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at the door so fast that she lost one of her white
    slippers. Too terrified to turn back for it, or perhaps even to notice—and well for her that
    she was—she clawed the door open and ran. Sending property for discipline should not
    bring a sense of satisfaction, but it did. Oh, yes, it did.
    Suroth took a moment to control her breathing. To appear to be grieving was one thing, to
    appear to be agitated quite another. She was filled with annoyance at Liandrin, jolting
    memories of her nightmares, fears for Tuon’s fate and even more so her own, but not
    until the face in the mirror displayed utter calm did she follow the da’covale.
    The anteroom to her bedchamber was decorated in the garish Ebou Dari fashion, a cloud-
    painted blue ceiling, yellow walls and green and yellow floor tiles. Even replacing the
    furnishings with her own tall screens, all save two painted by the finest artists with birds
    or flowers, did little to relieve the gaudiness. She growled faintly in her throat at sight of
    the outer door, apparently left open by Liandrin in her flight, but she dismissed the
    da’covale from her mind for the moment and concentrated on the man who stood there
    examining the screen that held the image of a kori, a huge spotted cat from the Sen
    T’jore. Lanky and graying, in armor striped blue-and-yellow, he pivoted smoothly at the
    soft sound of her footsteps and went to one knee, though he was a commoner. The helmet
    beneath his arm bore three slender blue plumes, so the message must be important. Of
    course, it must be important to disturb her at this hour. She would give him dispensation.
    This once.
    “Banner-General Mikhel Najirah, High Lady. Captain-General Galgan’s compliments,
    and he has received communications from Tarabon.”
    Suroth’s eyebrows climbed in spite of herself. Tarabon? Tarabon was as secure as
    Seandar. Automatically her fingers twitched, but she had not yet found a replacement for
    Alwhin. She must speak to the man herself. Irritation over that hardened her voice, and
    she made no effort to soften it. Kneeling instead of prostrate! “What communications? If
    I have been wakened for news of Aiel, I will not be pleased, Banner-General.”
    Her tone failed to intimidate the man. He even raised his eyes almost to meet hers. “Not
    Aiel, High Lady,” he said calmly. “Captain-General Galgan wishes to tell you himself, so
    you can hear every detail correctly.”
    Suroth’s breath caught for an instant. Whether Najirah was just reluctant to tell her the
    contents of these communications or had been ordered not to, this sounded ill. “Lead on,”
    she commanded, then swept out of the room without waiting for him, ignoring as best she
    could the pair of Deathwatch Guards standing like statues in the hallway to either side of
    the door. The “honor” of being guarded by those men in red-and-green armor made her
    skin crawl. Since Tuon’s disappearance, she tried not to see them at all.
    The corridor, lined with gilded stand-lamps whose flames flickered in errant drafts that
    stirred tapestries of ships and the sea, was empty except for a few liveried palace
    servants, scurrying on early tasks, who thought deep bows and curtsies sufficient. And
    they always looked right at her! Perhaps a word with Beslan? No; the new King of
    Tarabon was her equal, now, in law at any rate, and she doubted that he would make his
    servants behave properly. She stared straight ahead as she walked. That way, she did not
    have to see the servants’ insults.
    Najirah caught up to her quickly, his boots ringing on the too-bright blue floor tiles, and
    fell in at her side. In truth, she needed no guide. She knew where Galgan must be.
    The room had begun as a chamber for dancing, a square thirty paces on a side, its ceiling
    painted with fanciful fish and birds frolicking in often confusing fashion among clouds
    and waves. Only the ceiling remained to recall the room’s beginnings. Now mirrored
    stand-lamps and