Nynaeve was still gaping when Birgitte added, “Luca was upset, whatever the tale. He said...” She cleared her throat and made her voice deep. “'So she likes rough men, does she? Well, I can be as rough as a winter cob!' And off he set, leading two lads with shoulders like s'Gandin quarrymen, to fetch you back. Thom Merrilin and Juilin Sandar went as well, in not much better temper. That did not improve Luca's, but they were all so upset over you it left no room for anger at each other.”

For a moment Nynaeve stared in confusion. She liked rough men? What could he possibly mean by...? Slowly it sank in, and she groaned. “Oh, that is just what I need.” And Thom and Juilin running around Samara. The Light knew what trouble they could get into.

“I still want to know what you thought you were doing,” Elayne said, “but we are wasting time here.”

Nynaeve let them start her off through the crowd, one to either side, but even with the news of Luca and the others, she felt satisfied with her day's work. “We should be out of here in a day or two, with luck. If Galad doesn't find us a boat, Masema will. It turns out he is the Prophet. You remember Masema, Elayne. That sourfaced Shienaran we saw —” Realizing that Elayne had stopped, Nynaeve paused for her to catch up again.

“Galad?” the younger woman said disbelievingly, forgetting to hold her cloak closed. “You saw — you spoke to Galad? And the Prophet? You must have, or how would they be trying to find a vessel? Did you have tea with them, or did you just meet them in a common room? Where the baldheaded man carried you, no doubt. Maybe the King of Ghealdan was there, too? Would you please convince me I am dreaming so I can wake up?”

“Get a grip on yourself,” Nynaeve said firmly. “It is a queen, now, not a king, and yes, she was. And he wasn't bald; he had a topknot. The Shienaran, I mean. Not the Prophet. He's as bald as —” She glared at Birgitte until the woman stopped snickering. The glower slipped a little when Nynaeve remembered who she was glowering at and what she had done to her, but if the woman had not smoothed her features, they might have found out whether she could bring herself to slap Birgitte crosseyed. They began walking again, and she said as levelly as she could manage, “This is what happened. I saw Uno, one of the Shienarans who was at Falme, watching you highwalk, Elayne. He doesn't think any better of the DaughterHeir of Andor showing her legs than I do, by the way. In any case, Moiraine sent them here after Falme, but...”

She related everything quickly as they made their way through the crowd, riding roughshod over Elayne's increasingly incredulous exclamations, answering their questions in as few words as possible. Despite a quick interest in the shifts of the Ghealdanin throne, Elayne concentrated on exactly what Galad had said and why Nynaeve had been fool enough to approach the Prophet, whoever he was. That word — fool — popped up often enough to make Nynaeve keep a tight leash on her, temper. She might doubt whether she could slap Birgitte, but Elayne had no such protection, DaughterHeir or not. A few more repetitions, and the girl woud discover it. Birgitte was more interested in Masema's intentions on the one hand and the Shienarans on the other. It seemed she had encountered Borderlanders in previous lives, though their nations had had different names, and thought well of them by and large. She said little, really, but she appeared to approve of holding on to the Shienarans.

Nynaeve expected the news about Salidar to startle them, or excite them, or anything but what it did. Birgitte took it as matteroffactly as if she had said they would eat supper with Thom and Juilin that night. Plainly she meant to go where Elayne did, and all else mattered little. Elayne looked doubtful. Doubtful!

“Are you certain? You have tried so hard to remember, and... Well, it seems awfully fortuitous that Galad should just happen to mention it to you.”

Nynaeve glowered. “Of course I am certain. Coincidences do happen. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, as you may have heard. I remember now that he mentioned it in Sienda, too, but I was so concerned over you being concerned about him that I didn't —” She cut off short.

They had arrived at a long narrow area near the north wall, marked off by ropes. At one end stood something like a segment of wooden fence, two paces wide and two tall. People lined the ropes four deep, with children crouching down in front or holding a father's leg or a mother's skirts. A buzz rose as the three women appeared. Nynaeve would have stopped dead, but Birgitte had her by the arm, and it was walk or be dragged.

“I thought we were going to the wagon,” she said faintly. Busy with talking, she had paid too little attention to where they were going.

“Not unless you want to see me shoot in the dark,” Birgitte replied. She sounded all too willing to give it a try.

Nynaeve wished she could have made some other comment than a squeak. The bit of fence filled her vision as they progressed down the open space, to the exclusion of the onlookers. Even their increasing murmurs sounded distant. The fence looked a mile from where Birgitte would stand.

“Are you sure that he said he swore by... our mother?” Elayne demanded sourly. Acknowledging Galad as her brother even that far was unpleasant for her.

“What? Yes. I said so, didn't I? Listen. If Luca is in the city, he would not know whether we did this or not until it was too late to...” Nynaeve knew she was babbling, but she could not seem to stop her tongue. Somehow she had never realized how far a hundred paces really was. In the Two Rivers, grown men always shot targets at twice that. But then, none of those targets had ever been her. “I mean, it already is very late. The shadows... The glare... We really should do this in the morning. When the light is —”

“If he swore by her,” Elayne broke in as if she had not been listening, “then he will hold to it no matter what. He would sooner break an oath on his hope of salvation and rebirth than that. I think... no, I know we can trust him.” She did not sound as if she particularly liked it, though.

“The light is just fine,” Birgitte said, a hint of amusement in her calm voice. “I might try it blindfolded. This lot will want it to look difficult, I think.”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, but nothing came out. This time she would have settled for a squeak. Birgitte was only making a bad joke. She had to be joking.

They positioned her with her back against the rough wooden fence, and Elayne began tugging at the knot in the shawl as Birgitte turned back the way they had come, drawing