Weaving Wheels and Brokering Deals - Attn: Sirayn

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

Ah, the Shining Walls, Dilora had heard so much about them from the other peddlers. That it was the very pinnacle of a peddler’s career to ply their trade within sight of the White Tower, given that most things were taken care of by independent traders. She wasn’t really here to trade, more to see the sights and get information – knowledge of any kind was useful, particularly in such a city as this. It was true as well – you could see the walls of the city for miles. Altie continued on at the slow pace she maintained, deliberate and unhurried, yet it would still be mid to late afternoon by the time they arrived at the gates.

 

A cheery smile to those that attended worked wonders. Dilora knew she was not unblessed in the looks department so there would be one of a few possible outcomes. One, they’d remember her, try to flirt with her, and ultimately let her through again. Two, they’d do their jobs as stone-faced guards with no more personality than a fence post. Three, they’d do their jobs, but be swayed by a pretty face and a pouch of coin. Knowing the reputation of Tar Valon, it was unlikely to be that last one. Still, she was passed into the walls without hindrance, and on into the city Dilora continued.

 

She mentally perused the inventory of her wagon’s contents, having checked at their last rest stop what was in the myriad hidden drawers, nooks and crannies she had wrought into the basic design. Some candied almonds, delicately stored from a patisserie in Cairhien, were rolled up in thin parchment in one of the drawers near the roof to stop them from getting too hot. A small barrel of fine brandy from Illian had a cushion on top and a cloth draped over it to make it resemble a small piece of occasional furniture. Tray after tray of spices lay fixed under false panels in her floorboards, apart from a small section where she stored her knife, bow and arrows. In one corner, a cask of Taraboner dye sat labelled “crimson” but she did not want to risk opening the bung in case it went everywhere. Maybe some haberdasher would be interested in that. All little things that had been traded in her travels across the continent were stowed and stashed away, away from plain sight. Her strongbox was under her bed, built into the base that swung up into the wall for when she needed more space. Alongside the strongbox was a small hollow for medicines, carefully garnered from those she spied on her travels, those that she could prepare herself anyway. Those that had more … complicated compositions were traded for news or herbs unavailable in the area they lived in.

 

Rolling through the bustling streets, Dilora spied men and women in varying shades of colour and costume, going about their daily routine. Another wagon rolling down the streets was nothing new to them; they must see this sort of thing every day. She smiled. The bigger cities were always the nicer ones to visit. In her mind they were only marginally nicer than the small villages that welcomed you as a long lost relative and gave you brandy and a seat by the fire, and as much food as you could eat as long as she gave all the news and events of the world. And sell a few pins and needles here and there, for profit, of course. The larger cities did not give the same kind of welcome, but they did encourage larger profits and networking possibilities. The bustle was making her thirsty though, and it would look odd indeed for a new arrival to this illustrious city to not sample some of the local brews. Her eyes sought a tavern of some repute; one Dilora had heard great things spoken of by those she had met on the road called “The Rose’s Thorn. Finding it, she clucked the reins to make Altie head in that direction and then disembarked and hitched the wagon securely, locking it afterwards. Altie, she lead to a stall in the stables and tossed a coin to the lad there, winking at him as she did so, before walking around to the entrance to the tavern and going in.

 

Ooh, they had dark ale here! Something usually only found in the more rural villages was on tap here in Tar Valon. Well, well, well … this was a pleasant surprise! Ordering herself a pint of it, Dilora laid another coin on the counter and turned her head around to the kitchen where the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread emanated appetisingly. And promptly ordered a portion of whatever was on the spit and a large portion of whatever sweet pastries they had. Life was too short to worry about things like fruit and vegetables when you did not know where you were going to sleep that night. A third coin joined those already on the counter-top, and Dilora whisked up the pint and walked over to a free table in the corner of the room where she could watch the rest of the patrons for likely sources of information, or an easy deal. A buxom girl with a white blouse and a sturdy brown skirt sang a melodic air about the love she left in Lugard, much to the approval of those around her who seemed far more interested in her nicely rounded ankles just visible above the hem of her dress. Smiling, Dilora sipped her pint and reached behind her head to take the ribbon out from her hair, feeling the dark mass fall about her shoulders in relaxation. The ale was deliciously cool on the way down, warming her stomach from the inside and sitting nicely. And where was her food?

[Winter Mist]

~Sirayn~

 

In a succession of not entirely coincidental coincidences, the Rose’s Thorn was the only tavern Sirayn Damodred entered voluntarily, the only one to bear her own stylised sigil on the wooden sign swinging above the door, and the only one where she would never have to put down a copper for anything she wanted. All three could be laid at the feet of its innkeeper, a dark-haired Ebou Dari woman who wore an eyepatch and a subtle sense of danger, whom she had once called Gaidin. A tall, strongly-built woman, all lean muscle and dark Altaran colouring, she moved like a wolf and yet seemed in her element polishing glasses and inciting serving girls to greater speed … a dichotomy Sirayn had never fully understood and didn’t know how to handle.

 

Sometimes she couldn’t take her eyes off Seiaman Kera, which she thought possibly less than wise, but to watch her was to dream of better times; warmth and comfort during the bitter Borderlander winters, Gaidin to watch her back, something about the plane of her throat that dissolved all her best intentions into the stupid, helpless need to touch. Even the memory caught at her heart. She could never put her finger on when exactly she had started to love Seiaman, how their difficult and hostile relationship had become as necessary to her as oxygen, why she still hadn’t had whatever intelligence or forgiveness would have made their bond work. And she didn’t need to. It was over now. Children wanted what they couldn’t have; Aes Sedai got over it.

 

Only she’d never learnt to close the book on such a long and important chapter in her life so easily. So once or twice a month, regular as clockwork, she found herself here. She liked to make a quiet entry, playing a little game to see how long she could go without unnoticed, so she could watch without interference. Like a proper disinterested observer she told herself to wish the Rose’s Thorn well rather than resent it stealing her place; not to question the exact purpose of all the pretty serving girls; to resist inquiring how Seiaman was getting along with the love of her life these days; and various other tricks essential to adjusting to life on the outside. She had no claim on Seiaman any more. She should just … let go.

 

Instead she cupped her hands round something hot and spiced and brooded over times past while somebody sang some syrupy song about true love left behind. Maybe it would have been better if Seiaman had never come back; at least then she could have convinced herself that her Warder was decently dead: a harsh thought perhaps but well deserved. She ought not to come here at all but she missed Seiaman intensely, had never truly adjusted to being alone again. Once she had such bright strong Warders. Now she had a grave in a wooded grove somewhere, for a funeral she hadn’t been present to attend, and an innkeeper who had made it clear she had a different life now.

 

It was enough to drive anybody to drink. She didn’t, of course -- another little legacy of Ebou Dar that she’d never got over -- so she needed a better distraction. A pretty dark-haired woman drew her eyes; near six inches taller than her of course, brown-haired and brown-eyed, and a rather blinding smile. It occurred to her to wonder drily whether Seiaman was watching too. Normally she wouldn’t be here at all, much less making conversation with total strangers, but she supposed that strange women were unlikely to bite her and it certainly beat spending the next hour analysing all over again why she hadn’t been a good enough Aes Sedai to keep her Warders safe.

 

She needed to be someone else for a while. Not a sister of the Tower, certainly not Sirayn Damodred with all her flaws and her failings, who only had confidence worth the name when she was being Aes Sedai to her fingertips, but the kind of anonymous stranger who talked to other strangers in taverns. So she picked up her slowly cooling drink and approached the other woman obliquely. Hopefully a foreigner wouldn’t recognise an Aes Sedai’s ageless face even in Tar Valon itself. “Andoran?” she hazarded keeping her tone light, “Let me guess. Somewhere near the Two Rivers.” She indicated the empty seat. “Room for a little one?”

 

~Dilora~

 

A melodic voice drew her out from her musings of where her food was. No doubt it would be brought from the kitchens soon enough, but the voice that greeted her was far from that of a serving girl. A chance for conversation with someone from outside of the area, well, who was Dilora to pass up such a thing? She minutely shifted her chair, wondering who had such a good ear for accents. After traveling for such a long term, Dilora had been certain the regional dialect of home had not clung to her tongue, but it obviously did. If she had been wearing a hat, she would have taken it off to the woman.

 

“Certainly,” Dilora replied turning to regard the person that had addressed her. A small, pale woman with steel in her gaze looked back at her. After a time she broke eye contact and gave up trying to place the woman’s age – besides the fact that there were some things a lady wanted to keep a secret. It would be nice if it were some sort of face cream – that would sell really well in the noble houses. “I am indeed from somewhere near the Two Rivers. You know accents well.” Dilora smiled warmly in greeting, grateful for a little company. This could prove to be a very good evening indeed, particularly if there was dancing later on, although from the look of some of the other patrons, Dilora was uncertain if the floors would be cleared and merriment would be made.

 

Waiting for the other woman to take her seat, Dilora continued her open appraisal of the woman. Possibly Cairhienin by appearance and stature, her posture spoke mildly of command. Not everyone would notice, but a seeming lifetime of meeting people from various classes had given Dilora a little insight into influential people. Was she a merchant, perhaps? Her soul twitched at the thought of a good haggle and satisfying bargaining; she lived for the fun of it, watching people with the little giveaway signals they were about to buckle, or knowing those who would not bend and playing to people’s strengths and weaknesses in order to get the best bargain possible. Someone had once said that Dilora could sell salt to the Sea Folk. Dilora had laughed, claiming she was no Domani and had graciously accepted his flattery for what it was, then went on to get a silver salt cellar out of him, and a bunch of flowers when all she had intended to get was a bag of turnips. People were strange…

 

“My name is Dilora Fashelle,” Dilora began her introductions, setting her drink down on the table and looking around again to see where her food was. She could smell it cooking, and it was making her hungry. “And I am a peddler. I travel from town to town and city to city, looking for bargains and spreading news. As you so eminently pointed out, I am from western Andor; from Baerlon to be precise.” Another sip of her drink, and the sound of feet nearby heralded the arrival of her food; steaming slices of meat with crisply roasted potatoes and other vegetables, and a plate containing a large portion of some sweet apple tart with a dollop of cream. It reminded her of how hungry she was, for her stomach rumbled audibly. With a rueful grin to the other woman, Dilora broke the tart with a fork, added a bit of cream and popped it into her mouth.

 

“Do excuse me,” she said after swallowing. “One of the things I believe is that life is too short. Sometimes, you have to eat sweet before meat.” Dilora laid her fork down on the plate and regarded her companion. “I’m sorry; I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. This is my first visit to Tar Valon and I have to say it is quite magnificent, but you have the advantage of me. May I ask who I have the pleasure of drinking with? And can I offer you some tart? It’s delicious…”