"No," Uno muttered. "Why do we flaming have to keep away —?" His head jerked back as her admonitory finger almost touched his nose.

"Do you remember what I said about your language?" She had to make herself give him a level look; that glaring red eye-patch made her stomach do flips. "Unless you do remember, you will learn why men in the Two Rivers have decent tongues in their mouths."

She watched him turn that over in his mind. He did not know what her connection with the White Tower was, only that it existed. She might be an agent of the Tower, or Tower-trained. Or even Aes Sedai, though one not long to the shawl. And the threat was vague enough for him to put his own worst interpretation to it. She had known that technique long before hearing Juilin mention it to Elayne.

When it appeared the idea had taken hold – and before he could ask any questions – she lowered her hand. "You will stay away for the same reason Galad does. So as not to draw attention. For the rest, you will do it because I say so. If I must explain my every decision to you, I'll have time for nothing else, so you must make the best of it."

That was a suitably Aes Sedai comment. Besides, they had no choice if they intended to help her reach Rand, as they thought, which meant they had no choice. All in all, she was feeling quite satisfied with herself as she shooed them off back toward Samara and strode past the waiting crowd and under the sign bearing Valan Luca's name.

To her surprise, there was an addition to the show. On a new platform not far from the entry, a woman in gauzy yellow trousers was standing on her head, arms outstretched to either side with a pair of white doves on each hand. No, not on her head. The woman was gripping some sort of wooden frame in her teeth and balancing on that. As Nynaeve watched, aghast, the peculiar acrobat lowered her hands to the platform for a moment while bending herself double, until she seemed to be sitting on her own head. Even that was not enough. Her legs curved down in front of her, then impossibly back up under her arms, whereupon she transferred the doves to the upturned soles of her feet, now the highest part of the contorted ball she had knotted herself into. The onlookers gasped and applauded, but the sight made Nynaeve shiver. It was all too good a reminder of what Moghedien had done to her.

That isn't why I mean to hand her over to the Blues, she told herself. I just do not want to cause calamity again. That was true, but she was also afraid that the next time, she would not escape so easily or so lightly. She would not have admitted that to another soul. She did not like admitting it to herself.

Giving the contortionist one last puzzled glance – she could not begin to puzzle out what the woman had twisted herself into now – she turned away. And started as Elayne and Birgitte suddenly appeared at her side out of the milling crowd. Elayne had a cloak decently covering her white coat and breeches; Birgitte was all but flaunting her low-necked red gown. No, there was no "all but" to it. She stood even straighter than usual and had tossed back her braid to remove even its minimal covering. Nynaeve fingered the knot of her shawl at her waist, wishing every glance at Birgitte did not remind her how much she herself would be showing once the gray wool came off. The other woman's quiver hung at her belt, and she carried the bow Luca had found for her. Surely the day was too late for her to go through with the shooting.

A glance at the sky told Nynaeve she was wrong. Despite everything that had happened, the sun still stood well above the horizon. Shadows stretched long, but not long enough to dissuade Birgitte, she suspected.

In an attempt to cover checking the sun, she nodded toward the woman in the gauzy trousers, who had now begun to twist herself into something that Nynaeve knew was impossible. While still balancing on her teeth. "Where did she come from?"

"Luca hired her," Birgitte answered calmly. "He bought some leopards, as well. Her name is Muelin."

If Birgitte was all self-possessed coolness, Elayne very nearly quivered with emotion. "Where did she come from?" she spluttered. "She came from a show that a mob nearly destroyed!"

"I heard about that," Nynaeve said, "but that isn't what is important. I —"

"Not important!" Elayne rolled her eyes to the heavens as if for guidance. "Did you also hear why? I don't know whether it was Whitecloaks or this Prophet, but somebody whipped up that mob because they thought..." She glanced around without slowing and lowered her voice; none of the crowd had stopped, but every passerby stared at two obvious performers standing. "... that a woman in the show might wear a shawl." She emphasized the last word significantly. "Fools to think she'd be with a traveling menagerie, but then, you and I are. And you go dashing into the city without a word to anyone. We've heard everything from a baldheaded man carrying you off over his shoulder to you kissing a Shienaran and traipsing away with him arm in arm."

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 sour-faced 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 bald-headed 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 cross-eyed. 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 Daughter-Heir 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, Daughter-Heir 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.