Davian hadn't felt this hungry in quite some time. The villages and towns surrounding Tear often adopted its accustoms, at least to a point. Davian had been informed from various sources that Godan had been allowed to thrive so Tear and its High Lords could have a strong presence overlooking Mayene. Tairen lords could control the size of every village and town in its surrounding lands through means of a building tax that allows them to strongly discourage the construction of any new buildings. Godan was exempt from such taxes for the purposes of its strategic importance for controlling Mayene. Rumor has it Berelain Sur Paendrag often traveled through Godan to reach Mayene, and due to its central location between the two belligerents, many Tarien spices and cuisine had made it to Godan through cultural osmosis, without even delving into the lucrative trade. If the Mast Head had anything of such quality, it would be a tasty meal for a fair price.

Of course, his appetite was for something a bit more local when the barmaid approached. She smiled at him, and he couldn't help but return it with a welcoming grin. His journey had been without food, but he'd gone even longer without this kind of attention. He was a handsome man, at least to some women's tastes. For his part, Davian was glad she did not wear her dress in the high collar tarien fashion.

"I haven't eaten in too long. I'm looking for something substantial." He said, giving the slightest pause before the final word. "Would you recommend anything?"

Zoya took her seat opposite of Davian, a myriad of judgemental emotions flitting across her face, at least by Davian's reckoning. To the barmaid, it likely seemed a completely neutral expression. The barmaid, a tired but pretty brunette, wrinkled her nose when she noticed Zoya but seemed encouraged by Davian's words.

"The mutton is heavy and very nice. The cooks make it soft." She assured him, brushing a hand on his arm. Light, he was swiftly losing his real hunger. He collected himself and leaned in for a whisper.

"I suggest, after you pick a mark, you take your earnings someplace safe. Even above the crowd, I can hear the jingle." He said. Her breath caught, and she took a step back. She had not tried to steal from him, yet, at least. However, it sobered her up and she nodded.

"I'll fetch that mutton." She squeaked, hurrying away.

"One surprise and she's clutching her skirts." Zoya breathed, though she seemed slightly relieved Davian had dried whatever was happening between them. It was only pragmatic. They did not have time for the thief taker to be involved with anyone. Davian did not recognize one emotion he saw, however. She wouldn't be jealous, he told himself. The clogs and more casual footwear of the foreigners had quieted down, as if a wolf stalked through the brush. Despite the continual hushed conversations of patrons, Zoya and Davian noticed it at the same time. The gleeman's voice carried with the silence.

“Daughter of the Night, she walks again." He said, his ashen face as wizened as his tattered cloak. To Davian, he seemed like an emaciated horse on its last walk. "The ancient war, she yet fights. Her new lover she seeks, who shall serve her and die, yet serve still. Who shall stand against her coming? Only the blue and the black, and her old lovers will. The Shining Walls shall kneel. Blood feeds blood. Blood calls blood. Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.”

It seemed a familiar tale to Davian, but he did not know from where. "This sounds familiar..."

Zoya’s lips pursed in sour disapproval as the gleeman sang on, winding through the dire and ancient verses. The serving maid returned and set down two plates of mutton, long slender shanks served in a heavily herbed gravy. Rough brown bread baked into fist sized loaves accompanied it, along with stringy looking potatoes and vegetables. Zoya was absolutely certain that Maddy’s table would have been better provisioned and safer besides but that battle had already been lost.

“It is the Ley of Lanfear,” Zoya told him quietly as she tore her bread in half and began sopping up gravy and popping it into her mouth. Some Aes Sedai became picky eaters after they got out of their long novitiates but Zoya had never lost the urchin's instinct to eat while and what one could.

“The Forsaken?” Davian asked in some alarm. Zoya wished she could say something witty, like ‘no, the chambermaid,’ but her oaths prevented her from such petty rhetorical satisfaction. Instead she contented herself with nodding.
“Rumor has it the original verse was composed by Asmodean himself, though to be honest I dont find Shelli’s analysis of the timber to be altogether…” she trailed off, pushing aside the pleasant nostalgia of the Brown Ajah’s endless debates on ancient texts.

“You sometimes hear it though usually it is the purview of… more elevated individuals. Dissolute nobles or those who consider themselves philosophers,” she told him. There was an attraction to that way of thinking, who wouldn’t want to know what the ancients had said and what they had said of themselves. Little writing survived that was attributed to the Foresaken themselves. In her darker moments Zoya wondered about that. There was so little material pertaining to those Ancient Aes Sedai, and yet they must have been the most talked about figures of their age. Could they or their agents be deliberately purging knowledge of themselves? There was no way to know.

“I cannot imagine it is a very wise choice of song,” she said at last. “Not with Whitecloaks on the prowl.”