“His name was given as Perrin,” Niall said, frowning. “Three of them, you say? Nothing comes out of the Two Rivers but wool and tabac. I doubt if there is another place men live that is more isolated from the rest of the world.”

“In a city, Darkfriends must hide their nature to one extent or another. They must associate with others, with strangers come from other places and leaving to take word of what they have seen. But in quiet villages, cut off from the world, where few outsiders ever go. . . . What better places for all to be Darkfriends?”

“How is it you know the names of three Darkfriends, Ordeith? Three Darkfriends from the far end of forever. You keep too many secrets, Wormwood, and pull more surprises from your sleeve than a gleeman.”

“How can any man tell all that he knows, Great Lord,” the little man said smoothly. “It would be only prattle, until it becomes useful. I will tell you this, Great Lord. This Rand al’Thor, this Dragon, has deep roots in the Two Rivers.”

“False Dragon!” Niall said sharply, and the other man bowed.

“Of course, Great Lord. I misspoke myself.”

Suddenly Niall became aware of the drawing crumpled and torn in Ordeith’s hands. Even while the man’s face remained smooth except for that sardonic smile, his hands twitched convulsively around the parchment.

“Stop that!” Niall commanded. He snatched the drawing away from Ordeith and smoothed it as best he could. “I do not have so many likenesses of this man that I can allow them to be destroyed.” Much of the drawing was only a smudge, and a rip ran across the young man’s breast, but miraculously the face was untouched.

“Forgive me, Great Lord.” Ordeith made a deep bow, his smile never slipping. “I hate Darkfriends.”

Niall studied the face in chalks. Rand al’Thor, of the Two Rivers. “Perhaps I must make plans for the Two Rivers. When the snows clear. Perhaps.”

“As the Great Lord wishes,” Ordeith said blandly.

The grimace on Carridin’s face as he strode through the halls of the Fortress made other men avoid him, though in truth few sought the company of Questioners. Servants, hurrying about their tasks, tried to fade into the stone walls, and even men with golden knots of rank on their white cloaks took side corridors when they saw his face.

He flung open the door to his rooms and slammed it behind him, feeling none of the usual satisfaction at the fine carpets from Tarabon and Tear in lush reds and golds and blues, the beveled mirrors from Illian, the gold-leaf work on the long, intricately carved table in the middle of the floor. A master craftsman from Lugard had worked nearly a year on that. This time he barely saw it.