Perrin let his dun stallion walk within ten paces of the city gate before drawing rein. Stepper was as happy to stop; he did not like the heat. The mounted men blocking the gate were Saldaeans, by those bold noses and tilted eyes; some wore glossy black beards, some thick mustaches, and some were clean-shaven. Every man save one had a hand on his sword hilt. The air stirred from them, not quite a breeze; there was no fear smell. Perrin looked at Faile, but she was bent over Swallow’s arched neck, intent on fiddling with the black mare’s bridle; she smelled faintly of herbal soap and anxiety. They had heard news of Saldaeans in Caemlyn these last two hundred miles and more, led by Faile’s father supposedly. That did not seem to worry Faile, but she was certain her mother would be in Caemlyn as well. She said that did not worry her either.

“We don’t even need the bowmen,” Aram said quietly, stroking the hilt that stuck up over his shoulder. His dark eyes seemed eager; he certainly smelled eager. “There are only ten. You and I could cut through them ourselves.” Gaul had veiled himself, and almost certainly, Bain and Chiad had too, on the other side of Faile.

“No archers, and no cutting,” Perrin said. “And no spears, Gaul.” He did not say anything to Bain or Chiad; they only listened to Faile anyway. Who did not appear ready to look up or say a word any time soon. Gaul merely lowered his veil with a shrug; Aram frowned in disappointment.

Perrin kept his expression mild as he turned back to the Saldaeans. Yellow-gold eyes made some men nervous. “My name is Perrin Aybara. I think Rand al’Thor will want to see me.”

The bearded fellow who had not touched his sword gave a small bow from the saddle. “I am Vilnar Barada, Lord Aybara, Underlieutenant sword-sworn to Lord Davram Bashere.” He said that very loudly, and come to think of it, he had been avoiding looking at Faile. She sighed at mention of her father and scowled at Barada, the more so when he continued to ignore her. “Lord Bashere’s orders,” the man went on, adding as an afterthought, “and the Lord Dragon’s, are that no noble can enter Caemlyn with more than twenty armed men or fifty servants.”

Aram shifted on his horse. He was even more prickly about Perrin’s supposed honor than Faile, which was saying something, but thank the Light, he would not unsheathe his sword unless Perrin said to.

Perrin spoke over his shoulder. “Dannil, take everybody back to that meadow we passed about three miles back and make camp. If a farmer shows up to complain, give him some gold and smooth him down. Let him know he’ll be paid for any damage. Aram, you go with them.”