"You still listening?" The question was accompanied by a stout jab to Rav's shoulder, supplied by the walking cane of the man sat opposite. He was in his late-sixties with more white than grey in his hair. A clerk for the local mayor, although Ravak judged he was more of a would-be inquisitor. His nose was unusually large and hooked for an Andoran.
Rav grunted, not from the prod but from being shunted out of his reverie. His fingers tapped the side of the mug, echoing hollowly. "Another," he shouted to the room, assuming some serving person would overhear.
"I said--" The cane approached once more. This time Ravak stopped it with an open palm. The cane shook as it tried progressing forwards.
"I'm listening, just thirsty. So he's a channeller?" His words were touched by soft scorn as he pushed the cane aside.
The clerk muttered before answering. "A powerful one. People are already saying he's the Dragon."
The Shienaran snorted softly. There weren't any Dragons any more, false or otherwise. Men could turn up to either of the Towers and find themselves welcomed in. No-one had to hide their gifts or prove their strength unless they ran up against the Children or the Seanchan. Even the Aiel were getting accustomed to Asha'man.
"And what people are those? Pig farmers? Peddlers? Has he actually raised a war banner, or is this just an aggrieved goodwife badmouthing some outsider?"
It was definitely more than just rumour. Mia and Ravak weren't the only ones out looking for information about this man causing havoc. The sightings were sporadic and disparate, although the notion that there were multiple channellers had been placed aside. The working theory was that this man knew how to Skim.
"Taravin. Pendar. Anshar." The man punctuated each name with a tap of his cane against the table. "They've all joined him."
"And how would you know that? Just pig farmers and peddlers."
The old man smiled, open-lipped so he could show off his teeth. "I work for the mayor," he emphasised proudly. "I hear the truth direct from their quills."
- - - When Ravak returned to Miahala three hours later, he had five messages tucked into a pouch on his belt. He emptied the curled scrolls onto the table, adjusting each one so Mia could readily see them. "Four Andoran Houses have pledged support for this 'Morsic Holt'. That doesn't even sound like a real name. But four houses in Andor? It can't be right." He lifted one of the messages from the table, still not believing the evidence before his eyes. The paper was right for a noble, thick and textured. The penmanship was suitable for a servant, and the seal seemed authentic. The grey wax was embossed with a fish.
"Norwelyn, Anshar, Pendar and Taravin. How do four Andoran Houses decide to back a man? They must really believe this is, you know, the real Dragon before they do this." He placed the message back on the table with a sigh. "If this is real, we need to nip this in the bud before the rest of Andor goes mad."