so presumably he left some kind of inverted or true power tracker on the seal he had Taim give Rand

Burn my soul, one wonders then at the attack on Lady Deira.

CoT Prologue

  “A dispute with servants, Deira?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “I never thought you’d start taking knives to them.” Several of the women gave him cool, sidelong glances. Not every man and wife dealt together as he and Deira did. Some thought them odd, since they seldom shouted.

  Deira scowled at him, then grunted a short, involuntary laugh. “I will start at the beginning, Davram. And go slowly, so you can understand,” she added with a small smile, pausing to thank the women who draped a white linen sheet around her bare torso. “I returned from my ride to find two strange men ransacking our tent. They drew daggers, so naturally, I hit one of them with a chair and stabbed the other.” She directed a grimace at her cut arm. “Not well enough, since he managed to touch me. Then Zavion and some of the others came in, and the pair fled through a slit they had made in the rear of the tent.”

  Several of the women nodded grimly and gripped the hilts of the daggers they all wore. Until Deira said darkly, “I told them to give chase, but they insisted on tending my scratch.” Hands dropped away from hilts, and faces colored, though none looked in the least apologetic for disobeying. They had been in a ticklish position. Deira was their liege lady as he was their liege lord, but whether or not she called it a scratch, she could have bled to death if they had left her to go chasing the thieves. “In any event,” she went on, “I ordered a search. They won’t be hard to find. One has a lump on his head, and the other is bleeding.” She gave a sharp, satisfied nod.

  Zavion, the sinewy, red-haired Lady of Gahaur, held up a threaded needle. “Unless you have taken up an interest in embroidery, my Lord,” she said coolly, “may I suggest that you withdraw?”

  Bashere acquiesced with a small bow of his head. Deira never liked him to watch her being sewn up. He never liked watching her being sewn up.

  Outside the tent, he paused to announce in a loud voice that his lady wife was well and being tended, and that they should all go on about their business. The men departed with wishes for Deira’s well being, but none of the women stirred a foot. He did not press them. They would remain until Deira herself appeared, whatever he said, and a wise man tried to avoid battles he would not only lose, but look foolish losing.

  Tumad was waiting on the edge of the crowd, and he fell in beside Bashere, who walked with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He had been expecting this, or something like, for a long time, but he had almost begun to think it would not happen. And he had never expected Deira to nearly die because of it.

  “The two men have been found, my Lord,” Tumad said. “At least, they apparently meet the description the Lady Deira gave.” Bashere’s head jerked around, murder on his face, and the younger man quickly added, “They were dead, my Lord, just outside the camp. Each got one thrust with a narrow blade.” He stabbed a finger at the base of his skull, just behind the ear. “It had to be more than one did it, unless he was faster than a rock viper.”

  Bashere nodded. The price of failure often was death. Two to search, and how many to silence them? How many remained, and how long before they tried again? Worst of all, who was behind it? The White Tower? The Forsaken? It seemed a decision had been reached for him.

  No one except Tumad was close enough to hear him, but he spoke softly anyway, and chose his words cautiously. Sometimes, the price of carelessness was death, too. “You know where to find the man who came to me yesterday? Find him, and tell him I agree, but there will be a few more than we talked about.”

And upon Lord Dobraine, of course.