Sizing Up

His own language would have earned him a repeat of the penance he had just "completed," except, in a move that would have somewhat pleased the Accepted that minded him, he was muttering the obscenities under his breath as he stalked the length of the public Gardens.  "Pitch tarred mermaid nipples," he groused, pausing, one hand planted on the bony ridge of his hip. The trouble with women was that they never did what you expected – except, of course, to flit off and leave you responsible for all that she should have shouldered herself.  These shorelapper women!  Incapable of doing the least honorable thing for themselves.  Imagine if you had to depend on one – Light, she'd leave you at the dock, expect you to work the riggings and sails, and cry if the ship hit a rough patch of sea!

And she'd insist that she was the sensible one, too.  He twisted his lips in wry rue, his brows dark wings perched over brown eyes close in hue to his skin, his hands in the pockets of the simple, straight-legged white trousers he wore under his plain tunic.  Well.  If he was a stupid, careless butterfly of a human being, where in Stormbringer's beard would he be?  He could bet this Eluanna would be a spoilt and hideous little princess – some little pampered snot who'd never tied a knot in a sail but expected her own ship, and right now, whether or not it pleased the Light. Shorehuggers raised their women to be ornaments, pretty decorations, and it showed. His generous lips curled in contempt, he quartered the Gardens, heading for the sunniest area, to the south, where the sun lingered even as it began to slink behind the Tower.  Another day, he mused, angrily, wasted on the work of women who didn't know what they wanted.

Well, he knew what he wanted.

This Eluanna, whoever she was, she'd do for starters.  He'd like to take her by her slender little neck, strip her down, and toss her bodily into the bilges.  What she encountered there would likely be eye-opening for a spoiled little brat like one who'd abandon a partner to…well, and that was another question.  Just what did she feel so pressing that it required her attention more than her own penance?  What was so important that she would risk a visit to Candance Sedai rather than spend a morning heaving piles of straw and dung?  There were a great many things that Akadias would rather do than muck out flaming four-legged manure makers, but he'd rather do that a whole day than visit Candance.  It was confusing, being beaten by a woman who looked years your junior, yet insisted upon calling you "child" and had no compunctions at all about turning you over her knee – not that she'd done that to Akadias, but word traveled. 

In the White Tower, rumor had wings.  And gossip was an art form!

Anyway, he assumed he'd catch this Eluanna and a stableboy.  All he could think of that would be worth Candance's wrath would be the more sensual pleasures, and none of the male Novices were quite that suicidal.  And, he hoped, none were so flaming stupid as to expect a girl so careless and…well yes, flaming stupid about covering her path to be a discreet and undemanding companion.  She'd answered attendance in the stables, then slipped away:  woe to her if he could just catch her entertaining whatever pretty man had caught her fancy.  If he had a lover out here in the orderly chaos of green and growing things, he would aim away from the sun – away from capture. Following his new logic, he picked the western path, where the Tower's shadow fell thickly, and some of the evening-blooming plants were beginning to unfurl, thinking it night at last. 

A Novice he didn't know burst past him, her face wreathed in thunderclouds.  He stopped her, but she raked her eyes over him – from his head to his simple white shoes – and slammed past him, keeping as much space between them on the path as she could.  He watched her go, hating the blind disdain he saw on her face.  This one hadn't ignored him because of Candance Sedai: she had spurned him merely because she didn't need him right that instant. To her, he was nothing more than six feet and four inches – nineteen hands – of garbage that dared to choke her path.  There were three kinds of women, in his estimation, and while he hated the first – the manipulative ones – and disdained the second – the ornaments – he lived in fear of the third.  This girl thought herself amongst those, but she was wrong.

A second Novice followed her, her brow knitted, her bottom lip between her teeth.  This one was an ornament: a creature whose life was based on how best she could please someone else.  She cast a glance at him and then looked away.  No doubt, he reasoned, she had both Candance's warning in mind as well as the gossip. Some fool girl had clucked at him about how he had bathed in blood or something of the sort: he had snorted a laugh and walked away.  On the ocean, her skin would burn, then blister, then darken at last so that she, too, could work as the Atha'an Miere must, harnessing wind and water and weather.  He ignored the ornament, stopping her just long enough to ask if she had seen anyone.  She shook her head no, frowned, and then shrugged, indicating that she had not been in search of anyone. 

Stormbringer's beard, Akadias thought savagely, but hasn't a single flaming woman here learned to do the work assigned to her without trying to run from it?

Oh, to dump them all, naked and squealing, into the bilges.  From the haughty Amyrlin Seat herself to the newest Novice.  He had done his time in the ducts, or he'd include himself: anyway, he didn't shirk his chores.  Often, anyway.  Not the ones he'd fairly earned.

He rounded the corner, still lost in his justification and the rant accompanying it, and paused as a young woman slipped out of the shrubbery, her dress stained green and brown at the back and knees.  Well.  Smiling in secret amusement, he wondered how best to extract his revenge.  If only he knew which stableboy…but at least he could be certain which Novice.  The fool girl hadn't had the sense to hoick up her skirt herself, and her rolling about in the grass had left telltale stains.  He bet if he flicked up her skirt, he'd see green knees – and then, he blushed.  She was a pretty enough thing – that was part of the trouble, it seemed, for ninety percent of these brainless ninnies that shorehuggers insisted were women – but what good was it, when you knew exactly what kind of person she was?

Ah, but he knew the measure of himself, too….and he was going to extract a long, slow, tedious afternoon's revenge from this vain and stupid creature. 

Starting just as soon as she stopped staring dreamily into space.

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So sorry, I'm usually far more prompt.