He’d never been popular, but before he’d thought he was doing something worthwhile, if only in enabling Alastair to continue his fight for a better Black Tower. Brendon didn’t know that he’d ever believed such a thing was achievable, but surely trying had counted for something? Now Alastair was gone, his followers either dead or scared into hiding, and Brendon was left with neither friends nor allies, simply… existing, for however much longer he could find reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning.
It was not much of a life, but for the moment it was easier than actively seeking death.
The rain picked up, plastering his hair to his scalp and turning the training grounds to a muddy mess. The latter was not helped by the fact that a group of Soldiers were busy tearing the ground up in waves of explosions that made the earth shake. Supervising them was a decidedly unglamorous job, more suited to a Dedicated than an Asha’man of over half a century in the service of the Black Tower, but Brendon knew why he was there. The official version was to make sure there was a Healer at hand if anything went wrong. As if anyone here really cared about training casualties.
The rain showed no sign of letting up by the time the bell rang, announcing an end to the training for the afternoon. Brendon waited barely long enough for the most slow-witted of the Soldiers to cease their channelling before he turned on his heels and strode towards the residential district, thinking only of getting out of the rain. He needed a drink.
Unfortunately, fate would have it otherwise. He'd not gone far when the sound of boots splashing in the mud caught his attention. He didn't stop, though; not until the other man called his name.
“Nolaisen!” The voice belonged to an Andoran Asha'man who claimed the name of Taravin. Brendon knew there was nobody in the House who matched the man's age or description, but that didn't seem to matter here; if a man was sufficiently useful and malleable, the M’Hael would let him go around claiming to be the heir to the Seanchan Empire for all he cared. “Wait up!”
Brendon suppressed a sigh and turned to face the intruder. “What can I do for you?”
The fake Taravin was approximately half his age and a head taller, with red-gold hair and an unfortunate boyish look that he likely wouldn't grow out of until his hair started to turn grey, if even then. It made him difficult to take seriously, and by all evidence he wasn’t anywhere near sophisticated enough to turn it into an advantage. Now he was looking at Brendon as though already expecting the Cairhienin to refuse whatever it was that he was about to ask; beneath the all too transparent surface, the Andoran was almost gleefully waiting for an excuse to make it an order, to name drop whichever officer had put him up to this, to assert his dominance.
“The rain needs to stop by tomorrow morning,” the fake Taravin said.
Brendon did sigh, then; a small, carefully moderated, irritable gust of breath. “And you think I can do that,” he replied, not bothering to put enough inflection into his voice to make it a question. “Look at those clouds. It doesn’t take much Talent — which I don’t have — to tell you it’s not going to happen.” A simple affinity for Air and Water didn’t mean he could work miracles with the weather.
Fake Taravin was grinning openly, now. “That’s your problem,” he said. “Or,” he added, clearly trying to make it look like an afterthought, “you can always take Carridus. That should do it.”
“Carridus?” Brendon repeated, frowning; the brute of a Mayener had no more Talent in Cloud Dancing than Brendon did.
“The other Carridus,” the Andoran said with an audible sneer. “It’s not like that big hairy lump is good for anything else. He may as well earn his keep.”
* * * Brendon found 'the other Carridus' where ever Nate is to be found at this time; he’s big enough to be difficult to miss. Brendon had never talked to the man, never had a reason to — and plenty of reasons not to, because the first Carridus, the Reuben version, generally kept an eye on his brother and was not a pleasant person. Now, however, that would change. Brendon wasn’t intimidated by either Carridus — what was the worst that they could do to him, anyway? — but dealing with difficult people could get very tedious.
None of his misgivings showed on his face, however, as he approached the long-haired man. Big hairy lump, he thought wryly; looking up at the Mayener, the fake Taravin’s description seemed apt enough. But why was he supposedly no good for anything but dealing with the weather? Did he have no skill with anything else? Reportedly he was reasonably strong in the Power. Was he untrustworthy? By all evidence he’d left the Grey Tower to join his brother in the Black Tower, and someone higher up the food chain had to be convinced of his loyalties because he was allowed to go unchecked about the Tower. Of course, the Grey Tower past was not easy to overlook, no matter his present behaviour.
“Nathaniel Carridus?” Brendon said, putting in just the necessary inflection to make it sound like a question though he knew very well whom he was addressing. “I’m Brendon Nolaisen. I hope you didn’t have any plans for the evening; the powers that be want us to fix the weather so looks like we've got a date.”