The tavern was crowded, rowdy, the air heavy with pipe smoke and sweat and the occasional whiff of perfume mixed with the aromas of roast meats and ale and cheap wine. Sitting at a corner table, hunched over his glass, Marten wondered if anyone in the room was aware of the cold-blooded murder that had been committed in a room on the third floor. If they weren’t, they were unlikely to find out; Jaryd had Warded the room so thoroughly that no casual passer-by would even realise there was a door, or if they did, they’d certainly feel no desire to try to open it.
The woman had been dead by the time the two Reds had found her. More’s the pity; she was the person they were in Illian to meet. A former Aes Sedai of the late White Tower, and — according to intelligence Jaryd had somehow come by — a member of the Black Ajah, she had wanted to trade information for protection; the fact that she was dead indicated that she’d been right about needing protection. Whether any information she might have been willing to part with would have been valuable enough to make Jaryd spare her life… well, now they’d never know.
Marten eyed Jaryd over his drink. Outwardly the Altaran seemed unaffected by the scene that had faced them upstairs, but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking at any given time. For himself, Marten knew he was going to be seeing the blood-soaked curtains and the… well, the rest of it, when he closed his eyes, and he really, really didn’t want to. It didn’t help that he could tell exactly what had been done to the poor bastard. Well, there were gaps — there had been saidar involved, too, which muddied the reading of the residues — but his imagination was all too happy to provide the missing pieces. It hadn’t been a quick or a painless death, that was for sure.
What did you expect, an entirely rhetorical part of him asked, when you joined the Red Ajah? Walks in the Gardens with Maever? He told it to shut up and drained his glass. The alcohol was doing its job; he was no longer shaking, and though he wasn’t too sure about drinking on the job, well, Jaryd was the one who’d put the first glass into his hands so he was probably fine. Besides, was it Ajah business anymore when their target was dead and the perpetrators would have been long gone?
And… if this wasn’t Ajah business anymore, was he just casually getting drunk with his boss? He tilted his head in contemplation, squinting at the other Red again. Was Jaryd even capable of getting drunk? Granted, Marten was beginning to suspect his own tolerance had gone down; he’d not touched alcohol since— well, since that day, with Ninya and Jesi and the war.
The world felt a little blurry around the edges and instead of the dead woman upstairs, he now saw another dead woman in his mind — not an improvement — and a living one, if barely. He’d visited Paks in the Infirmary a few times now, and those visits always left him feeling helpless, useless. There was little he could do for her — there was little anyone could do for her — and he… worried. The Yellow Ajah wouldn’t let her die, but they couldn’t make her live, either, and nothing he’d read gave him much reason for hope.
People had been known to survive, and one such survivor sat next to him right now. Marten had entertained the thought of asking Jaryd for advice, had even gone as far as to visit him one evening, but he’d been out and Marten had lost his nerve in the face of Jaren’s open curiosity and concern… and an opportunity just hadn’t presented itself. Until now. Whether this was the time and place to bring the topic up was certainly open to debate, but he supposed he may as well accept that he wasn’t ever going to do it while sober; in fact the mere thought of asking Jaryd bloody Kosari about bond loss trauma, ever, under any circumstances, was fucking laughable, but… Shit, did he have any better ideas?
“Um. Boss?” he said, half surprised that he’d actually spoken up. “Can I ask a personal question?”
The woman had been dead by the time the two Reds had found her. More’s the pity; she was the person they were in Illian to meet. A former Aes Sedai of the late White Tower, and — according to intelligence Jaryd had somehow come by — a member of the Black Ajah, she had wanted to trade information for protection; the fact that she was dead indicated that she’d been right about needing protection. Whether any information she might have been willing to part with would have been valuable enough to make Jaryd spare her life… well, now they’d never know.
Marten eyed Jaryd over his drink. Outwardly the Altaran seemed unaffected by the scene that had faced them upstairs, but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking at any given time. For himself, Marten knew he was going to be seeing the blood-soaked curtains and the… well, the rest of it, when he closed his eyes, and he really, really didn’t want to. It didn’t help that he could tell exactly what had been done to the poor bastard. Well, there were gaps — there had been saidar involved, too, which muddied the reading of the residues — but his imagination was all too happy to provide the missing pieces. It hadn’t been a quick or a painless death, that was for sure.
What did you expect, an entirely rhetorical part of him asked, when you joined the Red Ajah? Walks in the Gardens with Maever? He told it to shut up and drained his glass. The alcohol was doing its job; he was no longer shaking, and though he wasn’t too sure about drinking on the job, well, Jaryd was the one who’d put the first glass into his hands so he was probably fine. Besides, was it Ajah business anymore when their target was dead and the perpetrators would have been long gone?
And… if this wasn’t Ajah business anymore, was he just casually getting drunk with his boss? He tilted his head in contemplation, squinting at the other Red again. Was Jaryd even capable of getting drunk? Granted, Marten was beginning to suspect his own tolerance had gone down; he’d not touched alcohol since— well, since that day, with Ninya and Jesi and the war.
The world felt a little blurry around the edges and instead of the dead woman upstairs, he now saw another dead woman in his mind — not an improvement — and a living one, if barely. He’d visited Paks in the Infirmary a few times now, and those visits always left him feeling helpless, useless. There was little he could do for her — there was little anyone could do for her — and he… worried. The Yellow Ajah wouldn’t let her die, but they couldn’t make her live, either, and nothing he’d read gave him much reason for hope.
People had been known to survive, and one such survivor sat next to him right now. Marten had entertained the thought of asking Jaryd for advice, had even gone as far as to visit him one evening, but he’d been out and Marten had lost his nerve in the face of Jaren’s open curiosity and concern… and an opportunity just hadn’t presented itself. Until now. Whether this was the time and place to bring the topic up was certainly open to debate, but he supposed he may as well accept that he wasn’t ever going to do it while sober; in fact the mere thought of asking Jaryd bloody Kosari about bond loss trauma, ever, under any circumstances, was fucking laughable, but… Shit, did he have any better ideas?
“Um. Boss?” he said, half surprised that he’d actually spoken up. “Can I ask a personal question?”
