"Agelmar Jagad and Davram Bashere will no leave the Blight, I think, and Pedron Niall will surely no be of use to you. (Sheriam, FOH ch 27)

Who was this Davram Bashere, and why was Elaida so frantic to find him? Why had Elaida forbidden anyone to mention the name of Mazrim Taim, the false Dragon, with a threat of stiff penalties? Why had Queen Tenobia of Saldaea and King Easar of Shienar both written letters politely but stiffly resenting White Tower meddling in their affairs? (FOH ch 40)

"I will not turn back," she went on fiercely, "whatever the rest of you do. I sent my dear Uncle Davram to bring me the head of the false Dragon Mazrim Taim, and now he and Taim both follow this al'Thor, if I can believe half what I hear. I have close to fifty thousand men behind me, and whatever you decide, I will not turn back until my uncle and al'Thor learn exactly who rules Saldaea." (POD, prologue)

"And I have five more," Tenobia put in as if announcing she had a new pair of slippers. "They found me just before I left Saldaea. By chance, I'm sure; they appeared as surprised as I was. Once they learned what I was doing-I still don't know how they did, but they did- once they learned, I was sure they'd go scurrying to find Memara." Her brows furrowed in a momentary glare. Elaida had miscalculated badly in sending a sister to try bullying Tenobia. "Instead," she finished, "Illeisien and the rest were more intent on secrecy than I." (POD, prologue)

The man approaching up the lone, red-and-white-tiled floor was certainly no Andorman, in his short gray coat and those baggy trousers stuffed into boots turned down at the knee. Slender and only a head taller than Enaila, he had a hooked beak of'a nose and dark tilted eyes. Gray streaked his black hair and a thick mustache like down,curved horns around his wide mouth. He paused to make a leg and bow slightly, handling the curved sword at his hip gracefully despite the fact that incongruously he carried two silver goblets in one hand and a sealed pottery jar in the other.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said, "but there was no one to announce me." His clothes might be plain and even travel-worn, but he had what appeared to be an ivory rod capped with a golden wolf's head thrust behind his sword belt. "I am Davram Bashere, Marshal-General of Saldaea. I am here to speak with the Lord Dragon, who rumors in the city say is here, in the Royal Palace. I assume that I address him?" For an instant his eyes went to the glittering Dragons twining red-and-gold around Rand's arms. (FOH ch 56)

"In truth," Bashere continued, "I cannot even speak for Saldaea. Tenobia rules; I am only her general. But I think once I send a fast rider to her with a message, the return will be that Saldaea marches -with the Dragon Reborn. In the meanwhile, I offer you my services, and those of, nine thousand Saldaean horse." (FOH ch 56)

He pulled open a small door, intending to find his way to the pantry. There should be some decent wine. One step, and he stopped, the blood draining from his face.

"You? No!" The word still hung in the air when death took him. (FOH ch 56)

Bashere took advantage of the silence. "You say you're Mazrim Taim?" He sounded doubtful, and Rand looked at him in confusion. Was this Taim or not? Only a madman would claim that name if it was not his. (LOC, ch 2)

"Do you loiter when you have been summoned by the Great Lord?" The voice sounded like rotted leather crumbling.

Demandred turned slowly- how dare a Halfman address him in that tone- but the quelling words died in his mouth. It was not the eyeless stare of its pasty-pale face; a Myrddraal's gaze struck fear in any man, but he had rooted fear out of himself long ago. Rather, it was the black-clad creature itself. Every Myrddraal was the height of a tall man, a sinuous imitation of a man, as alike as though cast in one mold. This one stood head and shoulders taller.

"I will take you to the Great Lord," the Myrddraal said. "I am Shaidar Haran." (LOC, prologue)

Only she herself knew that she had made her own journey to Shayol Ghul and down to the lake of fire. Only she knew that the Great Lord had all but promised to name her Nae'blis, a promise sure to be fulfilled with al'Thor out of the way. (LOC, ch 23)

She gaped at the Myrddraal standing there, pale and eyeless and clothed in black deeper than the ball, but larger than any she had ever seen. It had to be the reason she could not sense the Source, but that was impossible! Except. . . . Where had that strange sphere of black light come from if not from it? She had never felt the same fear others did at a Myrddraal's gaze, not to the same degree, yet her hands rose on their own, and she had to snatch them down to keep from covering her face. Glancing toward Moghedien and Cyndane, she flinched. They had adopted the same pose as her servants, crouching on their knees, heads to the floor toward the Myrddraal.

She had to work moisture into her mouth. "You are a messenger from the Great Lord?" Her voice was steady, but weak. She had never heard of such a thing, the Great Lord sending a message by Myrddraal, and yet. . . . Moghedien was a physical coward, but still one of the Chosen, and she groveled as assiduously as the girl. And there was the light. Graendal found herself wishing her dress were not cut so low. Ridiculous, of course; Myrddraal's appetites for women were well known, but she was one of the. . . . Her eyes drifted to Moghedien once more. The Myrddraal strode by her sinuously, seeming not to pay her any heed. Its long black cloak hung undisturbed by its movements. Aginor had thought the creatures were not quite in the world in the same way everything else was; "slightly out of phase with time and reality," he had called it, whatever that meant.

"I am Shaidar Haran." Stopping by her servants, the Myrddraal bent to grip them by the backs of their necks, one hand to each. "When I speak, you may consider that you hear the voice of the Great Lord of the Dark." Those hands tightened to the surprisingly loud sound of cracking bone. The young man spasmed as he died, kicking out; the young woman merely went limp. They had been two of her prettiest. The Myrddraal straightened from the corpses. "I am his hand in this world, Graendal. When you stand before me, you stand before him." (POD, ch 12)

"Take this to Lord Ituralde with all speed," she said, "and say only what I told you."

"As fast as horses can carry me, my Lady." Nazran bowed as he took the letter, one finger stroking thin black mustaches above a winning smile. Square and deeply brown in a well-fitting blue coat, he was handsome; just not sufficiently handsome. "I received this from the Lady Tuva, who died of her wounds after telling me that she was a courier from Alsalam and had been attacked by a Gray Man."

"Make sure there is human blood on it," she admonished. She doubted anyone in this time could tell human blood from any other, but she had found too many surprises to take an unnecessary chance. "Enough for realism; not enough to spoil what I wrote.

"His black eyes lingered warmly on her as he bowed again, but as soon as he straightened he hurried to the door, boots thudding on the pale yellow marble floor. He did not notice the servants with their eyes fixed ardently on her, or affected not to notice, though he had once been a friend of the young man. Only a touch of Compulsion had been needed to make Nazran nearly as avid to obey as they, not to mention certain that he might yet taste her charms again.

She laughed softly. Well, he believed he had tasted them; just a little prettier, and he might have. Of course, he would have been useless for anything else then. He would ride horses to death reaching Ituralde, and if that message, delivered by Alsalam's close cousin, supposedly coming from the King himself and with Gray Men trying to stop it, did not satisfy the Great Lord's command to increase chaos, nothing would, short of balefire. And it would serve her own ends very nicely as well. Her own ends. (POD, ch 12)

BWB: Kamarile Maradim Nindar, aka Graendal, was adept at intrigue, and one thing she had attributed to her was the strange harmful behavior of people in high office, and got credited with a variety of subversion efforts.

We have: all the borderland rulers abandoning their posts and turning their backs on the white tower, sisters turning their backs on the white tower, Bashere going awol, Bashere possibly being in the place where Asmodean was killed shortly after his leaving it (the wine pantry) and Bashere not recognizing Taim. Also, we have Graendal having visited Shayol Ghul before the appearance of Shaidar Haran at the beginning of LOC and having received the promise of great rewards, presumably for doing something noteworthy. So she was also there before Demandred got his marching orders. She is already active elsewhere in the northern parts of Randland, causing chaos in military matters.

What does it add up to? Chaos and misdirection.

I believe that Graendal is behind the rulers abandoning their posts in the borderlands and turning their backs on the white tower, using her abilities of compulsion. She may also be connected to the sisters going on their own instead of reporting to the tower.

As for Bashere going awol, note that he was possibly at the same location where Asmodean was killed. She probably compelled Bashere to decide to stay in Caemlyn as part of her ploy to get Tenobia to leave her post and chase after him, stripping the borderlands of defenses. As for Bashere not recognizing Taim, his mental abilities were probably diminished somewhat due to the level of compulsion used on him. And her keeping her own visit secret hints at her own agenda, separate from the orders she got from the Dark One, via Demandred.

I think she killed Asmodean because he might recognize her handiwork and blow the whistle on her to Rand.

Flame away :)