Within his sight were twenty damane flanking the horsemen, each walking beside her sul’dam’s mount. The sul’dam bobbed in their saddles, bending to pat a damane’s head, straightening only to bend again to stroke her hair. The damane looked steady enough to his eye, but plainly the sul’dam were on razor’s edge. And ebullient Lisaine rode silent as a stone.

A torm appeared ahead, racing down the column. Well off to the side, on the edge of the groves, yet horses whickered and shied as the bronzescaled creature flowed past. A trained torm would not attack horses — at least not unless the killing frenzy overtook it, the reason torm were no good in battle — but horses trained to be calm around torm were in as short supply as torm themselves.

Miraj sent a skinny underlieutenant named Varek to fetch the morat’torm’s scouting report. Afoot, and the Light consume whether Varek lost sei’taer. He would not waste time on Varek trying to control a mount acquired locally. The man returned faster than he went and made a crisp bow, beginning his report before his back was straight again.

“The enemy is less than five miles due east, my Lord CaptainGeneral, marching in our direction. They are deployed in five columns spaced approximately one mile apart.”

So much for luck. But Miraj had considered how he would attack forty thousand with only five himself, and fifty damane. Quickly men were galloping with orders to deploy to meet an attempted envelopment, and the regiments behind him began turning into the groves, sul’dam riding among them with their damane.

Gathering his cloak against a sudden cold wind, Miraj noticed something that made him feel colder still. Lisaine was watching the sul’dam vanish into the trees, too. And she had begun to sweat.

Bertome rode easily, letting the wind stream his cloak to one side, but he studied the forested country ahead with a wariness he barely attempted to conceal. Of his four countrymen at his back, only Doressin was truly skilled in the Game of Houses. That fool Tairen dog Weiramon was blind, of course. Bertome glared at the puffedup buffoon’s back. Weiramon rode well ahead of the rest in deep conversation with Gedwyn, and if Bertome needed any further proof that the Tairen would smile at what gagged a goat, it was how he tolerated that hoteyed young monster. He noticed Kiril glancing sideways at him, and reined his gray further from the towering man. He had no particular enmity toward the Illianer, but he did hate people looming over him. He could not wait to return to Cairhien, where he did not have to be surrounded by ungainly giants. Kiril Drapeneos was not blind, though, however overtall. He had sent a dozen scouts forward, too. Weiramon had sent one.

“Doressin,” Bertome said softly, then, a little louder, “Doressin, you lump!”

The bony man gave a start in his saddle. Like Bertome, like the other three, he had shaved and powdered the front of his head; the style of marking yourself like a soldier had become quite fashionable. Doressin should have called him a toad in return, the way they had since boyhood, but instead he heeled his gelding up beside Bertome’s and leaned close. He was worried, and letting it show, his forehead furrowed deeply. “You realize the Lord Dragon means us to die?” he whispered, glancing at the column trailing behind them. “Blood and fire, I only listened to Colavaere, but I have known I was a dead man since he killed her.”

For a moment, Bertome eyed the column of armsmen, snaking back through the rolling hills. The trees were more scattered here than ahead, but still enough to shield an attack until it was right on top of you. The last olive grove lay nearly a mile behind. Weiramon’s men rode at the fore, of course, in those ridiculous coats with their fat whitestriped sleeves, and then Kiril’s Illianers in enough green and red to shame Tinkers. His own people, decently clad in dark blue beneath their breastplates, were still beyond his sight with Doressin’s and the others’, ahead only of the company of Legionmen. Weiramon had seemed surprised that the foot kept up, though he had hardly set a difficult pace.

It was not really the armsmen Bertome glanced at, though. Seven men rode before even Weiramon’s, seven men with hard faces and deathcold eyes, in black coats. One wore a pin in the shape of a silver sword on his tall collar.

“An elaborate way to go about it,” he told Doressin dryly. “And I doubt al’Thor would have sent those fellows with us, if we were just being fed into a sausage grinder.” Forehead still creased, Doressin opened his mouth again, but Bertome said, “I need to talk to the Tairen.” He disliked seeing his childhood friend this way. Al’Thor had unhinged him.

Absorbed in one another, Weiramon and Gedwyn did not hear him riding up on them. Gedwyn was idly playing with his reins, his features cold with contempt. The Tairen was redfaced. “I don’t care who you are,” he was saying to the blackcoated man in a low, hard voice, spittle flying, “I won’t take more risk without a command direct from the lips of — ”

Abruptly the pair became aware of Bertome, and Weiramon’s mouth snapped shut. He glared as if he wanted to kill Bertome. The Asha’man’s everpresent smile melted away. The wind gusted, cold and sharp as clouds drifted across the sun, but no colder than Gedwyn’s sudden stare. With a small shock Bertome realized the man also wanted to strike him dead on the spot.

Gedwyn’s icily murderous gaze did not change, but Weiramon’s face underwent a remarkable transformation. The red faded slowly as he produced a smile in an instant, an oily smile with only a trace of mocking condescension. “I’ve been thinking about you, Bertome,” he said heartily. “A pity al’Thor strangled your cousin. With his own hands, I hear. Frankly, I was surprised you came when he called. I’ve seen him watching you. I fear he plans something more... interesting... for you than thrashing your heels on the floor while his fingers tighten on your throat.”

Bertome suppressed a sigh, and not only at the fool’s clumsiness. A good many thought to manipulate him with Colavaere’s death. She had been his favorite cousin, but ambitious beyond reason. Saighan had good claims to the Sun Throne, yet she could not have held it against the strength of Riatin or Damodred either one, let alone both together, not without the open blessings of the White Tower or the Dragon Reborn. Still, she had been his favorite. What did Weiramon want? Certainly not what it seemed on the surface. Even this Tairen oaf was not that simple.

Before he could frame any response, a horseman came galloping toward them through the trees ahead. A Cairhienin, and as he reined to a sudden halt in front of them, that made his horse sit back on its haunches, Bertome recognized one of his own armsmen, a gaptoothed fellow with seamed scars on both cheeks. Doile, he thought. F