Body Count in Battle

He took her hand without asking.  Bristling like some impossibly tangerine cat, Tahmelah drew herself up to her full height, but he paid her no mind.  Conversely, this served to contain her temper.  She should be furious, and he should be apologetic, but it was such a large group and they'd be whisked apart in the crowd if they didn't stand against it.  And, of course, she was curious.  Who was this crazy green-eyed man, and what did he want?  He said nothing as he steered her through the patch of dancers, and she took her chance to study him while he was too busy to notice. 

He had thick hair, dark as ink and shining, but too long and unkempt for a nobleman.  Noblemen cared for their hair: some (although not the Saldaean variety) went so far as to oil, curl and powder their hair! The sight never failed to make the corners of Tahmelah's lips twitch.  His body was lean, his shoulders broad, his chest hidden by the blousy tunic all the male Novices wore.  A farmer, if she had to guess: the hand in her own was scarred and callused, strong and yet, somehow very gentle. It was easy to imagine him coaxing some flower into bloom, if that required hands.  He did not squeeze her fingers, but instead held her forearm in his palm, a gesture that she should not allow but felt little threat from.  As they edged out of the dancers, she had decided that he must have some sort of masochistic streak, a desire to pick the worst possible outcome in a given set.

If he'd wanted a pretty armful, there had been the willowy Domani beside her.  The Tuatha'an girl likely wouldn't have turned him away, for that matter.  But he'd picked her, and he still hadn't explained why.  She looked like a scarecrow on fire, and that was on a good day.  Jerking her hand back as if his was the voice whispering insults in her ears, she glared at him, narrowing already strongly-slanted green eyes at him.  Weighing him as one did any opponent, she stored his name away for safe-keeping.  It was amazing what one could learn with a name on her tongue and her ear to the ground: rumor seemed to be the grease on the White Tower's wheels.  There would be something on a wagging tongue somewhere about him.  She considered what it could be, calmly ignoring the opening he gave her to share her own name.

Victim?  Oh, they'd see about that.  The uncontested queen of the midden pits and back alleys would not be on the "victim" side of any list.  She won her fights, albeit she often wished she hadn't tried so hard to come out on top.  He laughed, finding himself funny, no doubt, and she stared at him with all the derision she could muster.  However, it's hard to look put out with a face so lovingly crafted for sheer comedy, and the glance he gave her wasn't at all put off – in fact, he seemed even more interested than he had been a moment before.

It was going, Tahmelah realized, to be a very long night.

"The only thing diabolical here," she said, struggling to hide the laughter bubbling up inside her at the sight of him, rhapsodizing about all the trouble he intended to get into, "is your determination to keep shoving your foot down your throat.  I assure that boot leather is not as tasty as one would think, and bootblack is a terrible sauce."  She tossed her hair, an innately feminine gesture, and eyed him, giving him the kind of scrutiny one usually saved for particularly stinking offal.  Then, she stuck out her hand: it was small, pale, and covered with small scars, but still degrees more tender than his rough digits.

"Tahmelah," she said, willing him not to remember the story the name came from.  Nothing was more embarrassing than being reminded of some mythical warrior queen who had apparently taken a fancy to riding sans the top half of her armor.  To her relief, the name did not spark any recognition in his face, and she relaxed, a little.  Was it possible that they didn't tell that story where he was from?  And where would that be, anyway?  She pushed her questions down as automatically as she did her talkative hands: they had risen to her chest. 

"So, which one of them is it," she asked, her voice dropping in register and volume, as she stepped back, standing close enough to whisper in the man's ear.  "Candance Sedai?  That crazed Asha'man what'shisname?"  Probing bluntly, the delicacies of secret-keeping being beyond her ken, she nodded toward the crowd of luminaries.  "I mean, your "diabolical plan," she hissed, resisting the urge to tack on "numbskull."

"Which one of them are you going to target?"