A dozen leagues east of Ebou Dar, raken glided in out of the cloud-streaked sunrise to land in a long pasture marked as the fliers’ field by colored streamers on tall poles. The brown grasses had been trampled and scored days since. All of the creatures’ grace in the air was lost as soon as their claws touched the ground in a lumbering run, leathery pinions thirty paces or more wide held high as if the animal wanted to sweep itself back upward. There was little beauty, either, in the raken that ran awkwardly down the field beating ribbed wings, fliers crouching in the saddle as if to pull the beast up by main force, ran on until at last they stumbled into the air, wingtips barely clearing the tops of the olive trees at the end of the field. Only as they gained height and turned toward the sun, soared toward the clouds, did the raken regain dignified grandeur. Fliers who landed did not bother to dismount. While a groundling held a basket up for the raken to gulp whole shriveled fruits by the double-handful at a time, one of the fliers would hand down their scouting report to a still more senior groundling, and the other bent on the other side to receive new orders from a flier too senior to handle reins personally very often. Almost that quickly after coming to a halt, the creature was reined around to waddle over to where four or five others waited their turn to make that long, ungainly run to the sky.
At a dead run, dodging between moving formations of cavalry and infantry, messengers carried the scouting reports to the huge red-bannered command tent. There were haughty Taraboner lancers and stolid Amadician pikemen in well-ordered squares, breastplates striped horizontally in the colors of the regiments they were attached to. Altaran light horse in disordered bunches made their mounts prance, vain of the red slashes crisscrossing their chests, so different from the markings anyone else wore. The Altarans did not know those indicated irregulars of doubtful reliability. Among the Seanchan soldiers, named regiments with proud honors were represented, from every corner of the Empire, pale-eyed men from Alqam, honey-brown men from N’Kon, men black as coal from Khoweal and Dalenshar. There were morat’torm on their sinuous bronze-scaled mounts that made horses whicker and dance in fright, and even a few morat’grolm with their squat, beak-mouthed charges, but one thing that always accompanied a Seanchan army was conspicuous by it absence. The sul’dam and damane were still in their tents. Captain-General Kennar Miraj thought of sul’dam and damane a great deal.
From his seat on the dais he could see the map table clearly, where helmetless under-lieutenants checked the reports and placed markers to represent the forces in the field. A small paper banner stood above each marker, inked symbols giving the size and composition of the force. Finding decent maps in these lands was next to impossible, but the map copied atop the large table was sufficient. And worrying, in what it told him. Black discs for outposts overrun or dispersed. Far too many of those, dotting the whole eastern half of the Venir range. Red wedges, for commands on the move, marked the western end as thickly, all pointed back toward Ebou Dar. And scattered among the black discs, seventeen stark white. As he watched, a young officer in the brown-and-black of a morat’torm carefully placed an eighteenth. Enemy forces. A few might be the same group seen twice, but for the most part they were much too far apart, the timing of the sightings wrong.
Along the walls of the tent, clerks in plain brown coats, marked only with insignia of rank among clerks on the wide collars, waited at their writing tables, pens in hand, for Miraj to issue orders that they would copy out for distribution. He had already given what orders he could. There were as many as ninety thousand enemy soldiers in the mountains, nearly twice what he could muster here even with the native levies. Too many for belief, except that scouts did not lie; liars had their throats slit by their fellows. Too many, springing out of the ground like trap-worms in the Sen T’jore. At least they had a hundred miles of mountain yet to cover if they intended to threaten Ebou Dar. Almost two hundred, for the white discs furthest east. And hill country after that for another hundred miles. Surely the enemy general could not mean to let his dispersed forces be confronted one by one. Gathering them together would take more time. Time alone was on his side, right then.
 He had thought her still in Ebou Dar; she must have flown out by to’raken. She was accompanied by a small entourage, for her. A pair of Deathwatch Guards with black tassels on their sword hilts held the tentflaps, and more were visible outside, stone-faced men in red-and-green. The embodiment of the Empress, might she live forever. Even the Blood took note of them.  Suroth’s Voice of the Blood, Alwhin, a glowering woman in green robes with the left side of her head shaved and the remainder of her pale brown hair in a severe braid, followed close on her mistress’s heels. As Miraj stepped down from the dais, he realized with shock that the second da’covale behind Suroth, short and dark-haired and slim in her diaphanous robe, was damane! A damane garbed as property was unheard of, but odder still, it was Alwhin who led her by the a’dam!
He let none of his amazement show as he went to one knee, murmuring, “The Light be upon the High Lady Suroth. All honor to the High Lady Suroth.” Everyone else prostrated themselves on the canvas groundcloth, eyes down. Miraj was of the Blood, if too low to shave the sides of his scalp like Suroth. Only the nails of his little fingers were lacquered. Much too low to register surprise if a High Lady allowed her Voice to continue acting as sul’dam after being raised to the so’jhin. Strange times in a strange land, where the Dragon Reborn walked and marath’damane ran wild to kill and enslave where they would.
Suroth barely glanced at him before turning to study the map table, and if her black eyes tightened at what she saw, she had cause. Under her, the Hailene had done far more than had been dreamed, reclaiming great stretches of the stolen lands. All they had been sent for was to scout the way, and after Falme, some had thought even that impossible. She drummed fingers on the table irritably, the long blue-lacquered fingernails on the first two clicking. Continued success, and she might be able to shave her head entirely and paint a third nail on each hand. Adoption into the Imperial family was not unheard of for achievements so great. And if she stepped too far, overstepped, she might find her fingernails clipped and herself stuffed into a filmy robe to serve one of the Blood, if not sold to a farmer to help till his fields, or sweat in a warehouse. At worst, Miraj would only have to open his own veins.
He continued to watch Suroth in patient silence, but he had been a scout lieutenant, morat’raken, before being raised to the Blood, and he could not help being aware of everything around him. A scout lived or died by what he saw or did not, and so did others. The men lying on their faces around the tent; some hardly seemed to breathe. Suroth should have taken him aside and let them continue with their work. A messenger was being turned back by the soldiers at the entrance. How dire was the message that the woman tried to push past Deathwatch Guards?
The da’covale with the writing desk in her arms caught his eye. Scowls flashed across her pretty doll’s face, never pushed down for more than moments. Property showing anger? And there was something else. His gaze flickered to the damane, who stood with her head down but still looked around with curiosity. Brown-eyed da’covale and pale-eyed damane looked about as different as two women could, yet there was something about them. Something in their faces. Strange. He could not have said how old either was.
Quick as his glance was, Alwhin noticed. With a twitch of the a’dam’s silvery leash she put the damane facedown on the groundcloth. Snapping her fingers, she pointed to the canvas with the hand not encumbered by the a’dam’s bracelet, then grimaced when the honey-haired da’covale did not move. “Down, Liandrin!” she hissed almost under her breath. With a glare for Alwhin—a glare!—the da’covale sank to her knees, features painted with sulkiness.
Most strange. But hardly important. Face impassive, and otherwise bursting with impatience, he waited. Impatience and no little discomfort. He had been raised to the Blood after riding fifty miles in a single night with three arrows in him to bring word of a rebel army marching on Seandar itself, and his back still pained him.
Finally, Suroth turned from the map table. She did not give him leave to rise, much less embrace him as one of the Blood. Not that he had expected that. He was far beneath her. “You are ready to march?” she demanded curtly. At least she did not speak to him through her Voice. Before so many of his officers, the shame would have put his eyes on the ground for months if not years.
“I will be, Suroth,” he replied calmly, meeting her gaze. He was of the Blood, however low. “They cannot combine in fewer than ten days, with at least another ten before they can exit the mountains. Well before then, I—”
“They could be here tomorrow,” she snapped. “Today! If they come, Miraj, they will come by the ancient art of Traveling, and it seems very possible that they will come.”
He heard men shifting on their bellies before they could restrain themselves. Suroth lost control of her emotions and babbled of legends? “Are you certain?” The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
He had only thought she had lost control before. Her eyes blazed. She gripped the edges of her flower-worked robe, white-knuckled, and her hands shook. “Do you question me?” she snarled incredulously. “Suffice it that I have my sources of information.” And was furious with them as much as with him, he realized. “If they come, there will be perhaps as many as fifty of these grandly named Asha’man, but no more than five or six thousand soldiers. It seems there have been no more since the beginning, whatever the fliers say.”
Miraj nodded slowly. Five thousand men, moved about in some way with the One Power, would explain a great deal. What were her sources, that she knew numbers so precisely? He was not fool enough to ask. She certainly had Listeners and Seekers in her service. Watching her, too. Fifty Asha’man. The very idea of a man channeling made him want to spit in disgust. Rumor claimed they were being gathered from every nation by the Dragon Reborn, this Rand al’Thor, but he had never expected there could be so many. The Dragon Reborn could channel, it was said. That might be true, but he was the Dragon Reborn.
The Prophecies of the Dragon had been known in Seanchan even before Luthair Paendrag began the Consolidation. In corrupted form, it was said, much different from the pure version Luthair Paendrag brought. Miraj had seen several volumes of The Karaethon Cycle printed in these lands, and they were corrupted too—not one mentioned him serving the Crystal Throne!—but the Prophecies held men’s minds and hearts still. More than a few hoped the Return came soon, that these lands could be reclaimed before Tarmon Gai’don so the Dragon Reborn could win the Last Battle for the glory of the Empress, might she live forever. The Empress surely would want al’Thor sent to her, so she could see what sort of man served her. There would be no difficulty with al’Thor once he had knelt to her. Few easily shook off the awe they felt, kneeling before the Crystal Throne, with the thirst to obey drying their tongues. But it seemed obvious that bundling the fellow onto a ship would be easier if disposing of the Asha’man—they had to be disposed of, certainly—waited until al’Thor was well on his way across the Aryth Ocean to Seandar.
Which brought him back to the problem he had been trying to avoid, he realized with an inward start. He was not a man to shy from difficulties, much less ignore them blindly, but this was different from any he had faced before. He had fought in two dozen battles with damane used on both sides; he knew the way of them. It was not only a matter of striking out with the Power. Experienced sul’dam could somehow see what damane or marath’damane did and damane would tell the others, so they could defend as well. Could sul’dam see what a man did, too? Worse . . .
“You will release the sul’dam and damane to me?” he said. Taking a deep breath in spite of himself, he added, “If they’re still sick, it will be a short fight and bloody. On our side.”
Which produced another stir among the men waiting on their faces. Every second rumor in the camp was about what illness had confined the sul’dam and damane to their tents. Alwhin reacted quite openly, most improper in a so’jhin, with a furious glare. The damane flinched again, and began to shiver where she lay. Oddly, the honey-haired da’covale flinched, as well.
Smiling, Suroth glided to where the da’covale knelt. Why would she smile at a poorly trained serving girl? She began stroking the kneeling woman’s thin braids, and a sullen pout appeared on that rosebud mouth. A former noblewoman of these lands? Suroth’s first words supported that, though obviously meant for him. “Small failures bring small costs; great failures bring painfully great costs. You will have the damane you require, Miraj. And you will teach these Asha’man they should have remained in the north. You will wipe them from the face of the earth, the Asha’man, the soldiers, all of them. To the man. Miraj. I have spoken.”
“It will be as you say, Suroth,” he replied. “They will be destroyed. To the man.” There was nothing else he could say, now. He wished, though, that she had given him an answer about whether the sul’dam and damane were still sick.
Rand reined Tai’daishar around near the crest of the bare, stony hill to watch most of his small army spilling out of other holes in the air. He held hard to the True Source, so hard it seemed to tremble in his grasp. With the Power in him, the sharp points of the Crown of Swords pricking his temples felt at once keener than ever and utterly removed, the midmorning chill both colder and beneath notice. The never-healing wounds in his side were a dull and distant ache. Lews Therin seemed to be panting in uncertainty. Or perhaps fear.  But then, he did not always want to die. The only constant in the man was the desire to kill. Which just happened to include killing himself, often enough.
There’ll be killing enough for anybody, soon, Rand thought. Light, the last six days were enough to sicken a vulture. Had it only been six days? The disgust did not touch him, though. He would not let it. Lews Therin did not answer. Yes. It was a time for iron hearts. And iron stomachs, too. He bent a moment to touch the long cloth-wrapped package under his stirrup leather. No. Not time, yet. Maybe not at all. Uncertainty shimmered across the Void, and maybe something else. Not at all, he hoped. Uncertainty, yes, but the other had not been fear. It had not!
Half the surrounding low hills were covered with squat, gnarled olive trees, dappled by the sunlight, where lancers already rode along the rows to make sure they were clear. There was no sign of workers in those orchards, no farmhouse, no structure of any kind in sight. A few miles to the west, the hills were darker, forested. Legionmen, emerging in trotting files below Rand, formed up, trailed by a ragged square of Illianer volunteers, now enlisted into the Legion. As soon as their ranks were aligned, they marched out of the way to make room for Defenders and Companions. The ground seemed mostly clay, and boots and hooves alike skidded in the thin skim of mud. For a wonder, though, only a few clouds hung in the sky, white and clean. The sun was a pale yellow ball. And nothing flew up there larger than a sparrow.
Dashiva and Flinn were among the men holding gateways, as were Adley and Hopwil, Morr and Narishma. Some of the gateways lay out of Rand’s sight behind the folded hills. He wanted everyone through as quickly as possible, and except for a few Soldiers scanning the sky, every man in a black coat who was not already out scouting held a weave. Even Gedwyn and Rochaid, though both grimaced over it, at each other and in his direction. Rand thought them no longer used to doing anything so common as holding a gateway for others to use.
Bashere cantered up the slope, very much at ease with himself, and with his short bay. His cloak was flung back despite the morning’s coolness, not so cold as the mountains, but still wintery. He nodded casually to Anaiyella and Ailil, who gave bleak stares in return. Bashere smiled through those thick mustaches, like down-curving horns, a not entirely pleasant smile. He had as many doubts of the women as Rand did. The women knew, about Bashere’s reservations at least.
That pair had not strayed far from Rand since the incident on the ridge, even having their tents pitched in earshot of his the night before. On a brown-grass hillside opposite, Denharad shifted to study the two noblewomen’s retainers, arrayed together behind him, then quickly returned to watching Rand. Very likely he watched Ailil, and maybe Anaiyella as well, but he watched Rand without doubt. Rand was unsure whether they still feared to take the blame if he was killed or simply wanted to see it happen. The one thing he was certain of was that if they did want him dead, he would give them no opportunity.
Who knows a woman’s heart? Lews Therin chuckled wryly. He sounded in one of his saner moods.  Rand ignored him. The last gateway in Rand’s sight winked out. The Asha’man mounting their horses were too far for him to say for sure whether any still held on to saidin, but it did not matter so long as he did. Clumsy Dashiva tried to mount quickly and nearly fell off twice before successfully reaching his saddle. Most of the black-coated men in view began riding north or south.
The rest of the nobles gathered quickly with Bashere on the slope just below Rand, the highest ranking and those with the most power in front after a little jostling here and there, where precedence remained uncertain. Tihera and Marcolin kept their horses on the fringes, on opposite sides of the mass of nobles, faces carefully blank; they might be asked for advice, but both knew the final decisions rested with others. Weiramon opened his mouth with a grand gesture, doubtless to begin another splendid peroration on the glories of following the Dragon Reborn.  Sunamon’s face wore an unaccustomed hardness, and Torean seemed ready to squabble over a boundary line despite the red satin stripes on his coatsleeves. Square-jawed Bertome and some of the other Cairhienin were not quiet at all, laughing at each other’s jokes. Everyone had had a bellyful of Weiramon’s grand declamations. Though Semaradrid’s scowl deepened every time he looked at Ailil and Anaiyella—he did not like them remaining close to Rand, especially his countrywoman—so perhaps his sourness had more root than Weiramon’s windiness.
“About ten miles from us,” Rand said loudly, “a good fifty thousand men are preparing to march.” They were aware of that, but it pulled every eye to him and silenced every tongue.  Gueyam and Maraconn, tugging at sharp oiled beards, smiled in anticipation, the fools. Semaradrid looked like a man who had eaten an entire bowl of bad plums; Gregorin and the three lords of the Nine with him merely wore grim determination on their faces. Not fools. “The scouts saw no signs of sul’dam or damane,” Rand went on, “but even without them, even with Asha’man, that’s enough to kill a lot of us if anybody forgets the plan. No one will forget, though, I’m sure.” No charges without orders, this time. He had made that clear as glass, and hard as stone. No haring off because you thought maybe you just might have seen something, either.
Weiramon smiled, managing to put as much oil into it as Sunamon ever could.
It was a simple plan, in its way. They would advance west in five columns, each with Asha’man, and attempt to fall on the Seanchan from every side at once. Or as close to all sides as could be managed. Simple plans were best, Bashere insisted. If you won’t be satisfied with a whole litter of fat piglets, he had muttered, if you have to rush into the woods to find the old sow, then don’t get too fancy, or she’ll gut you.
No plan of battle survives first contact, Lews Therin said in Rand’s head. For a moment, he still seemed lucid. For a moment. Something is wrong, he growled suddenly. His voice began to gain intensity, and drift into wild disbelieving laughter. It can’t be wrong, but it is. Something strange, something wrong, skittering, jumping, twitching. His cackles turned to weeping. It can’t be! I must be mad! And he vanished before Rand could mute him. Burn him, there was nothing wrong with the plan, or Bashere would have been on it like a duck on a beetle.
Lews Therin was mad, no doubt of it. But so long as Rand al’Thor remained sane . . . A bitter joke on the world, if the Dragon Reborn went mad before the Last Battle even began. “Take your places,” he commanded with a wave of the Dragon Scepter. He had to fight down the urge to laugh at that joke.
The large clump of nobles broke apart at his order, milling and muttering as they sorted themselves out. Few liked the way Rand had divided them up. Whatever breaking down of barriers had occurred in the shock of the first fight in the mountains, they had sprung up again almost immediately.
Weiramon frowned over his undelivered speech, but after an elaborate bow that thrust his beard at Rand like a spear he rode north over the hills followed by Kiril Drapeneos, Bertome, Doressin, and several minor Cairhienin lords, every last one of them stony-faced at a Tairen being placed over them. Gedwyn rode by Weiramon’s side almost as if he were the one leading, and got dark scowls for it that he affected not to notice. The other groupings were as mixed. Gregorin also headed north, with a sullen Sunamon trying to pretend he was heading in the same direction by happenstance, and Dalthanes leading lesser Cairhienin behind. Jeordwyn Semaris, another of the Nine, followed Bashere south with Amondrid and Gueyam. Those three had accepted the Saldaean almost eagerly for the simple reason that he was not Tairen, or Cairhienin, or Illianer, depending on the man. Rochaid seemed to be trying the same with Bashere that Gedwyn was with Weiramon, but Bashere appeared to ignore it. A little way from Bashere’s party, Torean and Maraconn rode with their heads together, likely venting spleen at having Semaradrid placed over them. For that matter, Ershin Netari kept glancing toward Jeordwyn, and standing in his stirrups to look back toward Gregorin and Kiril, though it was improbable he could see them any longer past the hills. Semaradrid, his back iron-rod straight, looked as unflappable as Bashere.
It was the same principle Rand had used all along. He trusted Bashere, and he thought he might be able to trust Gregorin, and none of the others could dare think of turning against him with so many outlanders around him, so many old enemies and so few friends. Rand laughed softly, watching them all ride off from his hillside. They would fight for him, and fight well, because they had no other choice. Any more than he had.
Madness, Lews Therin hissed. Rand shoved the voice away angrily.
He was hardly alone, of course. Tihera and Marcolin had most of the Defenders and Companions mounted in ranks among the olive trees on hills flanking the one where he sat his horse. The rest were out as a screen against surprise. A company of blue-coated Legionmen waited patiently in the hollow below under Masond’s eye, and at their rear, as many men in what they had worn surrendering on the heath back in Illian. They were trying to emulate the Legionmen’s calm—the other Legionmen, now—trying without a great deal of success.
Rand glanced at Ailil and Anaiyella. The Tairen woman gave him a simpering smile, but it faltered weakly. The Cairhienin woman’s face was frost. He could not forget them, or Denharad and their armsmen. His column, in the center, would be the largest, and the strongest by a fair margin. A very fair margin.
Flinn and the men Rand had chosen out after Dumai’s Wells rode up the hill toward him. The balding old man always led, though all save Adley and Narishma now wore the Dragon as well as the Sword, and Dashiva had worn it first. In part it was because the younger men deferred to Flinn, with his long experience as a bannerman in the Andoran Queen’s Guards. In part it was because Dashiva did not seem to care. He only appeared amused by the others. When he could spare time from talking to himself, that was. Most often, he hardly seemed aware of anything past his own nose.
For that reason, it was something of a shock when Dashiva awkwardly booted his slab-sided mount ahead of the rest. That plain face, so often vague or bemused with the fellow’s own thoughts, was fixed in a worried frown. It was more than something of a shock when he seized saidin as soon as he reached Rand and wove a barrier around them against eavesdropping. Lews Therin did not waste breath—if a disembodied voice had breath—on mutters about killing; he lurched for the Source snarling wordlessly, tried to claw the Power away from Rand. And just as abruptly fell silent and vanished.
“There’s something askew with saidin here, something amiss,” Dashiva said, sounding not at all vague.  And testy. A teacher lecturing a particularly dense pupil. He even stabbed a finger at Rand. “I don’t know what it is. Nothing can twist saidin, and if it could be twisted, we’d have felt it back in the mountains. Well, there was something there, yesterday, but so small . . . I feel it clearly here, though. Saidin is . . . eager. I know; I know. Saidin is not alive. But it . . . pulses, here. It is difficult to control.”
Rand forced his hand to loosen its grip on the Dragon Scepter. He had always been sure Dashiva was nearly as mad as Lews Therin himself. Usually the man maintained a better hold on himself, though, however precariously. “I’ve been channeling longer than you, Dashiva. You’re just feeling the taint more.” He could not soften his tone. Light, he could not go mad yet, and neither could they! “Get to your place. We’ll be moving soon.” The scouts had to return soon. Even in this flatter country, even limited to no further than they could see, ten miles would not take long to cover, Traveling.
Dashiva made no move to obey. Instead, he opened his mouth angrily, then snapped it shut. Shaking visibly, he drew a deep breath. “I am well aware how long you have channeled,” he said in an icy, almost contemptuous voice, “but surely even you can feel it. Feel, man!  Look at my ward! Look at it!”
Rand stared. Dashiva pushing himself forward was peculiar enough, but Dashiva in a temper? And then he did look at the ward. Really look. The flows should have been as steady as the threads in tight-woven canvas. They vibrated. The ward stood solid as it should be, but the individual threads of the Power shimmered with faint movement. Morr had said saidin was strange near Ebou Dar, and for a hundred miles around. They were closer than a hundred miles, now.
Rand made himself feel saidin. He was always aware of the Power—anything else meant death or worse—yet he had become used to the struggle. He fought for life, but the fight had become as natural as life. The struggle was life. He made himself feel that battle, his life. Cold to make stone shatter into dust. Fire to make stone flash to vapor. Filth to make a rotten cesspit smell a garden in full flower.  This was not the sort of throbbing he had felt in Shadar Logoth, when the taint on saidin had resonated with the evil of that place, and saidin had pulsed with it. The vileness was strong, but steady here. It was saidin itself that seemed full of currents and surges. Eager, Dashiva called it, and Rand could see why.
Down the slope, behind Flinn, Morr scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked around uneasily. Flinn alternated shifting on his saddle and easing his sword in its scabbard. Narishma, watching the sky for flying creatures, blinked too often. A muscle twitched in Adley’s cheek. Every one of them displayed some sign of nervousness, and little wonder. Relief welled up in Rand. Not madness after all.
Dashiva smiled, a twisted self-satisfied smile. “I cannot believe you didn’t notice before.” There was very close to a sneer in his voice. “You’ve been holding saidin practically day and night since we began this mad expedition. This is a simple ward, but it did not want to form, then it snapped together like pulling out of my hands.”
The silver-blue slash of a gateway rotated open atop one of the bare hills, half a mile to the west, and a Soldier pulled his horse through and mounted hurriedly, returning from the scout. Even at a distance, Rand could make out the faint shimmer of the weaves surrounding the gateway before they vanished. The rider had not reached the bottom of the hill before another gateway opened on the crest, and then a third, a fourth, more, one after another, almost as fast as the preceding man could get out of the way.
“But it did form,” Rand said. So had the scouts’ gateways. “If saidin is hard to control, it’s always hard, and it still does what you want.” But why more difficult here? A question for another time. Light, he wished Herid Fel were still alive; the old philosopher might have had an answer. “Get back with the others, Dashiva,” he ordered, but the man stared at him in astonishment, and he had to repeat himself before the fellow let the ward vanish, jerked his horse around without a salute and thumped the animal back down the slope with his heels.
“Some trouble, my Lord Dragon?” Anaiyella simpered. Ailil merely looked at Rand with flat eyes.
Seeing the first scout on the way toward Rand, the others fanned off to north and south, where they would join one of the other columns. Finding them the old-fashioned way would be faster than casting about with gateways.  No matter. Saidin still did what the man wielding it made it do. Nalaam saluted and gave his report. The Seanchan were not encamped ten miles away, they were no more than five or six distant, marching east. And they had sul’dam and damane by the score.
Rand issued his orders as Nalaam galloped away, and his column began moving west. The Defenders and the Companions rode on either flank. The Legionmen marched at the rear, just behind Denharad. A reminder to the noblewomen, and their armsmen, if they needed one. Anaiyella certainly looked over her shoulder often enough, and Ailil’s refusal to was pointed. Rand formed the main thrust of the column, Rand and Flinn and the others, just as it would be with the other columns. Asha’man to strike, and men with steel to guard their backs while they killed. The sun still had a long way to climb before midday. Nothing had changed to alter the plan.
Madness waits for some, Lews Therin whispered. It creeps up on others.
Miraj rode near the head of his army marching east along a muddy road that wound through hilly olive groves and patchy forest. Not at the head. A full regiment, most Seanchan, rode between him and the forward scouts. He had known generals who wanted to be at the very front. Most were dead. Most had lost the battles they died in. Mud kept down dust, yet word of an army on the move ran like wildfire on the Sa’las Plains, whatever the land. Here and there among the olive trees he spotted an overturned wheelbarrow or an abandoned pruning hook, but the workers had vanished long since. Luckily, they would avoid his opponents as much as they did him. With luck, lacking raken, his opponents would not know he was on them until it was too late. Kennar Miraj did not like trusting to luck.
 Yulan was not calm; Miraj’s coal-dark Captain of the Air often wore a scowl for the rules that seldom let him touch the reins of a raken anymore, but today his frown went bone deep. The sky was clear, perfect weather for raken, but by Suroth’s command, none of his fliers would be in the saddle today, not here. There were too few raken with the Hailene to risk them unnecessarily. Lisaine’s calm troubled Miraj more. More than the senior der’sul’dam under his command, she was a friend with whom he had shared many a cup of kaf and many a game of stones. An animated woman, always bubbling over with enthusiasms and amusement. And she was icy calm, as silent as any sul’dam he had tried to question.
Within his sight were twenty damane flanking the horsemen, each walking beside her sul’dam’s mount. The sul’dam bobbed in their saddles, bending to pat a damane’s head, straightening only to bend again to stroke her hair. The damane looked steady enough to his eye, but plainly the sul’dam were on razor’s edge. And ebullient Lisaine rode silent as a stone.
A torm appeared ahead, racing down the column. Well off to the side, on the edge of the groves, yet horses whickered and shied as the bronze-scaled creature flowed past. A trained torm would not attack horses—at least not unless the killing frenzy overtook it, the reason torm were no good in battle—but horses trained to be calm around torm were in as short supply as torm themselves.
Miraj sent a skinny under-lieutenant named Varek to fetch the morat’torm’s scouting report. Afoot, and the Light consume whether Varek lost sei’taer. He would not waste time on Varek trying to control a mount acquired locally. The man returned faster than he went and made a crisp bow, beginning his report before his back was straight again.
“The enemy is less than five miles due east, my Lord Captain-General, marching in our direction. They are deployed in five columns spaced approximately one mile apart.”
So much for luck. But Miraj had considered how he would attack forty thousand with only five himself, and fifty damane. Quickly men were galloping with orders to deploy to meet an attempted envelopment, and the regiments behind him began turning into the groves, sul’dam riding among them with their damane.
Gathering his cloak against a sudden cold wind, Miraj noticed something that made him feel colder still. Lisaine was watching the sul’dam vanish into the trees, too. And she had begun to sweat.
Bertome rode easily, letting the wind stream his cloak to one side, but he studied the forested country ahead with a wariness he barely attempted to conceal. Of his four countrymen at his back, only Doressin was truly skilled in the Game of Houses. That fool Tairen dog Weiramon was blind, of course. Bertome glared at the puffed-up buffoon’s back. Weiramon rode well ahead of the rest in deep conversation with Gedwyn, and if Bertome needed any further proof that the Tairen would smile at what gagged a goat, it was how he tolerated that hot-eyed young monster. He noticed Kiril glancing sideways at him, and reined his gray further from the towering man. He had no particular enmity toward the Illianer, but he did hate people looming over him. He could not wait to return to Cairhien, where he did not have to be surrounded by ungainly giants. Kiril Drapeneos was not blind, though, however over-tall. He had sent a dozen scouts forward, too. Weiramon had sent one.
“Doressin,” Bertome said softly, then, a little louder, “Doressin, you lump!”
The bony man gave a start in his saddle.  Doressin should have called him a toad in return, the way they had since boyhood, but instead he heeled his gelding up beside Bertome’s and leaned close. He was worried, and letting it show, his forehead furrowed deeply. “You realize the Lord Dragon means us to die?” he whispered, glancing at the column trailing behind them. “Blood and fire, I only listened to Colavaere, but I have known I was a dead man since he killed her.”
For a moment, Bertome eyed the column of armsmen, snaking back through the rolling hills. The trees were more scattered here than ahead, but still enough to shield an attack until it was right on top of you. The last olive grove lay nearly a mile behind.  His own people, decently clad in dark blue beneath their breastplates, were still beyond his sight with Doressin’s and the others’, ahead only of the company of Legionmen. Weiramon had seemed surprised that the foot kept up, though he had hardly set a difficult pace.
It was not really the armsmen Bertome glanced at, though. Seven men rode before even Weiramon’s, seven men with hard faces and death-cold eyes, in black coats. One wore a pin in the shape of a silver sword on his tall collar.
“An elaborate way to go about it,” he told Doressin dryly. “And I doubt al’Thor would have sent those fellows with us, if we were just being fed into a sausage grinder.” Forehead still creased, Doressin opened his mouth again, but Bertome said, “I need to talk to the Tairen.” He disliked seeing his childhood friend this way. Al’Thor had unhinged him.
Absorbed in one another, Weiramon and Gedwyn did not hear him riding up on them. Gedwyn was idly playing with his reins, his features cold with contempt. The Tairen was red-faced. “I don’t care who you are,” he was saying to the black-coated man in a low, hard voice, spittle flying, “I won’t take more risk without a command direct from the lips of—”
Abruptly the pair became aware of Bertome, and Weiramon’s mouth snapped shut. He glared as if he wanted to kill Bertome. The Asha’man’s ever-present smile melted away. The wind gusted, cold and sharp as clouds drifted across the sun, but no colder than Gedwyn’s sudden stare.
Gedwyn’s icily murderous gaze did not change, but Weiramon’s face underwent a remarkable transformation. The red faded slowly as he produced a smile in an instant, an oily smile with only a trace of mocking condescension. “I’ve been thinking about you, Bertome,” he said heartily. “A pity al’Thor strangled your cousin. With his own hands, I hear. Frankly, I was surprised you came when he called. I’ve seen him watching you. I fear he plans something more . . . interesting . . . for you than thrashing your heels on the floor while his fingers tighten on your throat.”
Bertome suppressed a sigh, and not only at the fool’s clumsiness. A good many thought to manipulate him with Colavaere’s death. She had been his favorite cousin, but ambitious beyond reason. Saighan had good claims to the Sun Throne, yet she could not have held it against the strength of Riatin or Damodred either one, let alone both together, not without the open blessings of the White Tower or the Dragon Reborn. Still, she had been his favorite. What did Weiramon want? Certainly not what it seemed on the surface. Even this Tairen oaf was not that simple.
Before he could frame any response, a horseman came galloping toward them through the trees ahead. A Cairhienin, and as he reined to a sudden halt in front of them that made his horse sit back on its haunches, Bertome recognized one of his own armsmen, a gap-toothed fellow with seamed scars on both cheeks. Doile, he thought. From the Colchaine estates.
“My Lord Bertome,” the fellow panted, bowing hastily. “There are two thousand Taraboners hard on my heels. And women with them! With lightning on their dresses!”
“Hard on his heels,” Weiramon murmured disparagingly. “We’ll see what my man has to say when he gets back. I certainly don’t see any—!”
Sudden whoops in the near distance ahead cut him off, and the thunder of hooves, and then quickly galloping lancers appeared, a flowing tide spreading through the trees. Straight toward Bertome and the others.
Weiramon laughed. “Kill whoever you wish, wherever you wish, Gedwyn,” he said, drawing sword with a flourish. “I use the methods I use, and that’s that!” Racing back toward his armsmen, he waved the blade over his head shouting, “Saniago! Saniago and glory!” It was no surprise he did not add a shout for his country to those for his House and his greatest love.
Spurring in the same direction, Bertome raised his own voice. “Saighan and Cairhien!” No need for sword waving yet. “Saighan and Cairhien!” What had the man been after?
Thunder rumbled, and Bertome looked to the sky, perplexed. There were few more clouds than earlier. No; Doile—Dalyn?—had mentioned those women. And then he forgot all about whatever the fool Tairen wanted as steel-veiled Taraboners poured over the wooded hills toward him, the earth blooming fire and the sky raining lightning ahead of them.
“Saighan and Cairhien!” he shouted.
The wind rose.
Horsemen clashed amid thick trees and heavy underbrush, where shadows hung heavily. The light seemed to be failing, the clouds thickening overhead, but it was hard to say with the dense forest canopy for a roof. Booming roars half-drowned the ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men, the screams of horses. Sometimes the ground shook. Sometimes the enemy raised shouts.
“Den Lushenos! Den Lushenos and the Bees!”
“Annallin! Rally to Annallin!”
“Haellin! Haellin! For the High Lord Sunamon!”
The last was the only cry Varek understood in the least, though he suspected any of the locals who named themselves High Lords or Ladies might not be offered the chance to swear the Oath.
He jerked his sword free from where he had jammed it into his opponent’s armpit, just above the breastplate, and let the pale little man topple. A dangerous fighter, until he made the mistake of raising his blade too high. The man’s bay crashed off through the undergrowth, and Varek spared a moment for regret. The animal looked better than the white-footed dun he was forced to ride. A moment only, and then he was peering through the close-set trees, where it seemed vines dangled from half the branches and bunches of some gray, feathery plant from nearly all.
Sounds of battle rose from every direction, but at first he could see nothing that moved. Then a dozen Altaran lancers appeared at fifty paces, walking their horses and peering about carefully, though the way they talked loudly among themselves more than justified the red slashes crisscrossing their breastplates. Varek gathered his reins, meaning to take them in. An escort, even this undisciplined rabble, might be the difference between the urgent message he carried reaching Banner-General Chianmai and not.
Black streaks flashed from among the trees, emptying Altaran saddles. Their horses dashed in every direction as the riders fell, and then there were only a dozen corpses sprawled on the damp carpet of dead leaves, at least one crossbow bolt jutting from every man. Nothing moved. Varek shivered in spite of himself. Those foot in blue coats had seemed easy at first, with no pikes to stand behind, but they never came into the open, hiding behind trees, in dips in the ground. They were not the worst. He had been sure after the frantic retreat to the ships at Falme that he had seen the worse he ever could see, the Ever Victorious Army in a rout.  A hundred lancers against one, and the Taraboners had been ripped to shreds. Literally ripped to shreds, men and horses simply exploding as fast he could count; the slaughter had continued after the Taraboners turned to flee, went on so long as one of them remained in sight. Perhaps it was really no worse than having the ground erupt beneath your feet, but at least damane usually left enough of you to be buried.
He had been told by the last man he managed to speak to in these woods, a grizzled veteran from home leading a hundred Amadician pikes, that Chianmai was in this direction. Ahead, he spotted riderless horses tied to trees, and men afoot. Maybe they could give him further direction. And he would give them the lash of his tongue for standing about while a battle raged.
When he rode in among them, he forgot tongue-lashings. He had found what he was looking for, but not at all what he wanted to find.  One, his honey-brown face untouched, was recognizably Chianmai. The men on their feet were all Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans. Some of them were injured, too. The only Seanchan was a tight-faced sul’dam soothing a weeping damane.
“What happened here?” Varek demanded. He did not think it was like these Asha’man to leave survivors. Maybe the sul’dam had fought him off.
“Madness, my lord.” A hulking Taraboner shrugged away the man who was spreading ointment down his seared left arm. The sleeve appeared to have been burned away clear to the fellow’s breastplate, yet despite his burns, he did not grimace.  “A group of Illianers, they fell on us without warning. At first, all went well. They had none of the blackcoats with them. Lord Chianmai, he led us bravely, and the . . . the woman . . . channeled lightnings. Then, just as the Illianers broke, the lightnings, they fell among us, too.” He cut off with a significant look at the sul’dam.
She was on her feet in an instant, shaking her free fist and striding as far toward the Taraboner as the leash attached to her other wrist would allow. Her damane lay in a weeping heap. “I will not hear this dog’s words against my Zakai! She is a good damane! A good damane!”
Varek made soothing gestures to the woman. He had seen sul’dam make their charges howl for misdeeds, and a few who crippled the recalcitrant, but most would bristle even at one of the Blood who cast aspersions on a favorite. This Taraboner was not of the Blood, and by the look of the quivering sul’dam, she was ready to do murder. Had the man voiced his ridiculous, unspoken charge, Varek thought she might have killed him on the spot.
“Prayers for the dead must wait,” Varek said bluntly. What he was about to do would end with him in the hands of the Seekers, if he failed, but there was not a Seanchan left standing here except the sul’dam. “I am assuming command. We will disengage and turn south.”
“Disengage!” the heavy-shouldered Taraboner barked. “It will take us days to disengage! The Illianers, they fight like badgers backed into a corner, the Cairhienin like ferrets in a box. The Tairens, they are not so hard as I have heard, but there are maybe a dozen of these Asha’man, yes? I do not even know where three-quarters of my men are, in this jolly-bag!” Emboldened by his example, the others began giving protest, too.
Varek ignored them. And forbore asking what a “jolly-bag” was; looking at the tangled forest all around, listening to the clash of battle, the booms of explosions and lightnings, he could imagine. “You will gather your men and begin pulling back,” he said loudly, cutting through their chatter. “Not too fast; you will act in unison.” Miraj’s orders to Chianmai said “with all possible speed”—he had memorized them, in case something happened to the copy in his saddlebags—“all possible speed,” but too much speed in this, and half the men would be left behind, chopped to flinders at the enemy’s leisure. “Now, move! You fight for the Empress, may she live forever!”
That last was the sort of thing you told fresh recruits, but for some reason, the listening men jerked as if he had struck them all with his quirt. Bowing quickly and deeply, hands on knees, they all but flew to their horses. Strange. Now it was up to him to find the Seanchan units. One of those would be commanded by someone above him, and he could pass his responsibility.
The sul’dam was on her knees, stroking her still weeping damane’s hair and crooning softly. “Get her soothed down,” he told her. With all possible speed. And he thought he had seen a touch of anxiety in Miraj’s eyes. What could make Kennar Miraj anxious? “I think we will be depending on you sul’dam to the south.” Now, why would that make the blood drain from her face?
Bashere stood just inside the edge of the trees, frowning through his helmet’s face-bars at what he saw. His bay nuzzled his shoulder. He held his cloak close against the wind. More to avoid any motion that would draw eyes than for the cold, though that chilled his flesh. It would have been a spring breeze back in Saldaea, but months in the southlands had softened him. Shining bright between gray clouds that sailed along quickly, the sun still lay a little short of midday. And ahead of him. Just because you began a battle facing west did not mean you ended it that way. Before him lay a broad pasture where flocks of black-and-white goats cropped at the brown grass in desultory fashion just as if there was no battle raging all around them. Not that there was any sign of it here. For the moment. A man could get himself cut to doll rags crossing that meadow. And in the trees, whether forest or olive groves or thickets, you did not always see the enemy before you were on top of him, scouts or no scouts.
“If we’re going to cross,” Gueyam muttered, rubbing a wide hand over his bald head, “we should cross. Light’s truth, we’re wasting time.” Amondrid snapped his mouth shut; likely, the moon-faced Cairhienin had been about to say much the same thing. He would agree with a Tairen when horses climbed trees.
Jeordwyn Semaris snorted. The man should have grown a beard to hide that narrow jaw.  “I do say go around,” he muttered. “I’ve lost enough men to those Light-cursed damane, and . . . ” He trailed off with an uneasy glance toward Rochaid.
The young Asha’man stood by himself, mouth tight, fingering that Dragon pin on his collar. Maybe wondering whether it was worth it, by the look of him. There was no knowing air about the boy now, only frowning worry.
Leading Quick by the reins, Bashere strode to the Asha’man and drew him farther aside in the trees. Pushed him farther aside. Rochaid scowled, going reluctantly. The man was tall enough to loom over Bashere, but Bashere was having none of it.
“Can I count on your people next time?” Bashere demanded, jerking a mustache in irritation. “No delays?” Rochaid and his fellows seemed to have grown slower and slower responding when they found themselves opposite damane.
“I know what I’m about, Bashere,” Rochaid snarled. “Aren’t we killing enough of them for you? As far as I can see, we’re about done!”
Bashere nodded slowly. Not in agreement with the last. There were plenty of enemy soldiers left, almost anywhere you looked hard enough. But a good many were dead. He had patterned his movements on what he had studied of the Trolloc Wars, when the forces of the Light seldom came anywhere near the numbers they had to face. Slash at the flanks, and run. Slash at the rear, and run. Slash and run, and when the enemy chased after, turn on the ground you had chosen beforehand, where the legionmen lay waiting with their crossbows, turn and cut at him until it was time to run again. Or until he broke. Already today he had broken Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans and these Seanchan in their strange armor. He had seen more enemy dead than in any fight since the Blood Snow. But if he had Asha’man, the other side had those damane. A good third of his Saldaeans lay dead along the miles behind.  They just kept coming, more appearing as soon as he finished the last. And the Asha’man were growing . . . hesitant.
Swinging into Quick’s saddle, he rode back to Jeordwyn and the others. “We go around,” he ordered, ignoring Jeordwyn’s nods as much as he did Gueyam and Amondrid’s scowls. “Triple scouts out. I mean to push hard, but I don’t want to trip over a damane.” No one laughed.
Rochaid had gathered the other five Asha’man around him, one with a silver sword pinned to his collar, the others without. There had been two more with bare collars when they started out that morning, but if Asha’man knew how to kill, so did damane. Waving his arms angrily, Rochaid appeared to be arguing with them. His face was red, theirs blank and stubborn. Bashere just hoped Rochaid could keep all of them from deserting. Today had been costly enough without adding that sort of man wandering about loose.
A light rain fell. Rand scowled at the thick black clouds gathering the sky, already beginning to obscure a pale sun halfway down to the far horizon. Light rain now, but it would thicken like those clouds! Irritably he returned to studying the land ahead of him. The Crown of Swords pricked his temples. With the Power in him, the land was clear as a map despite the weather. Clear enough, anyway. Hills sinking away, some covered with thickets or olive trees, others bare grass or just stone and weeds. He thought he saw movement at the edge of a copse, then again among the rows of an olive orchard on another hill a mile from the copse. Thinking was not enough. Dead men lay across the miles behind, dead enemies. Dead women, too, he knew, but he had stayed away from anywhere sul’dam and damane had died, refused to see their faces. Most thought it was hatred for those who killed so many of his followers.
Tai’daishar frisked a few steps on the hilltop before Rand settled him with a firm hand and the pressure of his knees. A fine thing if a sul’dam spotted his movement. The few trees around him were not enough to hide much. Vaguely, he realized he did not recognize a one of them. Tai’daishar tossed his head. Rand tucked the Dragon Scepter into his saddlebags, just the carved butt-end sticking out, to free both hands in case the gelding was not satisfied. He could have taken weariness from the horse with saidin, but he knew no way to make it obey with the Power.
He could not see how the gelding retained enough energy. Saidin filled him, bubbled in him, but his distantly felt body wanted to sag with weariness. Part of that was the sheer amount of the Power he had handled today. Part was the strain of fighting saidin to make it do what he wanted. Always, saidin had to be conquered, forced, but never before like today. The half-healed, never-healing wounds in his left side were agony, the older an auger trying to drill through the Void, the newer a blaze of raw flame.
“It was an accident, my Lord Dragon,” Adley said suddenly. “I swear it was!”
“Shut up and watch!” Rand told him harshly.
 Adley had let it slip, and men had died in uncontrolled bursts of fire, not just the Amadicians he had been aiming at, but near thirty of Ailil’s armsmen and almost as many of Anaiyella’s.
Except for his slip, Adley would have been with Morr, with the Companions in the woods half a mile to the south. Narishma and Hopwil were with the Defenders, to the north. Rand wanted Adley under his eye. Had any other “accidents” happened, out of his sight? He could not watch everyone, all the time. Flinn’s face was grim as day-old death, and Dashiva, far from looking vague, seemed on the point of sweating with concentration. He still muttered to himself under his breath, so low Rand could not hear even with the Power in him, but the man mopped rain from his face continually with a sodden lace-edged linen handkerchief that had grown more than grimy as the day wore on. Rand did not think they had slipped. In any case, neither they nor Adley held the Power now. Nor would until he instructed them to seize it.
“Is it done?” Anaiyella asked behind him.
Heedless of who might be watching out there, Rand wheeled Tai’daishar around to face her. The Tairen woman started back in her saddle, the hood of her richly elaborate rain cape falling to her shoulders. Her cheek gave a twitch.  At her side, Ailil fingered her reins calmly with red-gloved hands.
“What more can you want?” the smaller woman asked in a cool voice. A lady being polite to a menial. Barely. “If the size of a victory is accounted by dead enemies, I think today alone will put your name in the histories.”
“I mean to drive the Seanchan into the sea!” Rand snapped. Light, he had to finish them now, when he had the chance! He could not fight the Seanchan and the Forsaken and the Light alone knew who or what else, all at the same time! “I did it before, and I will again!”
Do you have the Horn of Valere hidden in your pocket this time? Lews Therin asked slyly. Rand snarled at him silently.
“There’s someone below,” Flinn said suddenly. “Riding up this way. From the west.”
Rand pulled his mount back around. Legionmen ringed the slopes of the hill, though they hid well enough that he seldom caught sight of a blue coat. None of them had a horse. Who would be riding . . .
Bashere’s bay trotted up the slope almost as though it were level ground. Bashere’s helmet hung from his saddle, and the man himself looked tired. Without preamble, he spoke in a flat voice. “We’re finished, here. Part of fighting is knowing when to go, and it’s time. I’ve left five hundred dead behind, near enough, and two of your Soldiers for salt. I sent three more to find Semaradrid, Gregorin and Weiramon and tell them to rally on you. I doubt they’re in any better condition than I am. How does your butcher’s bill run?”
Rand ignored the question. His own dead topped Bashere’s by close to two hundred. “You had no right sending orders to the others. So long as there are half a dozen Asha’man left—so long as there’s me!—I have enough! I mean to find the rest of the Seanchan army and destroy it, Bashere. I won’t let them add Altara to Tarabon and Amadicia.”
Bashere knuckled his thick mustaches with a wry laugh. “You want to find them. Look out there.” He swept a gauntleted hand across the hills to the west. “I can’t point to a particular spot, but there are ten, maybe fifteen thousand close enough to see from here, if those trees weren’t in the way. I danced with the Dark One getting through them unseen to reach you. Maybe a hundred damane down there. Maybe more. More coming, for sure, and more men. Seems their general has decided to concentrate on you. I suppose it isn’t always cheese and ale being ta’veren.”
“If they’re out there . . . ” Rand scanned the hills. The rain fell more heavily. Where had he seen movement? Light, he was tired. Saidin hammered at him. Unconsciously he touched the wrapped bundled beneath his stirrup leather. His hand jerked away of its own accord. Ten thousand, even fifteen . . . Once Semaradrid reached him, and Gregorin, and Weiramon . . . More important, once the rest of the Asha’man did . . . “If they’re out there, that’s where I’ll destroy them, Bashere. I’ll hit them from all sides, the way we intended in the first place.”
Frowning, Bashere reined his horse closer, until his knee almost touched Rand’s. Flinn moved his mount away, but Adley was too focused on staring through the rain to notice anything so near, and Dashiva, still wiping his face incessantly, stared with open interest. Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. “You aren’t thinking straight. That was a good plan, in the beginning, but their general thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him spread out marching. We’ve cost him even so, it seems, and he now he’s pulling everything together. You won’t catch him by surprise. He wants us to come at him. He’s out there waiting for it. Asha’man or no Asha’man, if we stand nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody rides away.”
“Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn,” Rand growled. “The Forsaken could tell him that, whoever he is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?” Flinn nodded uncertainly. Dashiva flinched. “You think I can’t surprise him, Bashere? Watch!” Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand heard gasps as raindrops glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. “Let’s see if he’s surprised by Callandor in the hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere.”
Cradling the translucent blade in the crook of his elbow, Rand rode Tai’daishar forward a few steps. There was no reason to. He had no clearer view from there. Except . . . Something spidered across the outer surface of the Void, a wriggling black web. He was afraid. The last time he had used Callandor, really used it, he had tried to bring the dead back to life. He had been sure he could do anything, then, anything at all. Like a madman thinking he could fly. But he was the Dragon Reborn. He could do anything. Had he not proved it time and again? He reached for the Source through the Sword That Is Not a Sword.
Saidin seemed to leap into Callandor before he touched the Source through it. From pommel to point, the crystal sword shone with a white light. He had only thought the Power filled him before. Now he held more than ten men could have unaided, a hundred, he did not know how many. The fires of the sun, searing through his head. The cold of all of the winters of all the Ages, eating into his heart. In that torrent, the taint was all the midden heaps in the world emptying into his soul. Saidin still tried to kill him, tried to scour away, burn away, freeze away, every scrap of him, but he fought, and he lived for a moment more, and another moment, another. He wanted to laugh. He could do anything!
Once, holding Callandor, he had made a weapon that searched out Shadowspawn through the Stone of Tear, struck them dead with hunting lightning wherever they stood or ran or hid. Surely there must be something like that, to use against his enemies here. But when he called to Lews Therin, only anguished whimpers answered, as if that disembodied voice feared the pain of saidin.
With Callandor blazing in his hand—he did not remember raising the blade overhead—he stared at the hills where his enemies hid. They were gray now, with thickening rain, and dense black clouds blocking the sun. What was it he had told Eagan Padros?
“I am the storm,” he whispered—a shout in his ears, a roar—and he channeled.
Overhead, the clouds boiled. Where they had been the black of soot, they became midnight, the heart of midnight. He did not know what he was channeling. So often, he did not, in spite of Asmodean’s teaching. Maybe Lews Therin was guiding him, in spite of the man’s weeping. Flows of saidin spun across the sky, Wind and Water and Fire. Fire. The sky truly did rain lightning. A hundred bolts at once, hundreds, forked blue-white shafts stabbing down as far as he could see. The hills before him erupted. Some flew apart under the torrent of lightning like kicked anthills. Flames sprang up in thickets, trees turning to torches in the rain, flames racing through olive orchards.
Something struck him hard, and he realized he was picking himself up from the ground. The crown had fallen from his head. Callandor still blazed in his hand, though. Vaguely, he was aware of Tai’daishar scrambling to his feet, trembling. So they thought to strike back at him, did they.
Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. “Come against me, if you dare! I am the storm! Come if you dare, Shai’tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!” A thousand sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.
Again something struck him down. He tried to fight up again. Callandor, still shining, lay a pace from his outstretched hand. The sky shattered with lightnings. Suddenly, he realized that the weight atop him was Bashere, that the man was shaking him. It must have been Bashere who had flung him down!
“Stop it!” the Saldaean shouted.  “You’re killing us, man! Stop!”
Rand turned his head, and one stunned look was enough. Lightnings flashed all around him, in every direction. A bolt stabbed down onto the reverse slope, where Denharad and the armsmen were; the screams of men and horses rose. Anaiyella and Ailil were both afoot, trying vainly to quiet mounts that reared, eyes rolling, trying to rip reins free. Flinn was bending over someone, not far from a dead horse with legs already stiff.
Rand let saidin go. He let it go, but for moments it still flowed into him, and lightning raged. The flow into him dwindled, tailed off and vanished. Dizziness swept through him in its place. For three more heartbeats, two of Callandor shone where they lay on the ground, and lightning fell. Then, silence except for the rising drum of the rain. And the screams from behind the hill.
Slowly Bashere climbed off of him, and Rand rose unaided on tottering legs, blinking as his sight returned to normal. The Saldaean watched him as he might have a rabid lion, fingering his sword hilt. Anaiyella took one look at Rand on his feet and collapsed in a faint; her horse dashed away, reins dangling. Ailil, still fighting her rearing animal, spared few glances for Rand. Rand let Callandor lie where it was for the moment. He was not sure he dared pick it up. Not yet.
Flinn straightened, shaking his head, then stood silently as Rand went unsteadily to stand beside him. The rain fell on Jonan Adley’s sightless eyes, bulging as if in horror. Jonan had been one of the first. Those screams from behind the hill seemed to slice through the rain. How many more, Rand wondered. Among the Defenders? The Companions? Among . . . ?
Rain thick as a blanket hid the hills where the Seanchan army lay. Had he hurt them at all, striking out blindly?  Waiting to see how many more of his own he could kill for them.
“Set whatever guard you think we need,” Rand told Bashere. His voice was iron. One of the first. His heart was iron. “When Gregorin and the others reach us, we’ll Travel to where the carts are waiting as fast as we can.” Bashere nodded without speaking, and turned away in the rain.
I’ve lost, Rand thought dully. I’m the Dragon Reborn, but for the first time, I’ve lost.
Suddenly, Lews Therin raged up inside him, sly digs forgotten. I’ve never been defeated, he snarled. I am the Lord of the Morning! No one can defeat me!
Rand sat in the rain, turning the Crown of Swords in his hands, looking at Callandor lying in the mud. He let Lews Therin rage.
Abaldar Yulan wept, grateful for the downpour that hid the tears on his cheeks. Someone would have to give the order. Eventually someone would have to apologize to the Empress, might she live forever, and maybe to Suroth sooner. Those were not why he wept, though, nor even for a dead comrade. Roughly ripping a sleeve from his coat, he laid it across Miraj’s staring eyes so the rain would not fall in them.
 For the second time on these shores, the Ever Victorious Army had suffered a devastating defeat, and Yulan did not think he was the only one who wept.


Cricket: West Indies' Pooran gets four-match ban for ball-tampering
MUMBAI: West Indies batsman Nicholas Pooran has been handed a four-game ban for ball tampering during Monday's third one-day international against Afghanistan, the International Cricket Council said on Wednesday.
The 24-year-old Pooran, who has played 16 ODIs and 14 Twenty20 internationals for West Indies, has admitted the offence and accepted the sanction proposed by the match referee, the governing body said in a statement.
"Pooran was charged with violating Article 2.14 of the code, which relates to 'changing the condition of the ball' after video footage showed him scratching the surface of the ball with his thumbnail," the ICC said.
"He will now miss the next four T20I games."
Pooran will not be available for West Indies' three-match T20I series against Afghanistan and the first game of the subsequent three-match series against India.
The left-handed batsman scored 21 against Afghanistan in Monday's third ODI in the northern Indian city of Lucknow, which the Caribbean side won by five wickets to win the three-match series 3-0.
"I want to issue a sincere apology to my team mates, supporters and the Afghanistan team for what transpired on the field of play on Monday in Lucknow," Pooran said in a statement released by Cricket West Indies.
"I recognise that I made an extreme error in judgement and I fully accept the ICC penalty. I want to assure everyone that this is an isolated incident and it will not be repeated. I promise to learn from this and come back stronger and wiser."
Ball tampering has become a hot topic after three Australian cricketers received lengthy bans for their plan to scuff up the ball during a Cape Town test in South Africa last year.
Former Australia captain Steve Smith and his deputy David Warner were banned for 12 months, while opening batsman Cameron Bancroft was suspended for nine months for their roles in the 'sandpaper-gate' scandal.


After iOS 13 Disaster Apple Plans to Change its Testing for iOS 14
by Andrew OrrSo far iOS 13 has been full of bugs and Apple has been quickly rolling out updates to fix the various issues. Software chief Craig Federighi plans to change the company’s development process for iOS 14 (via Bloomberg).
iOS 14
At a recent internal meeting with Apple software developers, Craig Federighi and other leaders like Stacey Lysik announced changes to their system. Daily builds of iOS will have unfinished or buggy features turned off by default. Until now, some teams would add features to each daily build that weren’t fully tested, making it easier for bugs to go unnoticed.
Apple ranks the quality of its software on a scale of 1 to 100, referred to as the “white glove” test. Buggy builds score lower and stable builds are scored higher. Colors like green, yellow, and red are also assigned to features to indicate their quality during the development process.
iOS 14, codenamed “Azul” is said to “rival iOS 13 in the breadth of its new capabilities, the people familiar with Apple’s plans said.”
Further Reading:


|
The
bundle contains: |
Ok, I've seen it. Take me back. |
|
Wither Gameboy style morbid RPG. Site |
Game Title Zelda-esque dungeon crawler. Site |
Super Crate Box Retro arcade delight! Site |
8bit KILLER 8bit style FPS. Site |
Arvoesine Roman soldier platformer. Site |
|
Benefits of Life Insurance Sell life insurances. Buy gifts. Site |
Fox Aliens From Space jump, mr zuper hero dude! Site |
The darkness that lurks Horror! Scary. Site |
Mythic Defence Rise of Evil Tower defence. Site |
Calicoland Platformer B&W. Site |
|
Starman Floatformer. Site |
KARATE KA. RA. TE. Use fists. Site |
Quest for the Pixel Princess Maze game jam thingy. Site |
And free bonus item! |


Andrea Bocelli's performance on Strictly Come Dancing 'ruined' by loud clapping
Andrea Bocelli put on an emotional performance on Strictly Come Dancing only to have it ruined by the audience’s clapping.
The singer performed a solo rendition of his timeless classic Time to Say Goodbye, which had the professionals dance along to it, but viewers were complaining that they couldn’t hear anything due to the incessant cheering.
Fans took to Twitter to complain about the distracting performance.
One user said: ‘Sorry was he on?? Must have blinked and missed it.

Kevin Clifton and Janette Manrara were centre stage alongside their fellow dancers, but the audience just couldn’t keep their excitement to quieter levels.

Meanwhile, Saffron Barker was eliminated from Strictly Come Dancing during last night’s results show after facing Karim Zeroual in the dreaded dance-off.
The social media influencer and her partner AJ Pritchard were voted off the BBC competition show unanimously after performing their Samba for judges Shirley Ballas, Bruno Tonioli, Craig Revel Horwood and Motse Mabuse one last time.
The panel all decided they preferred Karim and his partner Amy Dowden’s contemporary routine and saved the children’s presenter from going home.
 It’s been amazing.
‘I’d like to thank AJ so much, when I look at what I was like on week one I was so embarrassed and shy.’
She added: ‘He’s really taken me out of my shell. Thank you so much for everything.’
Advertisement Advertisement
The two begged bosses to skip the samba as this marks the fourth time AJ got booted off the show right after a samba.
Speaking to The Sun, Saffron said: ‘We tried to get out of dancing the Samba but they wouldn’t let us.’
Got a showbiz story?
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@* * Copyright 2019 HM Revenue & Customs * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. *@ @import include._ @import models.notifications._ @import utils.ContactTypeHelper @(businessName: String, currentApplicationNotifications: Seq[NotificationRow], previousApplicationNotifications: Seq[NotificationRow] = Seq())(implicit request: Request[_],m:Messages) @header = { @components.back_link() @heading("notifications.header", "summary.status") } @notification_table( id: String, notifications: Seq[NotificationRow] ) = {
| @Messages("notifications.table.header.subject") | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| @if(!comms.isRead){Unread}else{Read} | @Messages(comms.subject) | @Messages(comms.notificationType) | @comms.dateReceived |
@Messages("notifications.title")
@businessName
@Messages("notifications.previousReg")


DNA Assembly
问题描述 :
As is usual for DNA sequencing, the results are a set of strings that are sequenced fragments of DNA, not entire DNA strings. A pair of strings like ‘GATTA’ and ‘TACA’ most probably represent the string ‘GATTACA’ as the overlapping characters are merged, since they were probably duplicated in the sequencing process.
Merging a pair of strings requires finding the greatest overlap between the two and then eliminating it as the two strings are concatenated together. Overlaps are between the end of one string and beginning of another string, NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF A STRING.
By way of example, the strings ‘GATTACA’ and ‘TTACA’ overlap completely. On the other hand, the strings ‘GATTACA’ and ‘TTA’ have no overlap at all, since the matching characters of one appear in the middle of the other, not at one end or the other. Here are some examples of merging strings, including those with no overlap:
GATTA + TACA -> GATTACA
TACA + GATTA -> TACAGATTA
TACA + ACA -> TACA
TAC + TACA -> TACA
ATAC + TACA -> ATACA
TACA + ACAT -> TACAT
Given a set of N (2 <= N <= 7) DNA sequences all of whose lengths are in the range 1..7, find and print length of the shortest possible sequence obtainable by repeatedly merging all N strings using the procedure described above. All strings must be merged into the resulting sequence.
输入:
Each test case :
Line 1: A single integer N
Lines 2..N+1: Each line contains a single DNA subsequence
End of file.
输出:
样例输入:
4 GATTA TAGG ATCGA CGCAT
样例输出:
13Explanation of the sample: Such string is "CGCATCGATTAGG".HintHint
/* Author: ACb0y Date: 2010-9-05 Type: force ProblemId: hdu 1583 DNA Assembly Result: 2919263 2010-09-05 10:02:43 Accepted 1583 281MS 272K 1079 B C++ ACb0y */ #include <iostream> #include <string> using namespace std; int n; int ans; int d[10]; int vis[10]; string str[10]; //字符串合并 string str_merge(string a, string b) { if (a == "") { return b; } int i; int flag = 0; int pos; int alen = a.length(); int blen = b.length(); for (i = 1; i <= alen; i++) { if (b.substr(0, i) == a.substr(alen - i, i)) { flag = 1; pos = i; } } if (flag) { return a + b.substr(pos, blen - pos); } else { return a + b; } } //回溯法求N！ void dfs(int pos) { int i; if (pos == n) { string temp = ""; for (i = 0; i < n; i++) { temp = str_merge(temp, str[d[i]]); } if (temp.length() < ans) { ans = temp.length(); } } else { for (i = 0; i < n; i++) if (!vis[i]) { d[pos] = i; vis[i] = 1; dfs(pos + 1); vis[i] = 0; } } } int main() { int i; #ifndef ONLINE_JUDGE freopen("1583.txt", "r", stdin); #endif while (cin >> n) { for (i = 0; i < n; i++) { cin >> str[i]; } memset(vis, 0, sizeof(vis)); ans = 10000; dfs(0); cout << ans << endl; } return 0; }
解题报告转自：http://blog.csdn.net/acb0y/article/details/5864236
其实国内大部分公司对算法都不够重视。特别是中小型公司老板根本都不懂技术，也不懂什么是算法，从而也不要求程序员懂什么算法，做程序从来不考虑性能问题，只要页面能显示出来就是好程序，这是国内的现状，很无奈。
示例程序中的代码不够稳健，没有考虑到输入了非法字符或者不合理输入的情况。
我觉得是D哎……
妈呀！这个模板好长OwQ！
第15行代码，/n/n，应该改为\n\n
其实就是DFS搜索，数据量较小，穷举了所有情况
5.1处，反了；“上一个操作符的优先级比操作符ch的优先级大，或栈是空的就入栈。”如代码所述，应为“上一个操作符的优先级比操作符ch的优先级小，或栈是空的就入栈。”
对，算是枚举吧，已修正
在方法1里面：
//遍历所有的边，计算入度
for(int i=0; i<V; i++)
{
degree = 0;
for (j = adj .begin(); j != adj .end(); ++j)
{
degree[*j]++;
}
}
为什么每遍历一条链表，要首先将每个链表头的顶点的入度置为0呢？
比如顶点5，若在顶点1、2、3、4的链表中出现过顶点5，那么要增加顶点5的入度，但是在遍历顶点5的链表时，又将顶点5的入度置为0了，那之前的从顶点1234到顶点5的边不是都没了吗？
写的很好~~
不太懂呀，乡亲们。原理知道代码不会
确实有点难度，搞了好久。int溢出要注意
好厉害～
simple, however efficient. A lot of instances it is difficult to get that a??perfect balancea?? among usability and appearance. I must say that youa??ve done a exceptional task with this. Also, the blog masses quite fast for me on Web explore.


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Paul Conyngham
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Paul is a Senior Data Scientist with over 10 years of experience in data engineering, machine learning algorithm design
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Rinat Sadykov is a senior fullstack developer with over 10 years of software development experience in front end & back end engineering. His broad range of skills includee AngularJS, Javascript, Java, SQL & Python.


5yo Coraline's 1st ballet tonight (Nutcracker). For dinner she wanted pho, but we proposed going fancier. "Like pizza?" she said.
12/22/2013, 3:08:17 PM
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5yo Coraline's 1st ballet tonight (Nutcracker). For dinner she wanted pho, but we proposed going fancier. "Like pizza?" she said.
12/22/2013, 3:08:17 PM
Favs: 2
Retweets: 0
link


GitRoom Manager
GitRoom Manager
GitRoom Manager allows instructors to more easily manage a GitHub-based virtual classroom. From within the program, the user can:
- Initialize student repositories, locally and remotely, from a CSV roster and a local master repository
- Add students to an existing course
- Add administrators to the course (other instructors)
- Associate each student with a personal private repository
- Update student repositories with new course content
- Pull from/push to student repositories
- Grade assignments
Requirements
- Python >= 3.3
- Git >= 2.0
- Ownership of a GitHub Classroom
- GitHub Personal Token with full permissions
- Class roster with columns for student: first name, last name, GitHub ID
Installation
To install the grm
module, clone the repository to your local machine
and cd
into the top-level directory. From the terminal, type:
python setup.py install
NOTE: You may need to use python3
or python3.x
in place of
python
in order to utilize a Python 3.x installation.
You may also install with pip:
pip install grm
NOTE: Depending on your installation may need to use pip3
in place of
pip
.
Usage
You can call GitRoom Manager from within an interactive Python session by calling:
import grm
grm.main()
The installation also adds an executable script to your path. You can call GitRoom Manager from terminal using:
$ gitroom
NOTE: The command line script is just a wrapper for the first set of
commands above. The script searches your environment for your Python 3.x
interpreter. If it cannot find it, the script may revert to your system
Python interpreter—which is often 2.x—and may fail. If you have
trouble with the command line script, first make sure that your Python
3.x interpreter is in your system path and callable by python3
.
Manual
A more complete manual for GitRoom Manager can be found at btskinner.io/grm


Fast Robust Waveform inversion
This software release includes a demonstration of the parallel waveform inversion framework in Matlab that has been developed at SLIM. In particular, it includes implementations of waveform inversion using robust penalties and source estimation [1,2] in conjunction with an optimization strategy that works with only a few sources at each iteration [3-6]. Updated to conform to the new waveform inversion software framework [8].
Author: Tristan van Leeuwen, Aleksandr Aravkin Date : March, 2012
Updated : Curt Da Silva Date : May, 2016
Contents
Downloading & Dependencies
The code can be found in the SLIM sofware release under /applications/WaveformInversion/2DRobustBatching.
The code has been tested with Matlab R2015b and requires the Parallel Computing Toolbox.
This code uses the following packages, also found in the tools part of the SLIM software release.
- utilities/SPOT - object oriented framework for matrix-free linear algebra.
- utilities/pSPOT - parallel extension of SPOT.
- algorithms/2DFreqModeling - 2D constant-density acoustic modeling
- _algorithms/CommonFreqModeling - baseline acoustic modeling components
- _solvers/QuasiNewton - quasi newton optimization algorithms
- operators/misc - Misc. operators such as interpolation, smoothing and splines
- functions/misc - Misc. functions.
Running & Parallelism
All the examples and results are produced by the scripts found in this software release under applications/WaveformInversion/2DRobustBatching/. Start matlab from that directory or run startup in that directory to add the appropriate paths.
To run the scripts follow the instrictions in the README file enclosed with the code. The scripts can be run in serial mode but parallel mode is advised.
Read more about SLIM's approach to parallel computing in Matlab.
Functions
The functions specific to this package can be found in the mbin directory.
- twonorms - the two-norm and its derivative.
- hubers - the Huber misfit and its derivative.
- hybrid - the hybrid misfit and its derivative.
- students - the Students t misfit and its derivative.
- mylbfgs - standard L-BFGS with Wolfe linesearch
- minfunc_batch - stochastic optimization with bound constraints
More detailed descriptions and some basic tests are described here.
Examples and results
Scripts to reproduce the famous Camembert example [7], as well as results from several papers can be found in the scripts directory. The results are shown here.
References
[1] A.Y. Aravkin, T. van Leeuwen and F.J. Herrmann - Source estimation for frequency-domain FWI with robust penalties, EAGE Expanded abstracts 2012.
[2] A.Y. Aravkin, T. van Leeuwen, and F.J. Herrmann, 2011. Robust full-waveform inversion using the Student's t-distribution. SEG Technical Program Expanded Abstracts 30, 2669-2673.
[3] M.P. Friedlander, M.Schmidt, 2011. Hybrid Deterministic-Stochastic Methods for Data Fitting. arXiv:1104.2373.
[4] T. van Leeuwen, F.J. Herrmann, M. Schmidt, M.P. Friedlander, 2011. A hybrid stochastic-deterministic optimization method for waveform inversion. EAGE Expanded Abstracts.
[5] T. van Leeuwen and F.J. Herrmann - Fast Waveform inversion without source-encoding, Geophysical Prospecting, submitted
[6] A.Y. Aravkin, M.P. Friedlander, F.J. Herrmann, and T. van Leeuwen, 2011. Robust inversion, dimensionality reduction, and randomized sampling. Mathematical Programming, accepted.
[7] O. Gauthier, J. Virieux, and A. Tarantola. Two-dimensional nonlinear inversion of seismic waveforms: Numerical results. Geophysics 51, 1387-1403 (1986)
[8] C. Da Silva, F.J. Herrmann - A unified 2D/3D software environment for large scale time-harmonic full waveform inversion.
Acknowledgements
The synthetic Compass model was provided by the BG-GROUP, see also the disclaimer.


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File that contains the definitions for the three main elements of Adapters
ShcComponent: A single piece of hardware or software that is managed by the home automation system \n
ShcService: A single property of a Component (eg. volume) \n
ShcState: State of a Service (eg. ON/Off, 20db,...)
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Do you want to know if staff members are susceptible to stress? Or indeed if they are at risk of feeling considerable job dissatisfaction?
Answer Dr De Stress’ questions about your staff and let him tell you if you need to act. Reduce staff sick days and turnover costs by making the people you have feel better at work.


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App Engine Python SDK
v1.6.9 rev.445
The Python runtime is available as an experimental Preview feature.
|
Public Member Functions | |
| def | __init__ |
| def | expressions |
| def | match_scorer |
| def | limit |
| def | __repr__ |
Represents a mulit-dimensional sort of Documents. The following code shows how to sort documents based on product rating in descending order and then cheapest product within similarly rated products, sorting at most 1000 documents: SortOptions(expressions=[ SortExpression(expression='rating', direction=SortExpression.DESCENDING, default_value=0), SortExpression(expression='price + tax', direction=SortExpression.ASCENDING, default_value=999999.99)], limit=1000)
| def google.appengine.api.search.search.SortOptions.__init__ | ( | self, | |
expressions = None , |
|||
match_scorer = None , |
|||
limit = 1000 |
|||
| ) |
Initializer. Args: expressions: An iterable of SortExpression representing a multi-dimensional sort of Documents. match_scorer: A match scorer specification which may be used to score documents or in a SortExpression combined with other features. limit: The limit on the number of documents to score or sort. Raises: TypeError: If any of the parameters has an invalid type, or an unknown attribute is passed. ValueError: If any of the parameters has an invalid value.
| def google.appengine.api.search.search.SortOptions.expressions | ( | self | ) |
A list of SortExpression specifying a multi-dimensional sort.
| def google.appengine.api.search.search.SortOptions.limit | ( | self | ) |
Returns the limit on the number of documents to score or sort.
| def google.appengine.api.search.search.SortOptions.match_scorer | ( | self | ) |
Returns a match scorer to score documents with.


{# (c) Crown Owned Copyright, 2016. Dstl. #} {% extends "layout.html" %} {% block page_title %}{{user}} – Team Membership{% endblock %} {% block grid_content %}
You can be a member of as many teams as you like, and each team is part of an organisation. On this page, you can join or leave teams by checking or unchecking the boxes next to the team names, or create whole new teams to join.
{% if request.user.teams.count = 0 %}Before you start using Lighthouse you should indicate which teams you're a member of. If you don't see the teams listed (or there are no teams listed) then you can add them on this page.


{% load static from staticfiles %} {% load i18n %} {% load almanet_tags %}
{{_("Set the goal and prepare and develop financial and sales plan")}}
{{_("Identifying the ideal product/client sales channels")}}
{{_("Implement KPI and Reports with ALMASALES")}}
{{_("Strengthen sales instruments")}}
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{{ _("Our mobile app allows you to stay connect to your sales department anywhere at any time.") }} }
{{ _("lies in its philosophy, including OKR methodology (Objectives and Key results), implemented by such companies as Google, Facebook, Apple, LinkedIn") }}
{{ _("You can find us by address: Samal 1, house 1, Almaty, Kazakhstan 050010.") }}


I like apples and oranges
I also like :
- Apple
- The apple is pomaceous fruit of the apple tree
- Malus domestica
- Banana
- The banana is parthenocarpic fruit of the banana tree
- Musa acuminata
- Cherry
- The cherry is stone fruit of the genus Prunus
You can see other fruits I like here


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From the Death Certificate
for Lillie May Turner
Woodsfield,
PERSONAL AND STATISTICAL
PARTICULARS
female, white, widowed (wife of Howard Turner)
date of birth: [no
entry here]
age: 23 years 1
month 2 days
occupation: house duties
birthplace:
father: Warren
Sparrow, born
mother: Barbra Ricer,
born
informant: Elsie Miller,
MEDICAL CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
date of death: May
21, 1932
physician's statement: I hereby certify, that I attended deceased on
May 22, 1932, that I didn't see
her alive on May 22, 1932, and that
death occurred, on the date stated
above at 12: a.m.
cause of death:
Internal hemmorrage [sic], having _____* rupture parietal pleura, rupture of liver, rupture of spleen, dent in diaphram
operation: no
autopsy: yes
signed: C. J. Fiest, Coroner; May 22, 1932;
burial:
undertaker: W.P.
Galbraith,
* Submitter's Note: There is another word here that cannot be
read.
Submitter's Note: The above death certificate was marked
RETURNED: "Kindly have coroner
state the manner in which the rupture liver, parietal pleura and spleen was
received. If traumatic, state the means
and whether accidental."
The answer:
"The rupture of the
liver, parietal pleura and spleen was traumatic. The deceased was riding in an automobile
driven by one Willis Burns who left the road, tore a tree out by the roots and
threw this decezsed [sic] and her companion out
killing both. He is under charge of
involuntary manslaughter and his case will come before the grand jury this
month."
signed ---------C.J. Fiest, Coroner of Monroe County, Ohio; Sept. 13, 1932.
Provided by Betty Latta Kitchen
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I love technology. Some might say I love it a little too much! With my passion for learning, and a curiosity for how each aspect of the technology stack functions, I've developed skills in a wide number of roles.
I make use of my skills to craft visually pleasing and accessible dynamic content for the modern web.
I have a wealth of experience in modern backend programming languages with experience of architecting both APIs and bespoke solutions.
With over 10 years of web development experience, I have a firm grasp on the professional methods of software development.
I enjoy designing experiences that are both visually appealing and accessible to all.
I believe that an understanding of how my code functions in its natural environment will improve my skills as a developer.
It's neither practical or rewarding to do everything by yourself, and so I've developed my skills for working within and leading teams.
I have a passion for teaching others. I use technical writing as a creative outlet.
I like to surround myself with other like-minded technology professionals.
My love of languages doesn't end with programming. Whenever I travel, I like to learn enough of the language that I can communicate basic needs.
Named the leading crowd-funder for investment following a record-breaking start to 2017, according to latest market data from Beauhurst.
Index ventures backed sharing economy startup for parking spaces in the United Kingdom.
Web agency with a focus on asset management clients.
Web development department of one of the largest copyright libraries in the United Kingdom.
University of Wales Aberystwyth.
Ceredigion College, Aberystwyth.
Pendweddig School, Aberystwyth.
In 2013 I was invited to speak at Laracon in Washington DC, where I gave a talk titled 'Laravel: An unexpected journey' to over 200 developers. The talk detailed Laravel's rise to fame, and the milestones along the way.
At Laravel NYC in 2014, I gave a conference talk titled 'Breaking the Mold' to over 300 developers. The talk explained how to use a knowledge of Laravel's internals to craft project structures that were specific to your team and challenges.
In 2014 I introduced Laravel and its story to a number of French PHP developers that were more familiar with the Symfony framework. The AFUP conference was held in Paris.
Over the years I've given talks about Laravel, PHP, testing processes and much, much more at a number of meetups in Europe including those located in Cardiff, London, and Berlin.
My first book introduced readers to the Laravel PHP Framework version 3. It taught thousands of developers how to build Laravel-powered applications, and became a fan favourite within the community due to its witty humour.
Code Bright was my second Laravel book and covered version four of the framework. It was useful to both new developers and experienced Laravel developers alike.
Code Smart was my third book and most recent covering version five of the framework and all of its new features. It's currently up to date with version 5.5 of the framework.
PHP Pandas was my first non-Laravel specific title and was aimed at the beginner programmer in an effort to introduce them to the syntax and programming concepts used with the PHP programming language.
Composer was my second non-Laravel title, covering the PHP package manager 'Composer'. It was released as a free title under the 'pay what you want to' model.
A collection of custom-made editor colour schemes for all of the common code editors across a number of platforms. On Sublime Text alone the collection has received over 100k downloads.
A port of Github's Scientist parallel-testing library to the PHP language with a few extra niceties!
“I love what I do. If you can offer me a chance to make use of a wide range of my skills, and to learn a few new ones along the way, then I'll shine like a chubby, Welsh, hairy diamond.”


Specify the hex code for a custom colour that can be used on tabs eg ffc0cb for a lighter shade of red.
Useful if people object to the bright red as being too distracting.
Note - no leading # and always 6 characters.
See for example Various colour codes on an internets


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--- tags: title: "Optimizing MySQL Performance " layout: post ---
I was going through hacker news and found this interesting tool to optimise mysql performance called Anemometer built by guys from Box.
Here is a video demo of this tool


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Ex-Corrie star Lindsay on why working class women can feel 'invisible'
Sally Lindsay has spoken out about working class women being ‘ignored’ by society.
The actress stars in new thriller Cold Call about as carer June who seeks revenge after her mother is scammed out of a large amount of money.
Sally, 46, feels her ‘she-wolf’ character’s actions in the drama are justified as working class older women are so often overlooked.
‘What happens to her mum spurs her on to feel so bereft and so lost and awful and guilty, so she feels she has to correct it,’ she told Metro.co.uk.
‘She feels she has to make this right. She needs some sort of revenge and retribution.
‘It is a very twisty and turny thriller so it’s quite a difficult thing to explain, but I found all of her reasons justifiable. Especially as a mother and as a woman and as a working class woman, and as a working class woman of a certain age.
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‘Not so much me but you do sometimes feel invisible. If you’re stood in a shop or you’re at a bar, you’re last person to be served because you’re a middle-aged woman. And I think that’s what happens with June and they completely underestimate her because she’s invisible.’
The former Coronation Street star hopes that the show will be educational as well as entertaining, so viewers learn how they can protect themselves from falling victim to fraud.
‘If you have a phone and a bank account they can get you. I got emails from Natwest bank saying you’re overdrawn or this or that. I don’t bank with Natwest so obviously I know it’s not a genuine email. If I did bank with them I would be horrified and try and get back to them because you want everything to be right.
‘I can’t even stand getting a parking ticket!  I absolutely could afford it but I’m like, “no it’s wrong. I didn’t know you couldn’t park here.” I was heartbroken.
 It’s about fear.’
Cold Call starts tonight at 9pm on Channel 5.
Got a showbiz story?
If you've got a story, video or pictures get in touch with the Metro.co.uk Entertainment team by emailing us<EMAIL_ADDRESS>calling 020 3615 2145 or by visiting our Submit Stuff page - we'd love to hear from you.


RT @cascadiaruby: Our party hosts @NewRelic are pulling out all the stops; retro games, hardware hacking, & live music! Don’t miss it: http…
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RT @cascadiaruby: Our party hosts @NewRelic are pulling out all the stops; retro games, hardware hacking, & live music! Don’t miss it: http…
10/8/2013, 10:20:05 AM
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Retweets: 0
link