She was certainly angry enough. Galad, of all people! She should never have left the menagerie! A fool whim, and one that might ruin everything. She could no more channel here than against Masema. Just the possibility that Moghedien or Black sisters were in Samara made her dependent on two men for her safety. It was enough to screw her anger tight; she could have chewed a hole in the stone wall behind her. She knew why Aes Sedai had Warders – all but Reds, anyway. In her head, she did. In her heart, it just made her want to snarl.

Galad appeared, threading his way slowly through the folk out in the street, eyes searching. By all reason, be should have gone on by – he should have – yet almost immediately his gaze settled on the alleyway. On them. He did not even have the grace to appear pleased or surprised.

Uno and Ragan moved together as Galad turned toward the alley. The one-eyed man had his sword out in the blink of an eye, and Ragan was scarcely slower for all he paused to push her deeper into the narrow passage. They positioned themselves one behind the other; should Galad make it past Uno, he would still have Ragan to face.

Nynaeve ground her teeth. She could make all these swords unnecessary, useless; she could sense the True Source, like a light unseen over her shoulder, waiting for her embrace. She could do it. If she dared.

Galad stopped at the alley mouth, cloak thrown back, one hand resting nonchalantly on his sword hilt, a picture of spring-steel grace. Except for his burnished mail, he could have been at a ball.

"I do not want to kill either of you, Shienaran," he said calmly to Uno. Nynaeve had heard Elayne and Gawyn speak of Galad's sword skill, but for the first time she realized that he might really be as good as they said. At least, he thought he was. Two seasoned soldiers with blades bare, and he eyed them as a wolfhound would eye a pair of lesser dogs, not seeking a fight yet utterly confident he could take both. Never quite looking away from the two men, he addressed her. "Someone else might have run into a shop or an inn, but you never do what is expected. Will you let me speak with you? There is no need to make me kill these men."

None of the passersby were stopping, but even with three men blocking her view she could see heads swiveling for a glimpse of what had drawn the Whitecloak. And plainly taking in the swords. Rumors would be hatching in all those minds and taking flight on wings that made dusk swallows seem slow.

"Let him by," she commanded. When Uno and Ragan did not budge, she repeated herself, even more firmly. They did move aside then, slowly, as much as the narrow alley would allow, yet though neither said a word, there was an air of muttering about them. Galad came by smoothly, seeming to forget the Shienarans. She suspected that believing so would be a mistake; the top-knotted men plainly did not.

Aside from one of the Forsaken, she could not imagine a man she would less like to see right then, but with that face in front of her, she was all too conscious of her own, breathing, her own heartbeat. It was ludicrous. Why could the man not be ugly? Or at least plain.

"You knew I knew that you were following." Accusation rang strongly in her voice, though she was not sure what she was accusing him of. Not doing what she had expected and wanted, she imagined ruefully.

"I assumed as much as soon as I recognized you, Nynaeve. I remember that you generally see more than you let on."

She would not let him divert her with compliments. Look where that had gotten her with Valan Luca. "What are you doing in Ghealdan? I thought you were on your way to Altara."

For a moment he stared down at her with those dark, beautiful eyes, then abruptly laughed. "In all the world, Nynaeve, only you would ask me the question I should be asking you. Very well. I'll answer you, for all it should be the other way round. I did have orders for Salidar, in Altara, but all changed when this Prophet fellow – What is the matter? Are you unwell?"

Nynaeve forced her face to smoothness. "Of course not," she said irritably. "My health is quite good, thank you very kindly." Salidar! Of course! The name was like one of Aludra's firesticks going off in her head. All of that racking of her brain, and Galad casually handed her what she had been unable to dig up on her own. Now if only Masema found a ship quickly. If only she could make sure Galad would not betray them. Without letting Uno and Ragan kill him, of course.

Whatever Elayne said, Nynaeve could not believe she would appreciate having her brother cut down. Small chance he would believe Elayne was not with her. "I just cannot get over my shock at seeing you."

"A small patch on mine, when I learned you had slipped out of Sienda." Sternness became that handsome face to an unfortunate degree, but his tone offset it. Somewhat. He could have been lecturing a small girl who had sneaked out of the house after her bedtime to climb trees. "I was sick near to death with worry. What under the Light possessed you? Have you any idea of the risks you ran? And to come here, of all places. Elayne always chooses to saddle a horse at the gallop if she can, but I thought that you, at least, had more sense. This so-called Prophet —" He cut off, eyeing the other two men. Uno had grounded his sword-point, scarred hands folded atop the pommel. Ragan appeared to be inspecting his blade's edge to the exclusion of everything else.

"I have heard rumors," Galad went on slowly, "that he is Shienaran. You cannot have been witless enough to get yourself mixed up with him." There was too much question in that for her taste by far.

"Neither of them is the Prophet, Galad," she said wryly. "I've known them both for some little time, and I can assure you of that. Uno, Ragan, unless you intend to prune your toenails, put those things up. Well?" They hesitated before doing as they were told, Uno grumping under his breath and glaring, but they did it finally. Men usually responded to a firm voice. Most did. Sometimes, anyway.

"I hardly thought they were, Nynaeve." Galad's tone, even more arid than hers, made her bristle, but when he went on, he sounded annoyed rather than superior. And worried. Which made her bristle even more, of course. He all but gave her palpitations, and he had the nerve to be worried. "I do not know what you and Elayne have fallen into here, and I do not care, so long as I can extract you from it before you are hurt. Trade is slow on the, river, but a suitable boat of some sort should call in the next few days. Let me know where I can find you, and I will secure you passage to somewhere in Altara. From there, you can make your way to Caemlyn."

She gaped in spite of herself. "You mean to find us a ship?"

"It is all I can do, now." He sounded apologetic, and shook his head as if arguing with himself. "I cannot escort you to safety; my duty is here."

"We wouldn't want to take you from your duty," she said, a touch breathless. If he wanted to misunderstand, let him. The most she had hoped for was that he would leave them be.

He seemed to feel the need to defend himself. "It is hardly safe to send you off alone, but a boat will take you away before the entire border explodes. Which it will, soon or late; all it needs is one spark, and the Prophet is sure to strike it if no one else does. You must see to setting yourselves to Caemlyn, you and Elayne. All I ask is your promise that you will go there. The Tower is no place for either of you. Or for —" He clamped his teeth shut, but he might as well have gone ahead and named Egwene.

It could not hurt, having Galad looking for a boat too. If Masema could forget whether he intended to close the taverns, he could forget to have anyone find a riverboat. Especially if he thought a convenient bout of forgetfulness might keep her there to further his own plans. It could not hurt – if she could trust Galad. If she could not, then she would have to hope he was not as good with that sword as he thought he was. A stark thought, but not so stark as what might happen – would happen – if he proved untrustworthy.