turning into a randy goat. Min was just having her fun. He wondered how long she intended to keep teasing him for one slip of the tongue.

A cloth bag of moderate size, clinking when he lifted it from under his stockings in a drawered chest inlaid with lapis, went into one coat pocket, and a much smaller, velvet bag went in atop his angreal. The silversmith who had made the contents of the larger had been more than happy to work for the Dragon Reborn and had tried to refuse payment for the honor of it. The goldsmith who had made the single piece in the other bag had required four times what Bashere said the work was worth, and a pair of Maidens to stand over him until it was done.