The evening sun was a ball of blood on the treetops, casting a lurid light across the camp, a widely spaced sprawl of horselines and canvas-covered wagons and high-wheeled carts and tents in every size and sort with the snow between trampled to slush. Not the time of day or sort of place that Elenia wished to be on horseback.  The cold air frosted her breath and promised a bitter night to come, and the wind cut through her best red cloak without regard for the thick lining of plush white fur. Snowfox was supposed to be warmer than other furs, but she had never found it so.
Holding the cloak closed with one gloved hand, she rode slowly and tried very hard, if not very successfully, not to shiver. Given the hour, it seemed more than likely she would be spending the night here, but as yet, she had no idea where she would sleep. Doubtless in some lesser noble’s tent, with the lord or lady shuffled off to find haven elsewhere and trying to put the best face on being evicted, but Arymilla liked leaving her on tenterhooks until the very last, about beds and everything else. One suspense was no sooner dispelled than another replaced it. Plainly the woman thought the constant uncertainty would make her squirm, perhaps even strive to please. That was far from the only miscalculation Arymilla had made, beginning with the belief that Elenia Sarand’s claws had been clipped.
She had just four men with the two Golden Boars on their cloaks as escort—and her maid, Janny, of course, huddling in her cloak till she seemed a bundle of green wool piled on her saddle—and she had not seen a single fellow more in the camp who she could be sure held a scrap of loyalty to Sarand. Here and there one of the clumps of men huddled around the campfires with their laundresses and seamstresses displayed House Anshar’s Red Fox, and a double column of horsemen wearing Baryn’s Winged Hammer passed her heading in the opposite direction at a slow walk, hard-faced behind the bars of their helmets. They were of little real account, in the long run. Karind and Lir had gotten singed badly by being slow when Morgase took the throne. This time they would take Anshar and Baryn wherever the advantage lay the instant they saw it clearly, abandoning Arymilla with as great an alacrity as they had leapt to join her. When the time came.
Most of the men trudging through the muddy slush or peering hopefully into those disgusting cookpots were levies, farmers and villagers gathered up when their lord or lady marched, and few wore any sort of House badge on their shabby coats and patched cloaks. Even separating putative soldiers from farriers and fletchers and the like was near impossible, since nearly all had belted on a sword of some description, or an axe. Light, a fair number of the women wore knives large enough to be called short-swords, but there was no way to tell some conscripted farmer’s wife from a wagon driver. They wore the same thick wool and had the same rough hands and weary faces. It did not really matter, in any case. This winter siege was a dire mistake—the armsmen would begin going hungry long before the city did—but it gave Elenia an opportunity, and when an opening presented itself, you struck. Keeping her hood back far enough to show her features clearly in spite of the freezing wind, she nodded graciously to every unwashed lout who so much as looked in her direction, and ignored the surprised starts that some gave at her condescension.
Most would remember her affability, remember the Golden Boars her escort wore, and know that Elenia Sarand had taken notice of them. On such a foundation power was built. A High Seat as much as a queen stood atop a tower built of people. True, those at the bottom were bricks of the basest clay, yet if those common bricks crumpled in their support, the tower fell. That was something Arymilla appeared to have forgotten, if she had ever known. Elenia doubted that Arymilla spoke to anyone lower than a steward or a personal servant. Had it been . . . prudent . . . she herself would have passed a few words at every campfire, perhaps grasping a grubby hand now and then, remembering people she had encountered before or at least dissembling well enough to make it seem she did. Pure and simple, Arymilla lacked the wit to be queen.
The camp covered more ground than most towns, more like a hundred clustered camps of varying sizes than one, so she was free to wander without worrying too much about straying close to the outer boundaries, but she took a care anyway. The guards on sentry would be polite, unless they were utter fools, yet without any doubt they had their orders. On principle, she approved of people doing as they were told, but it would be best to avoid any embarrassing incidents. Especially given the likely consequences if Arymilla actually thought she had been trying to leave. She had already been forced to endure one frigid night sleeping in some soldier’s filthy tent, a shelter hardly worth the name, complete with vermin and badly patched holes, not to mention the lack of Janny to help her with her clothes and add a little warmth under the sorry excuse for blankets, and that had been for no more than a perceived slight. Well, it had been an actual slight, but she had not thought Arymilla bright enough to catch it. Light, to think that she must step warily around that . . . that pea-brained ninny! Pulling her cloak closer, she tried to pretend that her shudder was just a reaction to the wind. There were better things to dwell on. More important things. She nodded to a wide-eyed young man with a dark scarf wrapped around his head, and he recoiled as though she had glared. Fool peasant!
It was grating to think that, only a few miles away, that young chit Elayne sat snug and warm in the comfort of the Royal Palace, attended by scores of well-trained servants and likely without two thoughts in her head beyond what to wear tonight at a supper prepared by the palace cooks. Rumor had the girl with child, possibly by some Guardsman. It might be so. Elayne had never possessed any more sense of decency than her mother.  There must be at least one real Aes Sedai among all those absurd rumors.
So many fabulations drifted out of the city that telling reality from nonsense became difficult—Sea Folk making holes in the air? Absolute drivel!—yet the White Tower clearly had an interest in putting one of its own on the throne. How could it not? Even so, Tar Valon seemed to be pragmatic when it came to these matters. History clearly showed that whoever reached the Lion Throne would soon find that she was the one the Tower actually had favored all along. The Aes Sedai would not lose their connection to Andor through a lack of nimbleness, particularly not with the Tower itself riven. Elenia was as certain of that as she was of her own name. In fact, if half what she heard of the Tower’s situation was true, the next Queen of Andor might find herself able to demand whatever she wanted in return for keeping that connection intact. In any event, no one was going to rest the Rose Crown on her head before summer at the earliest, and a great deal could change before then. A very great deal.
She was making her second round of the camp when the sight of another small mounted party ahead of her, picking its slow way between the scattered campfires in the last light, made her scowl and draw rein sharply. The women were cloaked and deeply hooded, one in strong blue silk lined with black fur, the other in plain gray wool, but the silver Triple Keys worked large on the four armsmen’s cloaks named them clearly enough. She could think of any number of people she would rather encounter than Naean Arawn. In any case, while Arymilla had not precisely forbidden them to meet without her—Elenia heard her teeth grind as much as felt them, and forced her face smooth—for the moment, it seemed wisest not to press matters. Especially when there seemed no possible advantage to such a meeting.
Unfortunately, Naean saw her before she could turn aside. The woman spoke hastily to her escort and, while armsmen and maid were still bowing in their saddles, spurred toward Elenia at a pace that sent clods of slush flying from her black gelding’s hooves. The Light burn the fool! On the other hand, whatever was goading Naean to recklessness might be valuable to know, and dangerous not to. It might, but finding out presented its own dangers.
“Stay here and remember that you’ve seen nothing,” Elenia snapped at her own meager retinue and dug her heels into Dawn Wind’s flanks without waiting for any reply. She had no need for elaborate bows and courtesies every time she turned around, not beyond what seemliness demanded, and her people knew better than to do anything other than what she commanded. It was everyone else she had to worry about, burn them all! As the long-legged bay sprang forward, she lost her grip on her cloak, and it streamed behind her like the crimson banner of Sarand. She refused to gather the cloak under control, flailing around in front of farmers and the Light alone knew who, so the wind razored through her riding dress, another reason for irritation.
Naean at least had the sense to slow and meet her little more than halfway, beside a pair of heavily laden carts with their empty shafts lying in the muck. The nearest fire was almost twenty paces away, and the nearest tents farther, their entry flaps laced tight against the cold. The men at the fire were intent on the big iron pot steaming over the flames, and if the stench from it was enough to make Elenia want to empty her stomach, at least the wind that carried the stink would keep stray words from their ears. But they had better be important words.
With a face as pale as ivory in its frame of black fur, Naean might have been called beautiful by some despite more than a hint of harshness around her mouth and eyes as cold as blue ice. Straight-backed and outwardly quite calm, she seemed untouched by events. Her breath, making a white mist, was steady and even. “Do you know where we are sleeping tonight, Elenia?” she said coolly.
Elenia made no effort at all to stop from glaring. “Is that what you want?” Risking Arymilla’s displeasure for a brainless question! The thought of risking Arymilla’s displeasure, the thought that Arymilla’s displeasure was something she needed to avoid, made her snarl. “You know as much as I, Naean.” Tugging at her reins, she was already turning her mount away when Naean spoke again, with just a hint of heat.
“Don’t play the simpleton with me, Elenia.  Now, can we at least pretend to civility?”
Elenia kept Dawn Wind half turned away from the other woman and looked at her sideways, past the fur-trimmed edge of her hood. That way, she could keep an eye on the men crowding around the nearest fire, too. No House badges displayed there. They could belong to anyone. Now and then one fellow or another shielding bare hands in his armpits glanced toward the two ladies on horseback, but their real interest was on shuffling near enough the fire to get warm. That, and how long it was going to take for the beef to boil down to something approaching mush. That sort seemed able to eat anything.
“Do you think you can escape?” she asked quietly. Civility was all very well, but not at the expense of remaining here for all to see any longer than absolutely necessary. If Naean saw a way out, though . . . “How? The pledge you signed to support Marne has been posted across half of Andor by now. Besides, you can hardly think Arymilla will just allow you to ride away.” Naean flinched, and Elenia could not help a tight smile. The woman was not so untouched as she feigned. She still managed to keep her voice level, though.
“I saw Jarid yesterday, Elenia, and even at a distance he looked like a thundercloud, galloping fit to break his mount’s neck and his own.  He would spit in the Dark One’s eye for you.” That was true; he would. “I’m sure you can see it would be best if I were part of those plans.”
“My husband signed the same pledge you did, Naean, and he is an honorable man.” He was too honorable for his own good, in simple fact, but what Elenia wanted had been his guide since before their wedding vows. Jarid had signed the pledge because she wrote and told him to, not that she had any choice as matters were, and he would even repudiate it, however reluctantly, if she were mad enough to ask it. Of course, there was the difficulty in letting him know what she did want at the moment. Arymilla was very careful not to let her within a mile of him. She had everything in hand—as far as she could in the circumstances—but she needed to let Jarid know, if only to stop him from “cutting her a way out.” Spit in the Dark One’s eye? He could take them both to ruin in the belief he was helping her, and he might do it even knowing it meant their ruination.
It required a great effort not to allow the frustration and fury suddenly welling up inside her to show on her face, but she covered the strain with a smile. She took considerable pride in being able to produce a smile for any situation. This one held a touch of surprise. And a touch of disdain. “I’m not planning anything, Naean, and neither is Jarid, I’m sure. But if I were, why would I include you?”
“Because if I am not included in those plans,” Naean said bluntly, “Arymilla might learn of them. She may be a blind fool, but she’ll see once she’s told where to look. And you might find yourself sharing a tent with your betrothed every night, not to mention protected by his armsmen.”
Elenia’s smile melted, but her voice turned to ice, matching the frozen ball that abruptly filled her stomach. “You want to be careful what you say, or Arymilla may ask her Taraboner to play cat’s cradle with you again. In truth, I think I can guarantee as much.”
It seemed impossible that Naean’s face could grow any whiter, yet it did. She actually swayed in her saddle, and caught Elenia’s arm as if to keep from falling. A gust of wind flung her cloak about, and she let it flail. Those once-cold eyes were quite wide, now. The woman made no effort to hide her fear. Perhaps she was too far gone to be capable of hiding it. Her voice came breathy and panicked. “I know you and Jarid are planning something, Elenia. I know it!  Oh, she was shaken, to offer that.
“Do you want to draw more attention than you already have?” Elenia snapped, pulling free of the other woman’s grasp. Dawn Wind and the black gelding danced nervously, catching their riders’ moods, and Elenia reined her bay hard to quiet him. Two of the men at the fire hurriedly put their heads down. No doubt they thought they saw two noblewomen arguing in the graying evening and wanted to attract no part of that anger on themselves. Yes; it must be only that. They might carry tales, but they knew better than to get mixed in their betters’ arguments.
“I have no plans to . . . escape; none at all,” she said in a quieter voice. Drawing her cloak close again, she calmly turned her head to check the carts, and the nearest tents. If Naean was frightened enough . . . When an opening presented itself . . . There was no one close enough to overhear, but she still kept her voice low. “Matters might change, of course. Who can say? If they do, I make you this promise, under the Light and by my hope of rebirth, I will not leave without you.” A startled hope bloomed on Naean’s face. Now to present the hook. “If, that is, I have in my possession a letter written in your own hand, signed and sealed, in which you explicitly repudiate your support of Marne, of your own free will, and swear the support of House Arawn to me for the throne. Under the Light and by your hope of rebirth. Nothing less will do.”
Naean’s head jerked back, and she touched her lips with her tongue. Her eyes shifted as though searching for a way out, for help. The black continued to snort and dance, but she barely tightened her reins enough to keep him from bolting, and even that seemed unconscious. Yes, she was frightened. But not too frightened to know what Elenia was demanding. The history of Andor contained too many examples for her not to know. A thousand possibilities remained so long as nothing was in writing, but the mere existence of such a letter would put a bit between Naean’s teeth and the reins in Elenia’s hands. Publication meant Naean’s destruction, unless Elenia was fool enough to admit to coercion. She could try to hang on after that revelation, yet even a House with many fewer antagonisms between its members than Arawn, many fewer cousins and aunts and uncles ready to undercut one another in a heartbeat, would still break apart. The lesser Houses that had been tied to Arawn for generations would seek protection elsewhere. In a matter of years, if not sooner, Naean would be left as the High Seat of a minor and discredited remnant. Oh, yes; it had happened before.
“We’ve been together long enough.” Elenia gathered her reins. “I wouldn’t want to set tongues wagging. Perhaps we will have another chance to speak alone before Arymilla takes the throne.”  “Perhaps.”
The other woman exhaled as if all of the breath in her body were leaking out, but Elenia went on about turning her horse away, neither slowly nor in haste, not stopping until Naean said urgently, “Wait!”
Looking back over her shoulder, she did just that. Waited. Without speaking a word. What needed to be said had been said. All that remained was to see whether the woman was desperate enough to deliver herself into Elenia’s hands. She should be. She had no Jarid to work for her. In fact, anyone in Arawn who suggested that Naean needed rescuing likely would find herself imprisoned for thwarting Naean’s expressed will. Without Elenia, she could grow old in captivity. With the letter, though, her captivity would be of a different kind. With the letter, Elenia would be able to allow her every appearance of complete freedom. Apparently she was bright enough to see that. Or maybe just frightened enough of the Taraboner.
“I will get it to you as soon as I can,” she said at last, in a resigned voice.
“I look forward to seeing it,” Elenia murmured, barely bothering to mask her satisfaction. But don’t wait too long, she almost added, and just stopped herself. Naean might be beaten, but a beaten foe could still put a knife in your back if goaded too far. Besides which, she feared Naean’s threat as much as Naean feared hers. Perhaps more. So long as Naean did not know that, however, her blade had no point.
As she rode back to her armsmen, Elenia’s mood was more buoyant than it had been since . . . Certainly since before her “rescuers” had turned out to be Arymilla’s men. Perhaps since before Dyelin had imprisoned her in Aringill in the first place, though she had never lost hope there. Her prison had been the governor’s house, quite comfortable, even if she had to share an apartment with Naean. Communicating with Jarid certainly had presented no problem, and she thought she had made some inroads with the Queen’s Guards in Aringill. So many of them had been new-come out of Cairhien that they were . . . unsure . . . where their true loyalties lay.
Now, this wonderfully fortuitous encounter with Naean lifted her spirits so much that she smiled at Janny and promised her a bevy of new dresses once they were inside Caemlyn. Which produced a properly grateful smile from the plump-cheeked woman. Elenia always bought new dresses for her maid when she felt particularly good, every one fine enough for a successful merchant. It was one way to insure loyalty and discretion, and for twenty years, Janny had delivered both.
The sun was only a red rim above the trees now, and it was time to find Arymilla so she could be told where she was sleeping tonight. The Light send it was a decent bed, in a warm tent that was not too smoky, with a decent meal beforehand. She could not ask more, at present. Even that did not dent her mood, though. She not only nodded to the clusters of men and women they rode past, she smiled at them. She almost went so far as to wave. Matters were progressing better than they had in quite some time. Naean was not simply disposed of as a rival for the throne, she had been leashed and brought to heel, or as good as, and that might—would!—be sufficient to bring Karind and Lir. And there were those who would accept anyone other than another Trakand on the throne. Ellorien, for one. Morgase had had her flogged! Ellorien would never stand for any Trakand. Aemlyn, Arathelle and Abelle were possibilities, too, with their own grievances that could be exploited. Perhaps Pelivar or Luan, as well. She had her feelers out. And she would not squander the advantage of Caemlyn, as that hoyden Elayne had. Historically, holding Caemlyn was enough to gather the support of at least four or five Houses by itself.
The timing would be key, certainly, or all the advantage would fall to Arymilla, but Elenia could already see herself seated on the Lion Throne, with the High Seats kneeling to swear fealty. She already had her list of which High Seats would need to be replaced. No one who had opposed her was going to be allowed to cause her trouble later. A series of unfortunate accidents would see to that. A pity she could not choose their replacements, but accidents could happen with incredible frequency.
Her happy contemplation was shattered by the scrawny man who suddenly came up beside her on a stocky gray, his eyes feverishly bright in the fading light. For some reason, Nasin had sprigs of green fir stuck in his thin white hair. It made him look as if he had been climbing in a tree, and his red silk coat and cloak were so worked with brightly colored flowers they could have passed for Illianer carpets. He was ludicrous. He was also High Seat of the most powerful single House in Andor. And he was quite mad.  You make honey seem stale and roses drab.”
Without need for conscious thought, she hastily reined Dawn Wind back and to the right, putting Janny’s brown mare between her and him. “I am not your betrothed, Nasin,” she snapped, seething at having to say that aloud for everyone to hear. “I am married, you old fool! Wait!” she added, flinging up a hand.
The imperative word and the gesture were for her armsmen, who had laid hands on sword hilts and were glaring at Nasin. Some thirty or forty men wearing House Caeren’s Sword and Star were following the man, and they would not hesitate to cut down anyone they thought was threatening their High Seat. Some already had blades half-drawn. They would not harm her, of course. Nasin would have them hanged to a man if she was even bruised. Light, she did not know whether to laugh or cry over that.
“Are you still afraid of that young oaf Jarid?” Nasin demanded, angling his mount to follow her. “He has no right to keep bothering you. The better man won, and he should acknowledge it. I’ll challenge him!” One hand, plainly bony even in its tight red glove, fumbled at a sword he probably had not drawn in twenty years.
Elenia moved Dawn Wind deftly, so they described a circle around Janny, who murmured apologies to Nasin and pretended to take her mare out of his way while getting in it. Mentally, Elenia added a little embroidery to the dresses she would buy. Addlepated as he was, Nasin could go in a blink from honeyed words of courtly love to groping at her as if she were the lowest sort of tavern maid. That, she could not endure, not again, certainly not in public. Circling, she forced a worried smile onto her face, though in truth, the smile took more effort than the worry.  “You know I could not abide to have men fight over me, Nasin.” Her voice was breathy and anxious, but she did not try to control it. Breathy and anxious suited well enough. “How could I love a man with blood on his hands?”
 He was mad as a spring hare, but not in everything. Not always. “I had not realized you were so . . . sensitive,” he said finally. Without stopping his effort to ride around Janny. His decrepit face brightened. “But I should have known. I will remember, from now on. Jarid may live. So long as he doesn’t pester you.” Abruptly, he seemed to notice Janny for the first time, and with an irritated grimace, he raised his hand high, balling it into a fist. The plump woman visibly steeled herself for the blow without moving aside, and Elenia gritted her teeth. Silk embroidery. Definitely unsuitable for a maid, but Janny had earned it.
“Lord Nasin, I have been looking for you everywhere” a woman’s simpering voice cried, and the circling stopped.
Elenia exhaled in relief as Arymilla rode up in the twilight with her entourage, and had to stifle a surge of fury at feeling relief. In over-elaborately embroidered green silk, with lace under her chin and at her wrists, Arymilla was plump verging on stout, with a vacuous smile and brown eyes that were always wide with affected interest even when there was nothing to be interested in. Lacking the brains to tell the difference, she possessed just enough cunning to know there were things that should interest her, and she did not want anyone to think she had missed them. The only real concern she had was her own comfort and the income to ensure it, and the only reason she wanted the throne was that the royal coffers could provide greater comfort than the revenues of any High Seat. Her entourage was larger than Nasin’s, though only half were armsmen wearing the Four Moons of her House. For the most part, hangers-on and sycophants made up the rest, lesser lords and ladies of minor Houses and others willing to lick Arymilla’s wrist for a place near power. She did love people to fawn over her. Naean was there, too, on the edge of the group with her armsmen and maid, apparently cool-eyed and in control of herself once more.  The fellow smiled too much, as well. He hardly looked a man who could reduce someone to begging with just a few cords.
“Arymilla,” Nasin said in a confused tone, then frowned at his fist as if surprised to find it raised.  “Arymilla, my dear,” he said warmly. Not with the sort of warmth he often directed at Elenia. Somehow, it seemed, he had become at least half-convinced that Arymilla was his daughter, and his favorite at that. Once, Elenia had heard him reminiscing at length with the woman about her “mother,” his last wife, dead nearly thirty years now. Arymilla managed to hold her end of the conversation, too, though she had never met Miedelle Caeren as far as Elenia knew.
Still, despite all his fatherly smiles for Arymilla, his eyes sought through the shadowed crowd on horseback behind her, and his face relaxed when he found Sylvase, his granddaughter and heir, a sturdy, placid young woman who met his gaze, unsmiling, then pulled her dark, fur-lined cowl well forward. She never smiled or frowned or showed any emotion at all that Elenia had ever detected, just kept an unvarying cowlike expression. Plainly, she had a cow’s wits, too. Arymilla kept Sylvase closer than she did Elenia or Naean, and so long as she did, there was no chance that Nasin would be forced to retire from his honors. He was mad, assuredly, but sly. “I hope you’re taking good care of my little Sylvase, Arymilla,” he murmured. “There are fortune hunters everywhere, and I want the darling girl kept safe.”
“Of course I am,” Arymilla replied, brushing her overfed mare past Elenia without so much as a glance. Her tone was honey-sweet, and sickeningly doting. “You know I’ll keep her as safe as I keep myself.” Smiling that empty-headed smile, she set about straightening Nasin’s cloak on his shoulders and smoothing it with the air of someone settling a shawl on a beloved invalid. “It’s much too cold out for you. I know what you need. A warm tent and some hot spiced wine. I’ll be happy to have my maid prepare it for you. Arlene, accompany Lord Nasin to his tent and fix him some good spiced wine.”
 Suddenly all lickspittles and toad-eaters were adjusting their cloaks against the wind or snugging their gloves, looking anywhere except at Arymilla’s maid. Especially the women. One of them could have been chosen as easily, and they knew it. Oddly, Sylvase did not look away. It was impossible to see her face in the shadows of her hood, but the opening turned to follow the slender woman.
Nasin’s grin showed his teeth, making him look even more like a goat than usual. “Yes. Yes, mulled wine would be good. Arlene, is it? Come, Arlene, there’s a good girl. Not too chill, are you?” The girl squeaked as he swept a corner of his cloak around her shoulders and gathered her so close she was leaning out of her saddle. “You’ll be warm in my tent, I promise.” Without so much as a glance back, he rode off at a walk, chortling and whispering at the young woman under his arm. His armsmen followed with the creak of leather and the slow, wet clop of hooves in the muck. One of them laughed, as if another had said something funny.
Elenia shook her head in disgust. Pushing a pretty woman in front of Nasin to distract him was one thing—she did not even have to be that pretty; any woman the old fool could corner was in danger—but using your own maid was revolting. Not as revolting as Nasin himself, though. “You promised to keep him away from me, Arymilla,” she said in a low, tight voice. That lecherous old crackbrain might have forgotten her existence for the moment, but he would remember the next time he saw her. “You promised to keep him occupied.”
Arymilla’s face grew sullen, and she petulantly tugged her riding gloves tighter. She had not gotten what she wanted. That was a great sin, to her. “If you want to be safe from admirers, you ought to stay close to me instead of wandering about loose. Can I help it if you attract men? And I did rescue you. I haven’t heard any thanks for that.”
Elenia’s jaw clenched so hard that it began to ache.  Her choices had been made clear enough; write to Jarid or endure an extended honeymoon with her “betrothed.” Light, she might have taken the choice if not for the certainty that Nasin would lock her up in some out-of-the-way manor and, after she had put up with his pawing, eventually forget she was there. And leave her there. Arymilla insisted on the pretense, though. She insisted on a great many things, some of them utterly insufferable. Yet they had to be suffered. For the time being. Perhaps, once matters were set straight, Master Lounalt could offer his attentions to Arymilla for a few days.
From somewhere she summoned an apologetic smile, and made herself bend her neck as if she were one of the boot-licking leeches who were watching her avidly. After all, if she crawled for Arymilla, it only proved they were right to. The feel of their eyes on her made her want to bathe.  “I offer you all the gratitude that’s in me, Arymilla.” Well, that was no lie. All the gratitude that was in her came about equal to a desire to strangle the other woman. Very slowly. She had to inhale deeply before she could get the next part out, though. “You must forgive me for being slow, please.” A very bitter word. “Nasin made me quite distraught. You know how Jarid would react if he learned of Nasin’s behavior.” Her own voice took on a honed edge at that last, but the fool woman giggled. She giggled!
“Of course you’re forgiven, Elenia,” she laughed, her face lightening. “All you need do is ask. Jarid is a hothead, isn’t he? You must write to him and tell him how content you are.  You can dictate to my secretary.  How could I not be?” Smiling required no effort at all, this time. The woman actually thought she was clever. Using Arymilla’s secretary precluded any possibility of secret inks, but she could tell Jarid quite openly to do absolutely nothing without her counsel, and the brainless fluff would think she was only obeying.
Nodding with a smug self-satisfaction, Arymilla gathered her reins, imitated by her coterie.  “It is getting late,” she said, “and I want an early start in the morning. Aedelle Baryn’s cook has an excellent repast waiting on us. You and Naean must ride with me, Elenia.” She made it sound as though she were honoring them, and they had no choice except to behave as though she were, falling in on either side of her. “And Sylvase, of course. Come, Sylvase.”
Nasin’s granddaughter brought her mare closer, but not up beside Arymilla. She followed a little behind, with Arymilla’s sycophants crowding on her heels since they had not been invited to ride with Arymilla. Despite the fitful, icy wind tugging at their cloaks, several of the women and two or three of the men tried unsuccessfully to engage the girl in conversation. She seldom said two words together. Still, with no High Seat in reach to fawn over, a High Seat’s heir would do, and maybe one of the fellows hoped to marry well. Likely one or two were more in the nature of guards, or at least spies making sure she did not try to communicate with anyone in her House. This lot would find that exciting, touching on the edges of power. Elenia had her own plans for Sylvase.
Arymilla was another with no objections to nattering away when anyone with sense would be muffling herself in her cowl, and her chatter as they rode through the dying light flitted from what Lir’s sister would offer at supper to the plans for her coronation. Elenia listened only enough to murmur approvingly at what seemed appropriate spots. If the fool wanted to offer a sworn amnesty to those who opposed her, far be it from Elenia Sarand to tell her she was a fool. It was painful enough having to . . . simper . . . at the woman without listening to her. Then one thing Arymilla said hit her ear like an awl.
 It seems we are short of decent tents here.”
She flitted on, but for a moment, Elenia could not hear a word. She felt as though her skin had been stuffed with snow.  There was no possible way Arymilla could know about their chance meeting, not yet, and even if she did, why would she offer them a chance to plot together? A trap? Spies to listen to what they said? Naean’s maid, or . . . Or Janny? The world seemed to spin.  She thought she was about to faint.
Abruptly she realized that Arymilla had addressed something to her directly and was waiting on an answer with an increasingly impatient scowl. Frantically, she cast her mind about. Yes, she had it. “A gilded coach, Arymilla?”  As well ride in a Tinker’s wagon! “Oh, delightful! You do have such marvelous ideas!” Arymilla’s pleased simper put a little ease into Elenia’s breathing.  Maybe there was a shortage of suitable tents. More likely she just thought they were safe, now. Tamed. Elenia turned her bared teeth into a simper of her own. But she put aside any idea of having the Taraboner “entertain” the woman, even for an hour. With Jarid’s signature on that pledge, there was only one way to clear her path to the throne. Everything was in hand and ready to go forward. The only question was whether Arymilla or Nasin should die first.
Night pressed down on Caemlyn with a hard cold driven deep by sharp winds. Here and there a glow of light spilling from an upper window spoke of people still awake, but most shutters were drawn, and a thin sliver of moon low in the sky only seemed to emphasize the darkness. Even the snow coating rooftops and piled along the fronts of buildings where it had escaped the day’s traffic was a shadowy gray. The lone man muffled head to ankles in a dark cloak, striding through the frozen slush left on the paving stones, answered to Daved Hanlon or Doilan Mellar with equal ease; a name was no more than a coat, and a man changed his coat whenever needed. He had worn a number over the years. Given his wishes, he would have had his feet up in front of a roaring fire in the Royal Palace, a mug in his hand, a pitcher of brandy at his side, and a willing wench on his knee, but he had others’ wishes to serve. At least the footing was better here in the New City. Not good, with this frozen muck underfoot that could turn a careless step into a sprawl, yet a man’s boots were less likely to go out from under him here than back on the steeper hills of the Inner City. Besides, darkness suited him tonight.
There had been few people in the streets when he started out, and the number had dwindled away as darkness deepened. Wise people stayed indoors once night fell. Occasionally, dim shapes skulked in the deeper shadows, but after a brief study of Hanlon, they scuttled around corners ahead of him, or withdrew into alleys trying to muffle their curses as they floundered in snow that likely had not been touched by the sun. He was not bulky, and little taller than the average run of men, with his sword and breastplate hidden by his cloak to boot, but footpads looked for weakness or hesitation, and he moved with an obvious self-confidence, plainly unafraid of lurkers. An attitude helped by the long dagger concealed in his gauntleted right hand.
He kept an eye out for patrols of Guardsmen as he walked, but he did not expect to see any. The strongarms and prowlers would have sought other hunting grounds if the Guards were about. Of course, he could send nosy Guardsmen on their way with a word, yet he wanted no observers of any kind, and no questions why he was so far from the palace afoot. His step hesitated as two heavily cloaked women appeared at a crossing well ahead, but they moved on without glancing his way, and he breathed more easily. Very few women would venture out at this time of night without a man along to wield sword or cudgel, and even without seeing their faces he would have wagered a fistful of gold to a horse apple that pair were Aes Sedai. Or else some of those strange women who filled most of the beds in the palace.
The thought of that lot brought a scowl, and a prickling between his shoulder blades like the brush of nettles. Whatever was going on in the palace, it was enough to give him the grips. The Sea Folk women were bad enough, and not just because they went swaying along the halls in that seductive way, then pulled a knife on a man. He had not even thought of patting one on the bottom after he realized they and the Aes Sedai were staring at one another like strange cats in a box. And plainly, however impossibly, the Sea Folk were the larger cats. The others were worse, in a way. No matter what the rumors said, he knew the look of Aes Sedai, and it did not include wrinkles. Yet some of them could channel, and he had the disturbing notion that they all could. Which made no sense at all. Maybe the Sea Folk had some sort of peculiar dispensation, but as for these Kin, as Falion called them, everyone knew that if three women who could channel and were not Aes Sedai sat down at the same table, Aes Sedai would appear before they could finish a pitcher of wine and tell them to move on and never speak to one another again. And make sure they did it, besides. That was given. But there those women sat in the palace, over a hundred of them, holding their private meetings, walking around Aes Sedai without one frown between them. Until today, anyway, and whatever had set them huddling like frightened hens, the Aes Sedai had been every bit as anxious. There were too many oddities to suit him. When Aes Sedai behaved oddly, it was time for a man to look to the safety of his own skin.
With a curse he jerked himself out of his reverie. A man needed to look out for his skin in the night, too, and letting his concentration drift was no way to do it. At least he had not stopped, or even slowed. After a few more steps, he smiled a thin smile and thumbed the blade of his dagger. The wind sighed down the street and fell, whistled across rooftops and fell, and in the brief silences between he could hear the faint crunch of the boots that had been following him since shortly after he left the palace.
At the next crossing street, he turned to his right at the same steady unhurried pace, then suddenly flattened his back against the front of a stable that stood hard on the corner. The wide stable doors were shut, and likely barred on the inside, but the smell of horse and horse dung hung in the icy air. The inn across the street was closed up tight, as well, its windows shuttered and dark, the only sound aside from the wind the creak of its swinging sign he could not make out in the night. No one to see what they should not.
He had a moment’s warning, the sound of boots quickened in an effort not to let him out of sight too long, and then a cowled head was thrust cautiously around the corner. Not cautiously enough, of course. His left hand darted into the cowl to seize a throat at the same time his right made a practiced stop-thrust with the dagger. He half expected to find a breastplate, or a mail shirt under the man’s coat, and he was ready if he did, but an inch of steel sank easily beneath the fellow’s breastbone. He did not know why that seemed to paralyze a man’s lungs, so he could not cry out, until he had drowned in his own blood, but he knew that it did. Still, tonight he had no time to wait. No Guards in sight at present did not mean matters would stay that way for long. With a quick wrench, he slammed the man’s head against the stable’s stone wall hard enough to crack a skull, then shoved his dagger to the hilt, feeling the blade grate as it dug through the fellow’s spine.
His breathing remained steady—killing was just a thing that had to be done now and again, nothing to get excited over—but he hurriedly lowered the corpse to the snow against the wall and crouched beside it, wiping his blade on the dead man’s dark coat while sticking his other hand into his armpit to tug off his steel-backed gauntlet. Head swiveling, he watched the street both ways as he felt quickly across the man’s face in the darkness. A rasp of stubble under his fingers told him that it was a man, but no more. Man, woman or child made no difference to him—fools behaved as though children had no eyes to see or tongues to tell what they saw—yet he wished there had been a mustache or a bulbous nose, anything to spark a memory and tell him who this fellow had been. A squeeze at the dead man’s sleeve found thick wool, neither fine nor particularly rough, and a sinewy arm that could have belonged to clerk or wagon driver or footman. To any man, in short, just like the coat. Searching down the body, he rifled through the fellow’s pockets, finding a wooden comb and a ball of twine, which he tossed aside. At the man’s belt, his hand paused. A leather sheath hung there, empty. No man on earth could have drawn a dagger after Hanlon’s blade found his lungs. Of course, there was good cause for a man to carry his knife unsheathed when he walked out at night, but the reason that came most readily to mind right then was to stab someone in the back or cut a throat.
It was only a fleeting pause, though. Wasting no time on speculation, he sliced off the fellow’s purse beneath the drawstrings. The weight of the coins he spilled into his hand and hastily stuffed into his own pocket told him there was no gold, likely not even a piece of silver, but a cut purse and no coins would make whoever found the body think him the prey of strongarms. Straightening, he tugged on his gauntlet, and only moments after driving his blade home, he was striding along the slush-covered pavement once more, dagger held close to his side beneath his cloak and eyes wary. He did not relax until he was a street away from the dead man, and then he did not relax very far.
Most people who heard of the killing would accept the tale of murder for theft that he had laid out for them, but not whoever had sent the fellow. Following all the way from the palace meant that he had been sent, but by whom? He was fairly sure that any of the Sea Folk who wanted a knife put in him would have done the deed herself. For all that the Kin troubled him just by being there, they seemed to keep quiet and walk small. True, people who practiced avoiding notice were the most likely to resort to a hired knife in the night, but he had never exchanged more than three words at a time with any of them, and he certainly had never tried to finger one. The Aes Sedai seemed more likely, yet he was sure he had done nothing to rouse their suspicions. Still, any one of them might have her own reasons for wanting him dead. You could never tell with Aes Sedai. Birgitte Trahelion was a silly bint who seemed to think she really was a character out of a story, maybe even the real Birgitte, if there had ever been a real Birgitte, but she could well think he was a threat to her position. She might be a strumpet, wiggling around the corridors in those trousers the way she did, yet she had a cold eye. That one could order a throat slit without blinking. The last possibility was the one that worried him most, though. His own masters were not the most trusting of people, and not always the most trustworthy. And the Lady Shiaine Avarhin, who currently gave him his orders, was the one who had sent a summons that had pulled him into the night. Where a fellow just happened to be waiting to follow him, knife in hand. He did not believe in coincidence, no matter what people said about this al’Thor.
Thoughts of turning back to the palace came and went in a flash. He had gold tucked away; he could bribe his way through the gates as easily as anyone else, or just order one opened long enough to let him ride out. But it would mean spending the rest of his life watching his back, and anyone who came inside arm’s length of him might be the one sent to kill him. Not so different from the way he lived now. Except for the certainty that someone would put poison in his soup or a knife through his ribs sooner or later. Besides, that stone-eyed trull Birgitte was the most likely culprit. Or an Aes Sedai. Or maybe he had offended these Kin somehow. Still, it always paid to be careful. His fingers flexed around the dagger’s hilt. Life was good at the moment, with plenty of comfort and plenty of women impressed or frightened into compliance by a Captain of the Guards, but life on the run was always preferable to death here and now.
Finding the correct street, much less the correct house, was not easy—one narrow side street looked very like another when darkness swathed both—but he took a care and eventually found himself pounding on the front doors of a tall, shadowed pile that could have belonged to a wealthy but discreet merchant. Except he knew now that it did not. Avarhin was a tiny House, extinct some said, but one daughter of it remained, and Shiaine possessed money.
One of the doors swung open, and he flung up a hand against the sudden glare of light. His left hand; the dagger in his right, he kept concealed and ready. Squinting through his spread fingers, he recognized the woman at the door, in the plain dark dress of a maid. Not that that eased his mind by a hair.
“Give us a kiss, Falion,” he said as he stepped inside. Leering, he reached for her. Left-handed, of course.
 “Shiaine is closeted with a visitor in the front sitting room upstairs,” she said calmly, “and the cook is in her bedchamber. There is no one else in the house. Hang your cloak on the rack. I will let her know you are here, but you may have to wait.”
Hanlon let his leer vanish and his hand drop. For all of her ageless face, handsome was the best that Falion could be called, and even that might be stretching the truth, with her cold gaze and a colder manner in the bargain. She was hardly the sort of woman he would have chosen to fondle, but it seemed she was being punished by one of the Chosen and he was supposed to be part of the punishment, which altered matters. To some extent. Tumbling a woman who had no choice had never troubled him, and Falion certainly had none. Her maid’s dress was simple truth; she did the work of four or five women by herself, maids and scullions and spit-girl, sleeping when she could and truckling whenever Shiaine frowned. Her hands were rough and red from doing laundry and scrubbing floors. Yet she was likely to survive her punishment, and the last thing he wanted was an Aes Sedai with a personal grudge against Daved Hanlon. Not when circumstances might well change before he had an opportunity to put a knife through her heart, anyway. Reaching an accommodation with her had been easy, though. She seemed to have a practical view. When others could see, he rumpled her every time she came in reach, and when there was time, he bundled her up to her tiny maid’s room under the eaves. Where they mussed the bedclothes, then sat on the narrow bed in the cold and exchanged information. Though at her urging, he did give her a few bruises, just in case Shiaine chose to check. He hoped she remembered that it was at her urging.
“Where are the others?” he said, swinging his cloak off and hanging it on the leopard-carved cloak rack. The sound of his boots on the floor tiles bounced from the entry hall’s high ceiling. It was a fine space, with painted plaster cornices and several rich wall hangings on carved panels that were polished to a faint glow, well lit by mirrored stand-lamps with enough gilding for the Royal Palace itself, but burn him if it was much warmer than outside. Falion raised an eyebrow at the dagger in his hand, and he sheathed it with a tight smile. He could have it out again faster than anyone would believe, and his sword near as fast.  Despite the chill, he removed his gauntlets and tucked them behind his sword belt. Anything else might make it appear he thought himself in danger. The breastplate should be enough anyway, come the worst.
“I do not know where Marillin is,” she said over her shoulder, already turning away and gathering her skirts for the stairsteps. “She went out before sunset. Murellin is in the stables with his pipe. We can talk after I inform Shiaine you’ve arrived.”
Watching her climb the stairs, he grunted. Murellin, a hulking fellow Hanlon did not like at his back, was banished to the stables behind the house whenever he wanted to smoke his pipe, because Shiaine disliked the smell of the rough tabac he used, and since he usually took a pot of ale with him, or even a pitcher, he should not be coming in any time soon. Marillin worried him more. She was Aes Sedai, too, apparently as much under Shiaine’s orders as Falion, or himself, but he had no agreements with her. No arguments, either, yet he distrusted any Aes Sedai on principle, Black Ajah or not. Where had she gone? To do what? What a man did not know could kill him, and Marillin Gemalphin spent entirely too much time off doing things he knew nothing about. He was coming to the conclusion that there were entirely too many things in Caemlyn he knew nothing about. Past time he learned, if he wanted to live.
With Falion gone, he went from the icy entry hall straight to the kitchen at the back of the house. The brick-walled room was empty, of course—the cook knew better than to poke her nose out of her room in the basement once she was sent away for the night—and the black iron stove and the ovens stood cold, but a small blaze on the long stone hearth made the kitchen one of the few rooms in the house that would be warm. Compared to the rest, at least. Shiaine was a stingy woman, except when it came to her own comforts. The fire here was only in case she happened to want mulled wine in the night, or a heated egg-milk.
He had been in this house above half a dozen times since coming to Caemlyn, and he knew which cabinets held the spices and which room off the kitchen always held a cask of wine. Always good wine. Shiaine never stinted there. Not with that she intended to drink herself, anyway.  Shiaine might say “come now” and mean “now,” but when she wanted to make a man wait, it could be near daylight before she saw him. These calls always cost him sleep, burn the woman!
“Who is the visitor?” he asked.
“He gave no name, not to me,” Falion said, propping the door to the hall open with a chair. That let some of the sparse warmth leak out, but she would want to be able to hear if Shiaine summoned her. Or maybe she wanted to make sure the other woman was not able to eavesdrop. “A lean man, tall and hard, with the look of a soldier. An officer of some rank, maybe a noble, by his manner, and Andoran by his accents. He seems intelligent and cautious. His clothes are quite plain, though costly, and he wears no rings or pins.” Frowning at the table, she turned to one of the tall open-front cabinets beside the door to the hallway and added a second pewter cup to the one he had set out for himself. It had never occurred to him to set out two. Bad enough he had to fix his own wine. Aes Sedai or no Aes Sedai, she was the maid. But she took a chair at the table and pushed the dish of spices away from her for all the world as though she expected him to serve.
“Shiaine had two visitors yesterday, however, more careless than this fellow,” she went on. “One, in the morning, had the Golden Boars of Sarand on the cuff of his gauntlets. He probably thought no one would notice small-work, if he thought at all. A plump, yellow-haired man in his middle years who looked down his nose at everything, complimented the wine as though surprised to find a decent vintage in the house, and wanted Shiaine to have me beaten for showing insufficient respect.” She said even that in a cold, measured voice. The only time she had had any heat in her was when Shiaine put the strap to her. He had heard her howl right enough then. “A countryman who has seldom been to Caemlyn but believes he knows how his betters behave, I should say. You can mark him by a wart on his chin and a small half-moon scar beside his left eye. The fellow in the afternoon was short and dark, with a sharp nose and wary eyes, and no scars or marks I could see, though he wore a ring with a square garnet on his left hand. He was sparing with words, very mindful to give away nothing in the little I heard, but he carried a dagger with the Four Moons of House Marne on the pommel.”
Folding his arms, Hanlon leaned against the side of the fire place and kept his face smooth despite a desire to scowl. He had been sure that the plan was for Elayne to take the throne, though what came after remained a mystery. She had been promised to him as a queen. Whether or not she wore a crown when he took her mattered not a whit to him except for the spice it added—breaking that long-legged bit to saddle would be pure pleasure if she had been a farmer’s daughter, especially after the chit cut a slice off him today in front of all those other women!—but dealings with Sarand and Marne said maybe Elayne was meant to die uncrowned. Maybe, in spite of all the promises that he could romp a queen, he had been placed where he was so he could kill her at some selected moment, when her death would bring some specific result sought by Shiaine. Or rather by the Chosen who had given her her orders. Moridin, the fellow was called, a name Hanlon had never heard before coming to this house. That did not trouble him. If a man had the nerve to call himself one of the Chosen, Hanlon was not fool enough to question it. The likelihood that he was no more than a dagger in this did trouble him. So long as a dagger did the job, what matter if it broke in the doing? Much better to be the fist on the hilt than the blade.
“Did you see any gold change hands?” he asked. “Did you hear anything?”
“I would have said,” she replied thinly. “And by our agreement, it is my turn for a question.”
He managed to mask his irritation behind an expectant look. The fool woman always asked about the Aes Sedai in the palace or those she called the Kin, or about the Sea Folk. Silly questions. Who was friendly with whom, and who unfriendly. Who exchanged private words and who avoided one another. What he had heard them say. As if he had nothing to do with his time but lurk around the hallways spying on them. He never lied to her—there was too much chance she might learn the truth, even mired here in this house as a maid; she was Aes Sedai, after all—but it was growing difficult to come up with something he had not already told her, and she was adamant that he give information if he expected to receive any. Still, he had a few tidbits to offer today, some of the Sea Folk going off, and the whole lot of them jumping for most of the day as if they had icicles shoved down their backs. She would have to settle for that.
Before she could get her question out, though, the door to the outside opened. Murellin was large enough that he almost filled the doorway, yet icy cold still swirled in, a gust that made the small fire dance and sent sparks flying up the chimney until the big man pushed the door shut. He gave no sign that he felt the chill, but then, his brown coat looked thick as two cloaks. Besides, the man was not only the size of an ox, he had the wits of one. Setting a tall wooden mug down on the table with a thump, he tucked his thumbs behind his wide belt and eyed Hanlon resentfully. “You messing with my woman?” he muttered.
Hanlon gave a start. Not from any fear of Murellin, not with the oaf on the other side of the table. What startled him was the Aes Sedai leaping from her chair and snatching up the wine pitcher. Dumping in the ginger and cloves, she added a scoop of honey and swirled the pitcher around as if that was going to mix everything, then used a fold of her skirt to pull the poker from the fire and shove it into the wine without checking to see whether it was hot enough yet. She never looked in Murellin’s direction at all.
“Your woman?” Hanlon said carefully. That earned a smirk from the other man.
“Near enough. The Lady figured I might as well use what you aren’t. Anyway, Fally and me keep each other warm nights.” Murellin started around the table, still grinning, but at the woman, now. A shout echoed in the hallway, and he stopped with a sigh, his grin fading.
“Falion!” Shiaine’s distant voice called sharply. “Bring Hanlon up now and be quick about it!” Falion set the pitcher on the table hard enough to slop wine over the rim and was heading for the door before Shiaine finished. When the other woman spoke, Falion jumped.
Hanlon jumped too, if for a different reason. Catching up to her, he seized her arm as she took the first step on the stairs. A quick glance back showed the kitchen door closed. Maybe Murellin did feel the cold. He kept his voice low anyway. “What was that all about?”
“It is none of your business,” she said curtly. “Can you get me something that will make him sleep? Something I can put in his ale or wine?
She tilted her head, staring down that long nose at him, cold as a fish. “This has nothing to do with you. As far as Shiaine is concerned, I will still belong to you when you are here. You see, certain matters changed.” Suddenly, something unseen grasped his wrist tightly and pulled his hand from her sleeve. Something else latched on to his throat, squeezing till he could not draw breath. Futilely, he scrabbled left-handed for his dagger. Her tone remained cool. “I thought certain other matters should change accordingly, but Shiaine does not see things logically. She says that when the Great Master Moridin wishes my punishment lessened, he will say so. Moridin gave me to her. Murellin is her way of making sure I understand that. Her way of making sure I know that I am her dog until she says otherwise.” Abruptly she drew a deep breath, and the pressure vanished from his wrist and throat. Air had never tasted so sweet.  Just the thought that that had been touching him made his skin crawl.
“I can . . . ” he began hoarsely, and stopped to swallow, rubbing at his throat. It felt as though it had been cinched in a hangman’s noose. “I can get you something that will put him in a sleep he’ll never wake from.” As soon as it was safe, he was going to gut her like a goose.
She snorted derisively. “I would be the first Shiaine suspected, and I might as well cut my own wrists as object to anything she decided to do. It will be enough if he sleeps the nights through. Leave the thinking to me, and we will both be the better for it.” Resting a hand on the carved newelpost, she glanced up the stairs. “Come. When she says now, she means now.” A pity he could not hang her up like a goose to wait for the knife.
Following her, his boots thumped on the treads, sending a clatter through the entry hall, and it struck him that he had not heard the visitor leave. Unless the house had some secret way out he did not know, there was only the front door, the one in the kitchen, and a second at the back that could only be reached by passing the kitchen. So it seemed he was to meet this soldier. Maybe it was supposed to come as a surprise. Surreptitiously, he eased his dagger in its sheath.
As expected, the front sitting room had a fine blaze burning away in the wide fireplace of blue-veined marble. It was a room worth the looting, with Sea Folk porcelain vases on the gilt-edged side tables, and tapestries and carpets that would fetch a pretty price. Except that one of the carpets was likely worthless, now. A low blanket-covered mound lay near the middle of the room, and if the fellow that made it had not stained the carpet with his blood, Hanlon would eat the boots sticking out from one end.
Shiaine herself was sitting in a carved armchair, a pretty woman in gold-embroidered blue silk with an ornate belt of woven gold and a heavy gold necklace around her slim neck. Glossy brown hair hung below her shoulders even caught in a net of intricate lace. She looked delicate at first glance, but there was something vulpine about her face, and her smile never touched those big brown eyes. She was using a lace-edged handkerchief to clean a small dagger capped with a firedrop on the pommel.
Falion’s face remained smooth as polished marble, but she made a curtsy that lacked little of cringing before she scuttled out of the room at a run.
Watching the woman and her dagger from the corner of his eye, Hanlon moved to the covered mound and bent to lift a corner of the blanket. Glazed blue eyes stared out of a face that might have been hard, alive. The dead always looked softer. Apparently he had been neither as cautious nor as intelligent as Falion thought him. Hanlon let the blanket fall and straightened. “He said something you objected to, my Lady?” he said mildly. “Who was he?”
“He said several things I objected to.” She held her dagger up, studying the small blade to be sure it was clean, then slid it into a gold-worked sheath at her waist. “Tell me, is Elayne’s child yours?”
“I don’t know who fathered the whelp,” he said wryly. “Why, my Lady? Do you think I’d go soft? The last chit who claimed I’d gotten a child on her, I stuffed her down a well to cool her head and made sure she stayed there.” There were a long-necked silver wine pitcher and two chased silver cups sitting on a tray on one of the side tables. “Is this safe?” he asked, peering into the cups. Both had wine in the bottom, but a little addition to one would have turned the dead man into easy prey.
“Catrelle Mosenain, an ironmonger’s daughter from Maerone,” the woman said, just as smoothly as if it were common knowledge, and he very nearly flinched in surprise.  How did she know the wench’s name, much less about the rock? He had not remembered her name himself. “No, I doubt you would go soft, but I would hate to think you were kissing the Lady Elayne without letting me know.
Suddenly she frowned at the bloodstained handkerchief in her hand and rose gracefully to glide to the fireplace and toss it into the flames. She stood there warming herself, never even glancing in his direction. “Can you arrange for some of the Seanchan women to escape? Best if it can be both those called sul’dam and the ones called damane,” she stumbled a little over the strange words, “but if you can’t do both, then a few of the sul’dam should do. They will free some of the others.”
“Maybe.”  “It won’t be easy, my Lady. They’re all guarded close.”
“I didn’t ask whether it was easy,” she said, staring into the flames. “Can you shift guards away from the food warehouses? It would please me if some of those actually burned. I am tired of attempts that always fail.”
“That I cannot do,” he muttered. “Not unless you expect me to go into hiding right after. They keep a record of orders that would make a Cairhienin wince.  In truth, he was not sorry for that. Queasy over the means used, certainly, but not sorry. He expected the palace would be the last place in Caemlyn to go hungry in any case, but he had lived out sieges on both sides of the lines, and he had no intention of ever boiling his boots for soup again. Shiaine wanted fires, though.
“Another answer I did not ask for.” She shook her head, still looking into the fireplace, not at him. “But perhaps something can be done there. How close are you to actually . . . enjoying Elayne’s affections?” she finished primly.
“Closer than the day I arrived in the palace,” he growled, glowering at her back. He tried never to offend those the Chosen had set above him, but the chit was trying him. He could snap that slender neck like a twig! To keep his hands from her throat, he filled one of the cups and held it with no intention of drinking. In his left hand, of course. Just because there was one dead man in the room already did not mean she had no plans to make it two corpses. “But I have to go slow. It isn’t as if I can back her into a corner and tickle her out of her shift.”
“I suppose not,” Shiaine said in a muffled voice. “She is hardly the sort of woman you are used to.” Was she laughing? Was she amused at him? It was all he could do not to throw down the winecup and strangle the fox-faced bint.
Suddenly she turned around, and he blinked as she casually slipped her dagger back into its sheath.  He took a swallow of wine without thinking, and almost choked when he realized what he had done.
“How would you like to see Caemlyn looted?” she asked.
“Well enough, if I have a good company at my back and a clear path to the gates.” The wine had to be safe. Two cups meant she had drunk, too, and if he had picked up the dead man’s, there could not be enough poison left in it to sicken a mouse. “Is that what you want? I follow orders as well as the next man.” He did when he seemed likely to survive them, or when they came from the Chosen. As well die for a fool as disobey the Chosen. “But sometimes it helps to know more than ‘go there and do that.’ If you told me what you’re after here in Caemlyn, I might be able to help you reach it faster.”
“Of course.” She smiled a toothy smile while her eyes stayed as flat as brown stones. “But first, tell me why there is fresh blood on your gauntlet?”
He smiled back. “A footpad who got unlucky, my Lady.” Maybe she had sent the man and maybe not, but he added her throat to the list of those he intended to slit. And he might as well add Marillin Gemalphin, too. After all, a lone survivor was the only one who could tell the tale of what had happened.


Cultural Echoes - Културно Ехо
600€ raised
IBAN: MK07210722000079898
SWIFT: TUTNMK22
Collaboration Form
Collaboration Form (MKD)


 I'll tell you why, because the
deadlift is the BEST lift.  No other lift trains so many muscles all at once! Not convinced? You should deadlift because its MANLY. Or WOMANLY.
The deadlift does NOT discriminate! There is no truer RAW DISPLAY OF STRENGTH like the deadlift. There is no cheating, no half reps, no bells and whistles.
The deadlift is the most functional of all lifts; simply how much weight can you pick up off the ground?
Below are the steps I was taught to deadlift. As a brief disclaimer, everyone has different body types and thus different methods may work better for you.
This is simply how I personally deadlift.
Step 1: Feet
Approach the barbell so that the bar passes over the middle of your entire foot. For me, this is right over where the arch in my foot is or roughly 1 inch away from your shins.
The width of stance can vary but I imagine I'm about to take a big jump from a stand still - The width of my feet in this position is the width I find most comfortable, roughly shoulder width apart.
Once in this position, do not move the barbell
Step 2: Gripping the Bar
Bend over and grab the bar
Your hands should be just outside of your legs
Do not move the barbell. Doing so may change the position of your feet relative to the bar
Step 3: Hips
Drop your hips and bend your knees until your shins hit the barbell
Do not pull the barbell to your shins
Step 4: Neutral Back
Push your chest out but make sure not to move your hips. This will ensure that your back is no longer rounded.
A round back during a deadlift can lead to sever injury
This step also helps to straighten your arms out
Again, Do not move the barbell.
Step 5: Lift - Drag the Barbell Up Your Body
Take a deep breath, hold it in, and brace your core. Your core is what will support your back and prevent it from rounding
Imagine pushing your feet through the floor. You want to engage your legs, specifically your hamstrings, first.
Pull the 'slack' out of the bar. What this means is instead of jerking upwards, if you are lifting 200lbs, pull with 199lbs of force before leaving the ground.
 Stand tall and proud like the BADASS you are.
Exhale!
Step 6: Finish STRONG!
Just because you're at the top doesn't mean you can relax
Keep your core flexed/engaged
Push your hips back then bend your legs until the barbell hits the ground


My designs. My code. Your product.
From personal to professional, my goal is to create a product that you will not only love, but your customers will love to visit over and over again.
I strive to design and create amazing things.
By working with me, teams do not need to move between a designer and developer. With my skillset, I can create the designs needed for a product and then turn around and produce those designs - allowing for a single point of contact throughout the creation process.


---
layout: post
title: New paginated Apple Keynote theme
date: '2017-06-23T10:30:39+02:00'
categories:
- Templates
picture_url: https://film-Storyboards.tumblr.com/post/162164996868/there-is-a-new-paginated-apple-keynote-theme
---
There is a new paginated Apple Keynote theme available for film Storyboards, for the Univisium (2:1 or 18:9) aspect ratio. This theme has 3 master slides ready for print or screen use. There is a title page, a three panels + text and a text + three panels master.
To create your Storyboards, first add a new slide (in the left area navigator), you can change your slide layout (Slide Layout > Change Master button) in the right navigation panel (View > Inspector > Format)
Then chose your layout in the left navigator. whether you use text or not, page, scenes and shot numbers. You can use the rule of thirds guides to help you reframe your shots (View > Guides & Hide > Guides). If you need consistent changes in the apparence of your layout, use the Edit Master Slide button in the right navigation panel.
This template is in English, the body text is set in Avenir Light 10 points. You’ll find different styles for your text in the Format panel.
This theme makes it easy and fast to put your Storyboards together in a neat presentation.


{% extends "base.template.html" %} {% block content %}
First include {$ doc.packageFile | code $} in your HTML:


{% extends "mails/base_mail.html" %} {% block content %}
{% if creator %}
Hi {{ creator.first_name }}.
{% else %}
Hi,
{% endif %}
Your session is starting in an hour. Your collaborative document is up and ready here:
{{document.title}}
Collaborative and open notes
If you haven't yet, don't forget to invite your friends, it's way more fun when collaborative.
{% if document.event_id %}
Your Facebook event is still here.
{% endif %}
Happy note-taking!


We are using Service Workers with the
postMessage
interface to send messages from the worker to the page.
postMessage
interface to send messages from the worker to the page.


Release 73
2001-02-21
"You can get credit for something or get it done, but not both.Dr. Richard Garwin
WFC development continues at glacial speeds. I am now a home owner so I get to do "house things" instead
of coding (leaking roof, build a deck, etc). Such is life. WFC will continue to take a back seat as my wife and I
concentrate on filling our nice new house with children. Also, I will be shifting my
focus to C# although all performance code will be done in C++. C# has a design/philosphy flaw where
destructors are considered to be a bad thing (along with any form of memory allocation).
I know, I know. Many of you out there will think I'm a Neanderthal for saying this but
did we learn nothing from Java? In C# you are not supposed to worry about the "lifetime"
of your objects. In C++ you have this concept where a function (called a destructor) will be
called when your object falls out of scope or is freed. Destructors were a great place
to de-allocate resources allocated during the lifetime of your object. C# has the same
kind of thing, almost. C# destructors are only called when the garbage collector feels like
getting rid of your object. When this happens is pretty much random and when it does your
system will screech to a grinding halt. Whenever you see programming tips such as "You
should always call the Dispose method when you no longer need an object" you know
you're hacking around a design flaw. The problem really gets bad/noticable when you have a
C# object wrapping an operating system handle of some sort (window handle, GDI object handle,
file handle, etc).
- CFile64 now has methods to read strings, string arrays and XML documents
- wfc_read_xml_from_file
Release 51 Notes
Return to Sam's Home Page


3 references to AddAction
System.Management.Automation (3)
engine\EventManager.cs (3)
976
AddAction
(new EventAction(subscriber, newEvent), processSynchronously);
983
AddAction
(new EventAction(subscriber, newEvent), processSynchronously);
1270
AddAction
(nextAction, processSynchronously: false);


Notification page for Alexander Chislenko websites
Enter your e-mail address to receive e-mail when the selected pages are updated.
(You won't receive mail more than once a week in any case)
Your Internet e-mail address:
Sasha's public page
Great Thinkers page
Sasha's essays
World Future Society (Boston chapter)
Frontier Organizations
Hot links
Best mailing lists
WWW karate directory
WWW massage directory
Intelligent humor page
Russian page
Web services


{% endif %}
{% include "main/navigation.html" %}
{% if current_page != "index" %}
{% block beta_error %}
Please note: this site is under construction. What you see now may be vastly different
from the final project state. Feel free to chat to us on Discord if you're curious!


%(messageDesc)s
%(buildMessage)s
You can download the binaries and related files for this build from:
-The LabKey Developers
(Build Information: Build Date=%(buildDate)s, TeamCity Project=%(buildType)s)


The small-scale film, in limited release, "Waking Ned Devine" is a pleasant excursion to a time and place which allows the audience to absorb the full texture of a small town. Filled with breathtaking scenery, 'characters', and delightful music, the movie would be interesting even without a plot.
The story contains several surprises which are best left unmentioned in a review.
The film starts out with a sharp opening, which gives us a taste of what is to follow: country folk with an inclination for a bit of larceny. What gets things going is the fact that a winner of the lottery is apparently one of the residents in the small town (pop 52) of Tullymore. Who that person is, and how to share in the good fortune is the mission of two longtime friends Jackie (Ian Bannen) and Michael (David Kelly).
The village consists of several amusing characters.  There's also the Lotto man who must be satisfied that everything is on the up-and-up.
There are no Hollywood touches to this film - except for the outer space introduction [!]. Pacing is right. Towards the end, it runs a bit out of steam, but that's okay because for most of the 90 minutes we've been interested in the goings on. A mixture of laughs and (occasional) sentiment - all the right emotions are engaged.
In one brief dream sequence - you'll know it when you see it - a fantastic combination of color and music transports the characters to a place you really hope exists. One of the key moments in the film.
The music, available on CD (LONDON 289 460 939-2) follows the same arc as the movie and is well worth considering.
A fine film that's for everybody except action fans. Somewhat like 'The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain,' ... but livelier.
Grade: B+
The review above was posted to the
rec.arts.movies.reviews newsgroup (de.rec.film.kritiken for German reviews).
The Internet Movie Database accepts no responsibility for the contents of the
review and has no editorial control. Unless stated otherwise, the copyright
belongs to the author.
Please direct comments/criticisms of the review to relevant newsgroups.
Broken URLs inthe reviews are the responsibility of the author.
The formatting of the review is likely to differ from the original due
to ASCII to HTML conversion.
Related links: index of all rec.arts.movies.reviews reviews


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Mar 26, 2010 . Family Watchdog Site: Essentially, this site provides a free national US search for registered sex offenders. You can enter an address, and a .
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Let Family Watchdog keep you informed of important safety information. It's free! . Who We Are. 1 of 5 girls and 1 of 6 .
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Sep 18, 2007 . FamilyWatchdog.us is committed to providing free, unfettered access to timely and relevant family safety information. (Your information is pulled .
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Feb 24, 2008 . This time we would like to introduce to you Family Watchdog: a national sex . Get a free email or text alerts when an offender moves near you.
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Dangerous people shouldn't be set free. If the legal system . 10 Responses to Family watchdog, tracking sex offenders, and murder. Posted by Tina. 2006.
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There are thousands of terrific ideas to base a movie on. Infertility, however, is not one of them. But like anxious would-be parents, Hollywood keeps on trying. Gene Wilder futilely tried to make light of it in the forgettable ``Funny About Love,'' and now Greg Kinnear and Lauren Holly struggle to mine impotence for laughs in ``A Smile Like Yours,'' a tepid attempt at heartwarming comedy.
Despite its setting in contemporary San Francisco and a few moments of mild raunchiness, most of ``Smile'' plays like a vintage Doris Day vehicle. Jennifer (Holly) and Danny (Kinnear) are blissfully married, but she wants a child.
When Jennifer's still not in the family way after hundreds of attempts, the tensions between the two threaten to send Danny out of the fertility center and into the waiting arms of man-trap Lindsey (Jill Hennessy).
Writers Kevin Meyer and Keith Samples present a cornucopia of cliches old (the out-of-town business trip that's mistaken for an affair) and new (another karaoke scene, far inferior to the one in ``My Best Friend's Wedding''). If you hadn't bought a ticket and weren't sitting in a theater, you'd swear you were watching an extended TV sitcom.
Jennifer's quest for motherhood comes off as borderline maniacal, although it's supposed to be poignant and humorous. There are moments when the movie threatens to turn into a comic ``Fatal Attraction,'' which would have put some needed spice into this pablum. Similarly, a cameo by Shirley MacLaine and a twisted spoof of bargain-basement airlines near the end of the film are nice touches, but don't develop into anything.
Only Joan Cusack rises above the material. Cast as Jennifer's partner in a perfume shop where people actually say things like ``Wow, the Elysian sunflower is a nice touch!,'' Cusack has a miserable part - she's in love with a mortician, setting the stage for a string of sophomoric dead-guy jokes. But Cusack's played the best friend so many times now, nobody can do it with more finesse.
Affable and deep-dimpled Kinnear, forced to do jokes about masturbation and rectal exams, muddles through as best he can. After a bright debut in ``Sabrina,'' Kinnear has floundered; hopefully his juicy role as a troubled artist in director James L. Brooks' upcoming ``Old Friends'' will better serve his talent.
As for Holly, she's fallen victim to a terminal case of Shelley Long Syndrome, the misconception that wide-eyed cutesy-poo acting is adorable. Jennifer can't just walk across a room - she minces or scampers, generally with a coy expression on her oh-so-darling face. Perhaps someone should warn her that once you have a baby, you can't be the baby.
James Sanford
The review above was posted to the
rec.arts.movies.reviews newsgroup (de.rec.film.kritiken for German reviews).
The Internet Movie Database accepts no responsibility for the contents of the
review and has no editorial control. Unless stated otherwise, the copyright
belongs to the author.
Please direct comments/criticisms of the review to relevant newsgroups.
Broken URLs inthe reviews are the responsibility of the author.
The formatting of the review is likely to differ from the original due
to ASCII to HTML conversion.
Related links: index of all rec.arts.movies.reviews reviews


--- layout: page title: "More" description: "This is what I love." header-img: "img/more-bg.jpg" permalink: "more.html" photo-caption-title: "Rome, Italy (Colosseum)" photo-caption-body: "Spring Break 2014." ---
In addition to software engineering, these are some of the things I enjoy.
I have a passion for playing and writing music. Below are some of the songs I've made using Ableton Live:
These are a few of my favorite quotes:
"I can accept failure, everyone fails at something. But I can't accept not trying." - Michael Jordan
"There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle." - Albert Einstein
"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." - Ralph Waldo Emerson


--- layout: post title: The Body Shop Spiced Vanilla Lip Balm tags: - The Body Shop status: publish type: post published: true meta: _edit_last: '2' wp_plus_one_redirect: '' _graphene_slider_img: global _graphene_slider_imgurl: '' _graphene_show_addthis: global _graphene_post_date_display: global _aioseop_keywords: The Body Shop Spiced Vanilla Lip Balm review, The Body Shop Spiced Vanilla Lip Balm _aioseop_title: The Body Shop Spiced Vanilla Lip Balm review _yoast_wpseo_linkdex: '0' _thumbnail_id: '2859' _yoast_wpseo_focuskw: '' _yoast_wpseo_title: '' _yoast_wpseo_metadesc: '' _yoast_wpseo_metakeywords: '' _yoast_wpseo_meta-robots-noindex: '0' _yoast_wpseo_meta-robots-nofollow: '0' _yoast_wpseo_meta-robots-adv: none _yoast_wpseo_sitemap-include: ! '-' _yoast_wpseo_sitemap-prio: ! '-' _yoast_wpseo_canonical: '' _yoast_wpseo_redirect: '' ---
"Spiced Vanilla" reminds me of those sleek, Smokey colored vanilla pods which I have been longing to see, but my luck has not been strong enough. This cute looking tin is a total loot, I grabbed it at 50% discount. I have tried almost all flavors from TBS Born Lippy lip balms, and this has been till now the best one I ever tried.
Price: Rs. 340 (For me Rs.170 :P)
TBS says: This non-sticky balm quickly hydrates lips. It is flavoured with vanilla and a hint of spice.
My Experience: I am quite happy with this product. It excels in all the fields a lip balm should. It keeps my lips moisturized for 3-4 hours without reapplication, can you believe that. The only sole problem with this balm is the whitish cast on the lips, which takes 15-20 min to go. I wont consider this a drawback because I love the way it takes time to get absorbed by my lips.
Which is your favorite your lip balm ?


Ultrafast LTE. Available here.
With LTE on iPhone 5c, iPhone 5s and iPhone 5, you can browse the web, stream content, or download a movie at blazing-fast speeds. To see if your iPhone works with LTE networks in your country, refer to the chart below.1 For more details, contact your carrier.
iPhone 5c and iPhone 5s
Model Number2
|
LTE Band Support3
|
Country
|
Supported LTE Networks
|
iPhone 5c Model A1532 (GSM) Model A1532 (CDMA)
iPhone 5s Model A1533 (GSM) Model A1533 (CDMA)
|
1 (2100 MHz)
2 (1900 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
4 (AWS)
5 (850 MHz)
8 (900 MHz)
13 (700c MHz)
17 (700b MHz)
19 (800 MHz)
20 (800 DD)
25 (1900 MHz)
|
- United States
-
- Canada
-
- Bell (including Virgin)
- Rogers (including Fido)
- Telus (including Koodo)
- Puerto Rico
-
|
iPhone 5c Model A1456
iPhone 5s Model A1453
|
1 (2100 MHz)
2 (1900 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
4 (AWS)
5 (850 MHz)
8 (900 MHz)
13 (700c MHz)
17 (700b MHz)
18 (800 MHz)
19 (800 MHz)
20 (800 DD)
25 (1900 MHz)
26 (800 MHz)
|
- United States
-
- Japan
-
- Puerto Rico
-
|
iPhone 5c Model A1507
iPhone 5s Model A1457
|
1 (2100 MHz)
2 (1900 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
5 (850 MHz)
7 (2600 MHz)
8 (900 MHz)
20 (800 DD)
|
- France
-
- Germany
-
- Deutsche Telekom
- Vodafone
- United Kingdom
-
|
iPhone 5c Model A1529
iPhone 5s Model A1530
|
1 (2100 MHz)
2 (1900 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
5 (850 MHz)
7 (2600 MHz)
8 (900 MHz)
20 (800 DD)
38 (TD 2600)
39 (TD 1900)
40 (TD 2300)
|
- Australia
-
- Optus (including Virgin)
- Telstra
- Vodafone
- Hong Kong
-
- Korea
-
- New Zealand
- Vodafone
- Singapore
-
|
iPhone 5
Model Number2
|
LTE Band Support3
|
Country
|
Supported LTE Networks
|
iPhone 5 Model A1428 (GSM model)
|
4 (AWS)
17 (700b MHz)
|
- United States
-
- Aio
- Alaska Communications
- AT&T
- Family Mobile
- GCI
- T-Mobile
- Canada
-
- Bell (including Virgin)
- MTS
- Rogers (including Fido)
- SaskTel
- Telus (including Koodo)
- Guam
-
- Mexico
-
- Puerto Rico
-
|
iPhone 5 Model A1429 (CDMA model)
|
1 (2100 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
5 (850 MHz)
13 (700c MHz)
25 (1900 MHz)
|
- United States
-
- Appalachian Wireless
- Bluegrass Cellular
- C Spire
- Cellcom
- Chariton Valley
- Chat Mobility
- Northwest Missouri
- Pioneer Cellular
- Sprint
- Strata Networks
- Thumb Cellular
- Verizon
- Virgin Mobile
- Japan
- KDDI
- Puerto Rico
-
|
iPhone 5 Model A1429 (GSM model)
|
1 (2100 MHz)
3 (1800 MHz)
5 (850 MHz)
|
- Australia
-
- Optus (including Virgin)
- Telstra
- Vodafone
- Austria
- A1
- Bahrain
- VIVA
- Belgium
- Mobistar
- Croatia
-
- Czech Republic
- T-Mobile
- Denmark
-
- Estonia
-
- Finland
-
- Germany
- Deutsche Telekom
- Greece
-
- Hong Kong
-
- Hungary
- T-Mobile
- Italy
-
- Japan
- Softbank
- Korea
-
- Kuwait
-
- Luxembourg
-
- Malaysia
-
- Montenegro
- Crnogorski Telekom
- Netherlands
- Vodafone
- New Zealand
- Vodafone
- Norway
-
- Philippines
-
- Portugal
-
- Romania
-
- Saudi Arabia
-
- Singapore
-
- South Africa
-
- Spain
-
- Sweden
-
- Switzerland
-
- Thailand
- TrueMove H
- UAE
-
- United Kingdom
- EE
|
- Data roaming depends on supported bands and carrier policies. LTE roaming may not be available. Contact your carrier for more details. LTE may be referred to as “4G LTE” or “4G” in some countries.
- To identify your iPhone 5c, iPhone 5s or iPhone 5 model number, see http://support.apple.com/kb/HT3939. Unlocked iPhone 5c, iPhone 5s and iPhone 5 models may support LTE networks outside the country of purchase when using a valid SIM from a supported carrier. Contact your carrier for more details.
- LTE band support is based on the iPhone 5 model number and configuration for either CDMA or GSM networks. Listed LTE band support does not guarantee LTE support by all carriers running on the same bands. LTE wireless service availability may be limited even where bands are supported.


Notebooks
Story: Clouds and wind
Clouds and wind
Title
Clouds and wind
Collection
Summary
Some beliefs of the Bushmen with regard to clouds and wind, etc. (L VIII.-18. 7589-7592).
Comments
1) p.7591v: |xam names for and descriptions of birds found in Bushmanland, 2) This story is found in Book VIII-18
Contributors
|han≠kass'o (Klein Jantje) (VIII)
Date
September 1878
Categories
Custom and daily life, Celestial bodies and aeroscopy, The Rain and Rain's water
Keywords
wind (clouds and) , wind (beliefs relating to) , wind (different kinds of) , wind (the names of different) , wind (the direction of) , wind (the north) , wind (the east) , wind (the west) , wind (called the 'man's') , wind (that blows when |han≠kass'o kills an ostrich) , wind (|han≠kass'o's) , wind (that does not 'wait') , wind (that is pleasant) , wind (blows away the east-) , wind (cold) , wind (warm) , clouds (and wind) , clouds (beliefs relating to) , clouds (black) , clouds (rain-) , clouds (the name of one) , clouds (called the 'man's liver') , clouds (and the west wind) , birds (found in Bushmanland) , names (of birds found in Bushmanland) , names (of different winds) , names (of clouds) , rain (rain-clouds) , rain (and clouds and wind)
Story Pages
7589-7592


noun; one experienced in pursuing progress instead of sleep
I'm a 3rd year Cognitive Systems (Comp. Intelligence and Design) student passionate about forward development-- whether in software, academics, music, philanthropy, or the Canucks season! (Hey, a girl can dream, right?) Don't hesitate to get in touch because I ...
"I was impressed with the way Tricia worked with the other members of the team to define the scope of the problem, break the problem down into component parts, and organize themselves into smaller teams to work on the individual components. All the team members showed great technical skill in Java programming, a great enthusiasm for the challenge, and an ability to collaborative resolve technical issues within the very restrictive time constraints of the hackathon. It is very rare to have a group of people that can come together and function so well within the restrictive format imposed by the hackathon. All the team members showed an impressive ability to work together with new teammates that had different and diverse working styles. I am pleased to recommend Tricia for your consideration."
"Tricia demonstrated the below strengths:
I can't wait to hear from you, new best friend!
VoicesofChange Apparel was a clothing line I cofounded in 2011 with my cousin. We had a great time learning the ropes of eCommerce and social media marketing. All the shirts were designed using Adobe Illustrator. Our little brainchild was greatly received and even recognized in a local newspaper!
In a class I am taking this term, ECE 418: Human-Computer Interfaces, we are specifying, designing, prototyping and evaluating a graphical user interface. Our proposed system targets communication between presenters and attendees in presentation-settings, as well as content-unificaton. Skills: Analysis, Heuristic Evaluation, Low/Med/Hi-fi Prototyping, User Studies, Design Reviews
This website was styled using HTML, CSS, and JavaScript. Images were created using Adobe Illustrator.
Several intelligent agents designed, built, and programmed using NXC (similar to C) and Lego Mindstorms in Fall 2013. Implemented functionalities included:
This program attempts to determine your next best step in any given game of Oska using the power of the MiniMax algorithm. Creating a tree of given depth, it scores each board state and returns the move that leads to the most desirable state. Also pair programmed with Matt K. Written in functional language Haskell during Fall 2013.
Written in logic programming language Prolog, Lucey is a super sleuth when it comes to Clue! Dynamic database programming allows user input throughout the game, and deductive reasoning strategies track opponents play, telling you your best move to make. Pair programmed with Matt K in late 2013.
Used JavaScript(JQuery) to make a fun game of memory! Cognitive assessment memory tasks have never been so fun! Understanding basic object animation and key events were the focus of this project.
Skills: Android, Java, XML, JSON, Design patterns
Participated in 48-hour Think Global, Hack Local Community Hackathon! My 12-person team and I worked on a new prototype for community partner Neil Squire Society's Speech Assisted Math (SAM) numeracy program for people with physical disabilities in Java. My roles included game menu/UI implementation using the Swing library, and Agile-like project management.


SRCCON:WORK work will focus on teamwork, careers, and care, and how they all intersect in making journalism more inclusive and responsive. We’ll introduce each theme in our program with a pair of 10-minute talks designed to challenge us as a community and get us thinking as we head into breakout sessions.
Here are the talks we’ve confirmed so far for our conference, Dec. 7 & 8 in Philadelphia. You can also check out the schedule now!
Thursday AM: Hiring & Career Growth
- Sydette Harry is an interloper, and currently editor at the Mozilla Foundation. Working in journalism, she keeps hearing “where do you fit in our vision?” and “where are the people your journalism advocates for?” But these aren’t even the right questions. If everyone says they’re invested in diversity and we still can’t find the answers, then we need a better set of questions. Are we even asking for what we really want?
- Disha Raychaudhuri, data reporter at NJ Advance Media, on what it’s like to look for a job as a young journalist from a marginalized community, someone with data skills in an industry that says it sees the importance of diversity. So how do you reconcile walking out of an interview to “you’re perfect, but we can’t hire you” with an entire genre of listserv posts complaining that “we’d love to hire more women and people of color, but we just can’t find any!”
Thursday PM: Mental Health & Self-care
- Erin Brown, a former sports journalist, producer, and now faculty at the University of Miami, on how our jobs which thrive on adrenaline, long hours, terrible habits, and an aura of invincibility can leave us utterly unprepared for everything to fall apart. Let’s talk about mental health and the strategies, resources, and benefits we need to know about to make sure we’re prepared to take care of ourselves when we need to most.
- Christine Stapleton, reporter at The Palm Beach Post, on the ways newsroom culture can make it hard to spot the point when alcohol and substance use turns into abuse. Journalism is a stressful job, and dark humor isn’t the only coping mechanism we use to deal with deadlines and the trauma we report on day to day. It’s rare that we talk about taking care of ourselves when it’s so easy to wear our worst habits like badges of honor.
Friday AM: Collaboration & Teamwork
- Mandy Brown, executive director of publishing at Vox Media, will talk about how to build newsroom tech that respects the humanity of everyone who makes and uses it. Drawing on the work of Ursula Franklin in “The Real World of Technology,” she will ask questions about how we structure our teams, how we build healthy processes, and how we work with our colleagues and readers to publish stories that make a difference.
- Jessica Morrison, project manager at Chemical & Engineering News, on bringing change to a legacy newsroom. What do you do when print workflows don’t map to ambitious tech projects and traditional newsroom roles don’t align with growing responsibilities? Most of us patch processes together and keep moving because the news business doesn’t stop. But sometimes you have to rip off the duct tape that holds together old habits and create something new.
Friday PM: What Comes Next
- Nicole Zhu and David Yee of Vox Media, on the life-changing magic of media mentorship. What does meaningful advice look like in an industry that keeps shifting? Once you’ve been in the weeds for a while, does your experience hold true amidst new platforms, storytelling formats, and organizational structures? We’ll talk about being both a mentor and a mentee, and a relationship framework that optimizes for flexibility and care without compromising on our work as journalists.
- Sisi Wei, deputy editor for news apps at ProPublica, on how experimenting with a blind application process gave us the most diverse applicants we could have imagined, and how we need to completely scrap our existing habits of networking and recommending candidates through sideways channels if our goal is to create more diverse teams and newsrooms.