Page 181

"…And the other on-a red eagle, an eye on a balance scale, a dagger with a ruby, a horn, and a laughing face…."

Shadow’s Waiting

(Page 237-242)

"You can sleep anytime," Mat said determinedly. "Look at where we are. A ruined city. Treasure."

"Treasure?" Perrin’s jaws cracked. "There isn’t any treasure here. There isn’t anything but dust."

Rand shaded his eyes against the sun, a red ball sitting close to the rooftops. It’s getting late, Mat. It’ll be dark soon."

"There could be treasure," Mat maintained stoutly. "Anyway, I want to climb one of the towers. Look at that one over there. It’s whole. I’ll bet you could see for miles from up there. What do you say?"

"The towers are not safe," said a man’s voice behind them.

Rand leaped to his feet and spun around clutching his sword hilt, and the others were just as quick. A man stood among the columns at the top of the stairs. He took half a step forward, raised his hands to shield his eyes, and stepped back again. "Forgive me," he said smoothly. I have been quite a long time in the dark inside. My eyes are not yet used to the light."

"Who are you?" Rand thought the man’s accent sounded odd, even after Baerlon; some words he pronounced strangely, so Rand could barely understand them. "What are you doing here? We thought the city was empty."

More

(Page 257-263)

Then he saw a light ahead, just a single point. As they drew closer he could see that the light was well above the river, as if it were in a tree. Thom quickened his pace and began to hum under his breath.

Finally they could make out the source of the light, a lantern hoisted atop the mast of a large trader’s boat, tied up for the night beside a small clearing in the trees. The boat, a good eighty feet long, shifted slightly with the current, tugging against the mooring ropes tied to trees. The rigging hummed and creaked in the wind. The lantern doubled the moonlight on the deck, but no one was in sight.

More

Chapter 24

…Flight Down the Arinelle

The Spray made haste slowly down the Arinelle. The wind came strong, but from directions that made the sails useless. With all Captain Domon’s demand for speed, the vessel crept along. By night a man in the bows cast a tallowed lead by lantern light, calling back the depths to the steersman, while the current carried her downriver against the wind with the sweeps pulled in. There were no rocks to fear in the Arinelle, but shallows and shoals were aplenty, where a boat could go hard to ground to remain, bows and more dug into the mud, until help came. If it was help that came first. By day the sweeps worked from sunrise too sunset, but the wind found them as if it wanted to push the boat back upriver.

More-page 304

(Page 162)

The square room within was spacious, its pale stone walls bare. The only furnishing was a long stone table draped with a white cloth, in the middle of the room. Mat lay on that table, fully clothed save for coat and boots, eyes clothes face so gaunt that Egwene wanted to cry. His labored breathing made a hoarse whistle. The Shadar Logoth dagger hung sheathed at his belt, the ruby capping its hilt seemed to gather light, so it glowed like some fierce red eye despite the illumination of a dozen lamps, magnified by the pale walls and white-tiled floor.

The Amyrlin Seat stood at Mat’s head, and Leane at his feet. Four Aes Sedai stood down one side of the table, and three down the other. Sheriam joined the three. One of them was Verin. Egwene recognized Serafelle another Brown sister, and Alanna Mosvani, and Anaiya, of the Blue, which was Moiraine’s Ajah.

Allana and Anaiya had each taught her some of her lessons in opening herself to the True Source, in how to surrender to saidar in order to control it. And between her first arrival in the White Tower and her departure, Anaiya must have tested her fifty times to see if she was a Dreamer. The tests had shown nothing one way or the other, but plain-faced, kindly Anaiya, with that warm smile that was her only beauty, had kept calling her back for more tests, as implacable as a boulder rolling downhill.

The rest were unknown to her, except for one cool-eyed woman she thought was a White. The Amyrlin and the Keeper wore their stoles, of course, but none of the others had anything to mark them out except Great Serpent rings and ageless Aes Sedai faces. None of them acknowledged the presence of Egwene and the other two by so much as a glance.

Despite the outward calm of the women around the table, Egwene thought she saw signs of uncertainty. A tightness to Anaiya’s mouth. A slight frown on Allana’s darkly beautiful face. The cool-eyed woman kept smoothing her pale blue dress over her thighs without seeming to realize what she was doing.

An Aes Sedai Egwene did not know set a plain, polished wooden box, long and narrow, on the table and opened it. From its nest in the red silk lining, the Amyrlin took out a white, fluted wand the length of her forearm. It could have been bone, or ivory, but was neither. No one alive knew what it was made of.

Egwene had never seen the wand before, bot she recognized it from a lecture Anaiya had given the novices. One of the few sa’angreal, and perhaps the most powerful, that the Tower possessed. Sa’angreal had not power of their own, of course-they were merely devices for focusing and magnifying what an Aes Sedai could channel-but with that wand, a strong Aes Sedai might be able to crumple the walls of Tar Valon.

Egwene clutched Nynaeve’s hand on one side and Elayne’s on the other. Light! They’re not sure they can heal him, even with a sa’angreal-with that sa’angreal! What chance would we have had? We’d probably have killed him, and ourselves, too. Light!

"I will meld the flows," the Amyrlin said. "Be careful. The Power to break the bond with the dagger and Heal is very close to what could kill him. I will focus. Attend." She held the wand straight out in front of her in both hands, above Mat’s face. Still unconscious, he shook his head and tightened a fist on the dagger’s hilt, muttering something that sounded like a denial.

A glow appeared around each Aes Sedai, that soft, white light that only a woman that could channel could see. Slowly the lights spread, until that that which seemed to emanate from one woman touched that which touched that which came from the woman beside her, merged with it, till there was only one light, a light that, to Egwene’s eyes, diminished the lamps to nothing. And in that brightness was a stronger light still. A bar of bone-white fire. The sa’angreal.

Egwene fought the urge to open herself to saidar and add her flow to the tide. It was a pull so strong that she was about to be jerked off her feet. Eleyne tightened her hold on her hand. Nyneave took a step the table, then stopped with an angry shake of her head. Light, Egwene thought, I could do it. But she did not know what it was she could do. Light, it’s so strong. It’s so-wonderful. Elayne’s hand was trembling.

On the table, Mat thrashed in the middle of the glow, jerking this way, then that, muttering incomprehensibly. But he did not loosen his hold on the dagger, and his eyes remained closed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to arch his back, muscles straining till he shook. Still he fought and bucked, until finally only his heels and shoulders touched the table. His hand on the dagger sprang open and, quivering, crept back from the hilt; was forced, fighting, from the hilt. His lips skinned away from his teeth in a snarl, a grimace of pain, and his breath came in forced grunts.

"They’re killing him," Egwene whispered. "The Amyrlin is killing him! We have to do something."

Just as softly, Nynaeve said, "If we stop them-if we could stop them-he’ll die. I do not think I could handle half that much of the Power." She paused as if she had just heard her own words-that she could channel half of what ten full Aes Sedai did with a sa’angreal-and her voice grew even fainter. "Light help me, I want to."

She fell silent abruptly. Did she mean that she wanted to help Mat, or that she wanted to channel that flow of Power? Egwene could feel that urge in herself, like a song that compelled her to dance.

"We must trust them," Nynaeve said in an intense whisper, finally. "He has no other chance."

Suddenly Mat shouted, loud and strong. "Muad’drin tia dar allende caba’drin rhadiem!" Arched and struggling, eyes squeezed shut, he bellowed the words clearly. "Los Valdar Cuebiyari! Los! Carai an Caldazar! Al Caldazar!"

Egwene frowned. She had learned enough to recognize the Old Tongue, if not to understand more than a few words. Carai an Caldazar! Al Caldazar!" "For the honor of the Red Eagle! For the Red Eagle!" Ancient battle cries of Manetheren, a nation that had vanished during the Trolloc wars. A nation that had stood where the Two Rivers was now. That much, she knew; but it seemed for a moment that she should understand the rest, too, as if the meaning were just out of sight, and all she had to do was turn her head to know.

With a loud pop of tearing leather, the golden-sheathed dagger rose from Mat’s belt, hung a foot above his straining body. The ruby glittered, seemed to send off crimson sparks, as if it, too, fought the Healing.

Mat’s eyes opened, and he glared at the women standing around him. "Mia ayende, Aes Sedai! Caballein muisain ye! Inde muagdhe Aes Sedai misain ye! Mia ayende!" And he began to scream, a roar of rage that went on and on, till Egwene wondered that he had breath left in him.

Hurriedly Anaiya bent to lift a dark metal box from under that table, moving as if it were heavy. When she set it beside Mat and opened the lid, only a small space was revealed within sides at least two inches thick. Anaiya bent again for a set of tongs such as a goodwife might use in her kitchen, and grasped the floating dagger in them as carefully as if it were a poisonous snake.

Mat’s scream grew frantic. The ruby shone furiously, flashing blood-red.

The Aes Sedai thrust the dagger into the box and snapped the lid down, letting out a loud sigh as it clicked shut. "A filthy thing," she said.

As soon as the dagger was hidden, Mat’s shriek cut off and he collapsed as if muscle and bone had turned to water. An instant later the glow surrounding Aes Sedai and table winked out.

"Done," the Amyrlin said hoarsely, as if she had been the one screaming. "It is done."

Some of the Aes Sedai sagged visibly, and sweat beaded on more than one brow. Anaiya pulled a plain linen handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her face openly. The cool-eyed White dabbed almost surreptitiously at her cheeks with a bit of Lugard lace.

"Fascinating," Verin said. "That the Old Blood could flow so strongly in anyone today." She and Serafelle put their heads together, talking softly, but with many gestures.

"Is he Healed?" Nynaeve said. "Will he…live?"

Mat lay as if sleeping, but his face still had that hollow-cheeked gauntness. Egwene had never of Healing that did not cure everything. Unless just separating him from the dagger took all of the Power they used. Light!

"Brendas," the Amyrlin said, "will you see that he is taken back to his room?"

"As you command, Mother," the cool-eyed woman said, her curtsy as emotionless as she herself seemed. When she left to sommon bearers, several of the other Aes Sedai left, too, including Anaiya. Verin and Serafelle followed, still talking to one another too quietly for Egwene to make out what they said.

"Is Mat all right?" Nynaeve demanded. Sheriam raised her eyebrows.

The Amyrlin Seat turned toward them. "He is as well as he can be," she said coldly. "Only time will tell. Carrying something with Shadar Logoth’s taint for so long…who knows what effect it will have on him? Perhaps none, perhaps much. We will see. But the bond with the dagger is broken. New he needs rest, and as much food as can be gotten into him. He should live."

"What was that he was shouting, Mother?" Elayne asked, then hastily added, "If I may ask."

"he was ordering soldiers." The Amyrlin gave the young man lying on the table a quizzical look. He had not moved since collapsing, but Egwene thought his breathing seemed easier, the rise and fall of his chest more rhythmic. "In a battle two thousand years gone, I would say. The Old Blood comes again."

"It was not all about a battle," Nynaeve said. "I heard him say Aes Sedai. That was no battle, Mother," she added belatedly.

For a moment the Amyrlin seemed to consider, perhaps what to say, perhaps whether to say anything. "For a time," she said finally, "I believe the past and the present were one. He was there, and he was here, and he knew who we were. He commanded us to release him." She paused again. "‘I am a free man, Aes Sedai. I am no Aes Sedai meat.’ That is what he said."

Leanne sniffed loudly, and some of the other Aes Sedai muttered angrily under their breath.

"But, Mother," Egwene said, "he could not have meant it as it sounds. Manetheren was allied with Tar Valon."

"Manetheren was an ally, child," the Amyrlin told her, "but who can know the heart of a man? Not even himself I suspect. A man is the easiest animal to put on a leash, and the hardest to keep leashed. Even when he chooses it himself."

"Mother," Sheriam said, "it’s late. The cooks will be waiting for these helpers."

"Mother," Egwene asked anxiously, "could we not stay with Mat? If he still may die…"

The Amyrlin’s look was level, her face without expression. "You have chores to do, child."

It was not scrubbing pots she meant. Egwene was sure of that. "Yes, Mother." She curtsied, her skirts brushing Nynaeve’s and Elayne’s as they made theirs. One last time she looked at Mat, then followed Sheriam out. Mat had still not moved.

Chapter 19

Awakening

Mat opened his eyes slowly and stared up at the white plaster ceiling, wondering where he was and how he had come there. An intricate fringe of gilded leaves bordered the ceiling, and the mattress under his back felt plumped full of feathers. Somewhere rich, then. Somewhere with money. But his head was empty of the where and the how, and a lot more besides.

He had been dreaming, and bits of those dreams still tumbled together with memories in his head. He could not separate one from the other. Wild flights and fights, strange people from across the ocean, Ways and Portal Stones and pieces of other lives, things right out of a gleeman’s tales, these had to be dreams. At least, he thought they must be. But Loial was no dream, and he was an Ogier. Chunks of conversations drifted around in his thoughts, talks with his father, with friends, with Moiraine, and a beautiful woman, and a ship captain, and a well-dressed man who spoke to him like a father giving sage advice. Those were probably real. But it was all bits and fragments. Drifting.

"Muad’drin tia dar allende caba’drin rhadien," he murmured. The words were only sounds, yet they sparked.-something.

Mat’s hand trembled as he raised it to his forehead. "Los Valdar Cuebiyari," he muttered. He was almost sure he knew what it meant-"Forward the Heart Guard," or maybe "The Heart Guard will advance"-but that could not be. Moiraine had told him a few words of the Old Tongue, and those were all he knew of it. The rest might as well be magpie chatter.

"Crazy," he said roughly. "It probably isn’t the Old Tongue at all. Just gibberish. That Aes Sedai is crazy. It was only a dream."

Aes Sedai. Moiraine. He suddenly became aware of his too-thin wrist and bony hand, and looked at them. He had been sick. Something to do with a dagger. A dagger with a ruby in the hilt, and a long-dead, tainted city called Shadar Logoth. It was all foggy and distant, and made no real sense, but he knew it was no dream. Egwene and Nynaeve had been taking him to Tar Valon to be Healed. He remembered that much.

He tried to sit up, and fell back, as weak as a newborn lamb. Laboriously, he pulled himself up and shoved the single woolen blanket aside. His clothes were gone, perhaps into the vine-carved wardrobe standing against the wall. For a moment he did not care about clothes. He struggled to his feet, tottered across the flowered carpet to cling to a high-backed armchair, and lurched from the chair to the table gilded scrolls on its legs and edges.

Beeswax candles, four to each tall stand and small mirrors behind the flames, lit the room brightly. A larger mirror on the wall above the highly polished washstand threw his reflection back at him, gaunt and wasted, cheeks hollow and dark eyes sunken, hair sweat-matted, bent like an old man and wavering like pasture grass in a breeze. He made himself stand straight, but it was not much improvement.

A large, covered tray sat on the table in front of his hands, and his nose caught the smells of food. He twitched aside the cloth, revealing two large silver pitchers and dishes of thin green porcelain. He had heard that the Sea Folk charged its weight in silver for that porcelain. He had expected beef tea, or sweetbreads, the kinds of things invalids had pushed on them. Instead, one plate held slices of a beef roast piled thickly, with brown mustard and horseradish. On others there were roasted potatoes, sweetbeans with onions, cabbage, and butterpeas. Pickles, and a wedge of yellow cheese. Thick slices of crusty bread, and a dish of butter. One pitcher was filled with milk and still beaded with condensation the outside, the other with what smelled like spiced wine. There was enough of everything for four men. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled at him.

First I fin out where I am. But he rolled up a slice of beef and dipped it in the mustard before pushing himself away from the table toward the three tall, narrow windows.

Wooden shutters carved in lacy patterns covered them, but through the holes he could see that it was night outside. Lights from other windows made dots in the blackness. For a moment he sagged against the white stone windowsill in frustration, but he began to think.

You can turn the worst that comes to your advantage if you only think, his father always said, and certainly Abell Cauthon was the best horse trader in the Two Rivers. When it seemed somebody had taken advantage of Mat’s father, it always turned out they had gotten the greasy end of the stick. Not that Abell Cauthon ever did anything dishonest, but even Taren Ferry folk never got the best of him, and everybody knew how close to the bone they cut. All because he thought about things from every side that there was.

Tar Valon. It had to be Tar Valon. This room belonged in a palace. The flowered Domani carpet alone probably cost as much as a farm. More, he did not think he was sick any longer, and from what he had been told, Tar Valon was his only chance to get well. He had never actually felt sick, not that he remembered, not even when Verin-another name swan out of the haze-he told someone nearby that that he was dying. Now he felt weak as a babe and hungry as a starving wolf, but somehow, he was sure the Healing had been done. I feel-whole and well, that’s all. I’ve been Healed. He grimaced at the shutters.

Healed. That meant they had used the One Power on him. The notion sent goose bumps marching across his skin, but he had known it would be done. "Better than dying," he told himself. Some of the stories he had heard about Aes Sedai came back. "It has to be better than dying. Even Nynaeve thought I was going to die. Anyway, it’s done, and worrying about it now won’t help anything." He realized he had finished the slice of beef and was licking its juice from his fingers.

Unsteadily, he made his way back to the table. There was a stool underneath. He pulled it out and sat down. Not bothering with knife or fork, he made another roll of beef. How could he turn being in Tar Valon-In the White Tower. It has to be-to his advantage?

Tar Valon meant Aes Sedai. That was certainly no reason to stay even an hour. Exactly the opposite. What he remembered of his time with Moiraine, and later with Verin, was not much to go on. He could not recall either doing anything really terrible, but then he could not recall a great deal of that time at all. Anyway, whatever Aes Sedai did, they did for their own reasons.

"And those aren’t always the ones you think they are," he mumbled around a mouthful of potato, then swallowed. "An Aes Sedai never lies, but the truth an Aes Sedai tells you isn’t always the truth you think it is. That’s one thing I have to remember: I can’t be sure about them even when I think I know." It was not a cheering conclusion. He filled his mouth with butterpeas.

Thinking about Aes Sedai made him remember a little about them. The seven Ajahs: Blue, Red, Brown, Green, Yellow, White, and Gray. The Reds were the worst. Except for that Black Ajah they all claim doesn’t exist. But the Red Ajah would be no threat to him. They were only interested in men who could channel.

Rand. Burn me, how could I forget that? Where is he? Is he all right? He sighed regretfully, and spread butter on a piece of still-warm bread. I wonder if he’s gone mad yet.

Even if he knew the answers, he could do nothing to help Rand. He was not sure he would if he could. Rand could channel, and Mat had grown up with stories of men channeling, stories to frighten children. Stories that frightened adults, too, because some of them were all too true. Discovering what Rand could do had been like finding out his best friend tortured small animals and killed babies. Once you finally made yourself believe it, it was hard to call him a friend any longer.

"I have to look out for myself," he said angrily. He upended the wine pitcher over his silver cup and was surprised to find it empty. He filled the cup with milk, instead. "Egwene and Nynaeve want to be Aes Sedai." He had not really remembered that until he said it aloud. "Rand is following Moiraine around and calling himself the Dragon Reborn. The Light knows what Perrin is up to. He’s been acting crazy ever since his eyes turned funny. I have to look out for myself." Burn me, I have to! I’m the last one of us that’s still sane. There’s only me.

Tar Valon. Well it was supposed to be the wealthiest city in the world, and it was the center of trade between the Borderlands and the south, the center of Aes Sedai power. He did not think he could get an Aes Sedai to gamble with him. Or trust the fall of the dice or the turn of the cards if he did. But there had to be merchants, and others with silver and gold. The city itself would be worth a few days. He knew he had traveled far since leaving the Two Rivers, but aside from a few vague memories of Caemlyn and Cairhien, he could remember nothing of any great cities. He had always wanted to see a great city.

"But not one full of Aes Sedai," he muttered sourly, scraping up the last of the butterpeas. He gulped them down and went back for another helping of beef.

Idly, he wondered if the Aes Sedai might let him have the ruby from the Shadar Logoth dagger. He remembered the dagger in only the fuzziest way, but even that was like remembering a terrible injury. His insides knotted up, and sharp pain dug at his temples. Yet the ruby was clear in his mind, as big as his thumbnail, dark as a drop of blood, glittering like some crimson eye. Surely he had more claim to it than they did, and it had to be worth as much as a dozen farms back home.

They’ll probably say it is tainted, too. And likely it was. Still he spun a little fancy of trading the ruby to some of the Coplins for their bast lands. Most of that family-troublemakers from the cradle, where they were not thieves and liars as well-deserved whatever happened to them and more. But he really did not believe the Aes Sedai would give it back to him, did not relish the notion of carrying it as far as Emond’s Field if they did. And the thought of owning the largest farm in the Two Rivers was no longer as exciting as it once had been. Once that had been his biggest ambition, that, and to be known as his father’s equal as a horse trader. Now it seemed such a small thing to want. A cramped thing, with the whole wide world just waiting out there.

First off, he decided, he would find Egwene and Nynaeve. Maybe they’ve come to their senses. Maybe they’ve given up this foolishness about becoming Aes Sedai. He did not think they would have, but he could not go without seeing them. He would go; that was sure. A visit with them, a day to see the city, perhaps a game with the dice to pad out his purse, and then he would be off for somewhere where there were no Aes Sedai. Before he returned he returned home-I will go home one day. One day, I will-he meant to see something of the world, and without any Aes Sedai making him dance to her tune.

Rummaging around the tray for something more to eat, he was shocked to realize nothing was left but smears and a few crumbs of bread and cheese. The pitchers were both empty. He squinted down at his stomach in wonder. He should have been stuffed to the ears with all that in him, by he felt as if he had hardly eaten at all. He scrapped the last bits of cheese together between thumb and forefinger. Halfway to his mouth, his hand froze.

I blew the horn of Valere. Softly he whistled a bit of a tune, then cut it short when the words came to him:

I’m down at the bottom of the well.

It’s night, and the rain is coming down.

The sides are falling in,

And there’s no rope to climb.

I’m down at the bottom of the well.

"There had better be a bloody rope to climb," he whispered. He let the cheese crumbs fall on the tray. For the moment he felt sick again. Determinedly he tried to think, tried to penetrate the fog that shrouded everything in his head.

Verin had been bringing the Horn to Tar Valon, but he could not remember if she knew he was the one who had blown it. She had never said anything to make him think so. He was sure of that. He thought he was. So what if she does know? What if they all do? Unless Verin did something with it I don’t know about, they have the Horn. They don’t need me. But who could say what Aes Sedai thought they needed?

"If they ask me," he said grimly, "I never even touched it. If they know….If they know, I’ll…I’ll handle that when it comes. Burn me, they can’t want anything from me. They can’t!"

A soft knock on the door brought him swaying to his feet, ready to run. If there had been any place to run to, and if he could have managed more than three steps. But there was not, and he could not.

The door opened.

Chapter 20

Visitations

The woman who came in, dressed all in white silk and silver, shut the door behind her and leaned back against it to study him with the darkest eyes Mat had ever seen. She was so beautiful he almost forgot to breath, with hair as black as night held by a finely woven silver band, and as graceful in repose as another woman would be dancing. He halfway thought that he knew her, but he rejected the idea out of hand. No man could ever forget a woman like her.

"You may be passable, I suppose, once you fill out again," she said, "but for now, perhaps you could put on something."

For an instant Mat continued to stare at her, then suddenly he realized he was standing there naked. Face scarred, he shambled to the bed, pulled the blanket around himself like a cloak, and more fell than sat down on the edge of the mattress. "I’m sorry for…I mean, I…that is, I didn’t expect…I…I…" He drew a deep breath. "I apologize for your finding me this way."

He could still feel the heat in his cheeks. For a moment he wished that Rand, whatever he had become, or even Perrin were there to advise him. They always seemed to get on well with women. Even girls who knew that Rand was all but promised to Egwene used to stare at him, and they seemed to think Perrin’s slow ways were gentle and attractive. However hard he tried, he always managed to make a fool of himself in front of girls. As he had just done.

"I would not have visited you in this way, Mat, except that I was here in the…White Tower-" She smiled as if the name amused her-"for another purpose, and I wanted to see all of you." Mat’s face reddened again, and he tugged the blanket around him tighter, but she seemed not to have been teasing him. More graceful than a swan, she glided to the table. "You are hungry. That’s to be expected, the way they do things. Make sure you eat all they give you. You will be surprised at how quickly you put weight back and regain strength."

"Pardon," Mat said diffidently, "but do IU know you? Meaning no offense, but you seem…familiar." She looked at him until he began to shift uneasily. A woman like her would expect to be remembered.

"You may have seen me," she said finally. "Somewhere. Call me Selene." Her head tilted slightly; she appeared to be waiting for him to recognize the name.

It tugged at the edges of memory. He thought he must have heard it before, but he could not say when or where. "Are you an Aes Sedai, Selene?"

"No." The word was soft but surprisingly emphatic.

For the first time, he studied her, able now to see more than her beauty. She was almost as tall as he was, slender and, he suspected from the way she moved, strong. He was not sure of her age-a year or two older than he, or maybe as much as ten-but her cheeks were smooth. Her necklace of smooth white stones and woven silver matched her wide belt, but she did not wear the Great Serpent ring. The absence should not have surprised him-no Aes Sedai would ever say right out that that she was not-yet it did. There was an air about her-a self-confidence, a surety in her own power to match any queen’s, and something more-that he associated with Aes Sedai.

"You aren’t by any chance a novice, are you?" He had heard that novices wore white, but he could not really believe it of her. She makes Elayne look like a cringer. Elayne. Another name drifted into his head.

"Hardly that," Selene said with a wry twist to her mouth. "Let us just say that I am someone whose interests coincide with yours. These…Aes Sedai mean to use you, but you will like it, in the main, I think. And accept it. There is no need to convince you to seek out glory."

"Use me?" The memory returned to him of thinking that, but about Rand, that the Aes Sedai meant to use Rand, not him. They've no bloody use for me. Light, they can’t have! "What do you mean? I’m no one important. I am no use to anyone but myself. What kind of glory?"

"I knew that would pull you. You, above all."

Her smile made his head spin. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. The blanket slipped, and he caught it hastily before it could fall. "Now listen, they are not interested in me." What about me sounding the Horn? "I am just a farmer." Maybe they think I’m tied to Rand in some way. No, Verin said…. He was not sure what Vern had said, or Moiraine, but he thought most Aes Sedai knew nothing at all about Rand. He wanted to keep it that way, at least until he was a long way gone. "Just a simple country man. I only want to see a little of the world and go back to my da’s farm." What does she mean, glory?

Selene shook her head as if she could hear his thoughts. "You are more important than you yet know. Certainly more important than these so-called Aes Sedai know. You can have glory, if you know enough not to trust them."

"You certainly don’t sound as if you trust them." So-called? A thought came to him, but he could not manage to say it. "Are you a…? Are you…?" It was not the kind of thing you accused someone of.

"A Darkfriend?" Selene said mockingly. She sounded amused, not angered. She sounded contemptuous. "One of those pathetic followers of Ba’alzamon who think he will give them immortality and power? I follow no one. There is one man that I should stand beside, but I do not follow."

Mat laughed nervously. "Of course not." Blood and ashes, a Darkfriend wouldn’t name herself Darkfriend. Probably has a poisoned knife, if she is. He had a vague memory of a woman dressed as one nobly born, a Darkfriend with a deadly dagger in her slender hand. "That isn’t what I meant at all. You look….You look like a queen. That’s what I meant. Are you a lady?"

"Mat, Mat, you must learn to trust me. Oh, I will use you, too-you have too suspicious a nature, especially since carrying that dagger, for me to deny it-but my use will gain you wealth, and power, and glory. I will not compel you. I have always believed men perform better if convinced rather than forced. These Aes Sedai do not even realize how important you are, and he will try to dissuade or kill you, but I can give you what you desire."

"He?" Mat said sharply. Kill me? Light, it’s Rand they were after, not me. How does she know about the dagger? I suppose the whole Tower knows. "Who wants to kill me?"

Selene’s mouth tightened as if she had said too much. "You know what you want, Mat, and I know it every bit as well as you. You must choose who you will trust to gain it for you. I admit I will use you. These Aes Sedai will never do that. I will lead you to wealth and glory. They will keep you tied to a leash until you die."

"You say a lot," Mat said, "but how can I know it is true? How do I know I can trust you any more than I can them?"

"By listening to what they tell you, and what they do not. Will they tell you your father came to Tar Valon?"

"My da was here?"

"A man named Abel Cauthon, and another named Tam al’Thor. They made nuisances of themselves until they gained an audience, I have heard, wanting to know where you and your friends were. And Siuan Sanche sent them back to the Two Rivers with empty hands, not even letting them know you were alive. Will they tell you that, unless you ask? Perhaps not even then, for you might try to run away back home."

"My da thinks I am dead?" Mat said slowly.

"He can be told you live. I can see to it. Think on who to trust, Mat Cauthon. Will they tell you that even now Rand al’Thor is trying to escape, and the one called Moiraine is hunting him? Will they tell you that the Black Ajah infests their White Tower? Will they even tell you how they mean to use you?"

"Rand is trying to escape? But-"Maybe she knew Rand had proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn, and maybe she did not, but he would not tell her. The Black Ajah! Blood and bloody ashes! "Who are you, Selene? If you’re not Aes Sedai, what are you?"

Her smile hid secrets. "Just remember that there is another choice. You need not be a puppet for the White Tower or prey for Ba’alzamon’s Darkfriends. The world is more complex than you can imagine. Do as these Aes Sedai wish for the present, but remember your choices. Will you do that?"

"I don’t see that I have much choice at all," he said glumly. "I suppose I will."

Selene’s looked sharpened. Friendliness sloughed off her voice like an old snakeskin. "Suppose? I did not come to you like this, talk in this way, for suppose, Matrim Cauthon." She stretched out a slim hand.

Her hand was empty, and she stood halfway across the room, but he leaned back, away from her hand, as if she were right on top of him with a dagger. He did not know why, really, except that that there was a threat in her eyes, and he was sure it was real. His skin began to tingle, and his headache returned.

Suddenly tingle and pain vanished together, and Selene’e head whipped around as if listening to something beyond the walls. A tiny frown appeared on her face, and she lowered her hand. The frown vanished. "We will talk again, Mat. I have much to say to you. Remember your choices. Remember that there are many hands that would kill you. I alone guarantee you life, and all you seek, if you do as I say." She slipped out of the door as silently and gracefully as she had entered.

Mat let out a long breath. Sweat ran down his face. Who in the Light is she? A Darkfriend, perhaps. Except that she had sounded as contemptuous of Ba’alzamon as she was of Aes Sedai. Darfriends spoke of Ba’alzamon the way anyone else might speak of the Creator. And she had not asked him to conceal her visit from the Aes Sedai.

Right, he thought sourly. Pardon me, Aes Sedai, but this woman came to see me. She wasn’t Aes Sedai, but I think maybe she started to use the One Power on me, and she said she wasn’t a Darkfriend, but she did say that you mean to use me, and the Black Ajah’s in your Tower. Oh, and she said I’m important. I don’t know how. You don’t mind if I leave now, do you?

Going was beginning to be a better idea by the minute. He slid awkwardly off the bed and made his way unsteadily to the wardrobe, still clutching his blanket around him. His boots were on the floor inside, and his cloak hung from a peg, under his belt with a pouch and sheathed belt knife. It was just a country knife, with a stout blade, but it could do as much as any fine dagger. The rest of his clothes-two sturdy wool coats, three pairs of breeches, half a dozen linen shirts and smallclothes-had been brushed or washed as required, and neatly folded on the shelves that took up one side of the wardrobe. He felt the pouch hanging from the belt, but it was empty. Its contents lay jumbled on a shelf with what had been emptied from his pockets.

He brushed aside a red hawk’s feather, a smooth, striped rock he had liked the color of, his razor, and his bone-handled pocketknife, and freed his wash-leather purse from some coils of spare bowstring. When he tugged it open, he found that his memory had been all too good in this instance.

"Two silver marks and a handful of copper," he muttered. "I won’t get far on that." Once it would have seemed a small fortune to him, but that had been before he left Emond’s Field.

He stooped to peer back into the shelf. Where are they? He began to be afraid the Aes Sedai might have thrown them out, the way his mother would if she had ever found them. Where…? He felt a surge of relief. Way in the back, behind his tinderbox and ball of twine for snares and the like, were his two leather dice cups.

They rattled as he pulled them out, but he still popped off the tight-fitting round caps. Everything was as it should be. Five dice carved with symbols, for crowns, and five marked with spots. The spotted dice would do for a number of games, but more men seemed to play crowns than anything else. With these, his two marks would be enough to take him far away from Tar Valon. Away from Aes Sedai and Selene, both.

A peremptory knock was followed immediately by the door opening. He whirled around. The Amyrlin and the Keeper of the Chronicles were entering. He would have recognized them even without the Amyrlin’s broad, striped stole and the Keeper’s narrower blue stole. He ad seen them once and only once, a long way from Tar Valon, but he could not forget the two most powerful women among the Aes Sedai.

The Amyrlin’s eyebrows rose at the sight of him standing there with the blanket hanging from his shoulders and his purse and dice cups in his hands. "I don’t think you will need those for a while yet, my son," she said dryly. "Put them up and get back to bed before you fall on your face."

He hesitated, his back stiffening, but his knees chose that moment to wobble, and the two Aes Sedai were looking at him, dark eyes and blue alike appearing to read his every rebellious thought. He did as he was told, holding the blanket around him with both hands. He lay down straight as a board, not sure what else he could do.

"How are you feeling?" the Amyrlin asked briskly as she put a hand to his head. Goose bumps covered his shin. Had she done something with the One Power, or was it being touched by an Aes Sedai that made him feel a chill?

"I’m fine," he told her. "Why, I am ready to be on my way. Just let me say goodbye to Egwene and Nynaeve, and I’ll be out of your hair. I mean, I will go…uh, Mother." Moiraine and Verin had not seemed to care much how he talked, but this was the Amyrlin Seat, after all.

"Nonsense," the Amyrlin said. She pulled the high-backed chair around, closer to the bed, and sat, addressing Leane. "Men always seem to refuse to admit they are sick until they’re sick enough to make twice as much work for women. Then they claim they’re well too soon, with the same result."

The keeper glanced at Mat and nodded. "Yes, Mother, yet this one cannot claim he is well when he can barely stand up. At least he has eaten everything on his tray."

"I’d be surprised if he had left enough crumbs to interest a finch. And still hungry, unless I miss my guess."

"I could have someone bring him a pie, Mother. Or some cakes."

"No, I think he has had as much pie as he can hold for now. If he brings it all back up, it won’t do him any good."

Mat scowled. It seemed to him that when you got sick, you became invisible to women unless they were actually talking to you. And then they took at least ten years off your age. Nynaeve, his mother, his sisters, the Amyrlin Seat, they all did it.

"I’m not hungry at all," he announced. "I am fine. If you will let me put my clothes on, I’ll show you how well I am. I will be out of here before you know it." They were both looking at him, now. He cleared his throat. "Uh…Mother."

The Amyrlin snorted. "You’ve eaten a meal for five, and you will eat three or four like it every day for days yet, or else you will starve to death. You’ve just been Healed from a link to the evil that killed every man, woman, and child in Aridhol, and no less strong for near two thousand years waiting for you to pick it up. It was killing you just as surely as it killed them. That is not like having a fish spine stuck in your thumb, boy. We very nearly killed you trying to save you."

"I am not hungry," he maintained. His stomach growled loudly to give him the lie.

"I read you right the first time I saw you," the Amyrlin said. "I knew right then you’d bolt like a startled fisher-bird if you thought someone was trying to hold you. As well I took precautions."

He eyed them warily. "Precautions?" They looked back, all serenity. He felt as if their eyes were pinning him to the bed.

"Your name and description are on their way to the bridge guards," the Amyrlin said, "and the dockmasters. I’ll not try to hold you inside the Tower, but you will not leave Tar Valon until you are well. Should you try to hide in the city, hunger will drive you back here eventually, or if it doesn’t, we will find you before you starve."

"Why do you want to keep me here so badly?" He demanded. He heard Selene’s voice. They want to use you. "Why should you care whether I starve or not? I can feel myself."

The Amyrlin gave a small laugh with little amusement in it. ""With two silver marks and a handful of coppers, my son? Your dice would need to be very lucky indeed to buy all the food you’ll need in the next few days. We do not Heal people, then let them waste our efforts by dying while they still need care. I addition to which, you may yet need more Healing."

"More? You said you had Healed me. Why should I need more?"

"My son, you carried that dagger for months. I believe we dug every trace of it out of you, but if we missed even the smallest speck, it could still be fatal. And who knows what effect your having it in your possession so long may have? Half a year from now, a year, and you may wish you had Aes Sedai to hand to Heal you again."

"You want me to stay here a year?" he said incredulously, and loudly. Leane shifted her feet and eyed him sharply, but the Amyrlin’s calm features were unruffled.

"Perhaps not so long as that, my son. Long enough to be certain, though. Surely you want as much. Would you set sail in a boat when you didn’t know whether the caulking would hold, or whether a plank might be rotten?"

"I never had much to do with boats," Mat muttered. It might be true. Aes Sedai never lied, but there were too many mights and mays in it for him. "I’ve been gone from home a long time, Mother. MY da and my mother probably think I’m dead."

"If you wish to write a letter to them, I will see that it is carried to Emond’s Field."

Mat waited for more, but no more came. "Thank you, Mother." He essayed a small laugh. "I’m half surprised my da did not come looking for me. He’s the kind of man who would." He was not sure, but he thought there was a small hesitation before the Amyrlin answered.

"He did come. Leane spoke to him."

The Keeper took it up immediately. "We did not know where you were then, Mat. I told him so, and he left before the heavy snows. I gave him some gold to make the journey home easier."

"No doubt," the Amyrlin said, "he will pleased to hear from you. And your mother will, certainly. Give me the letter when you have written it, and I will see to it."

They had told him, but he had had to ask. And they didn’t mention Rand’s da. Maybe because they didn’t think I would care, and maybe because…. Burn me, I don’t know. Who can tell with Aes Sedai? "I was traveling with a friend, Mother. Rand al’Thor. You remember him. Do you know if he is alright? I’ll bet his da is worried, too."

As far as I know," the Amyrlin said smoothly, "the boy is well enough, but who can say? I have seen him only once, the time I saw you, in Fal Dara." She turned to the Keeper. "Perhaps he could do with a small piece of pie, Leane. And something for his throat, if he is going to do all this talking. Will you see that it is brought to him?"

The tall Aes Sedai left with a murmured, "As you command, Mother."

When the Amyrlin turned back to Mat, she was smiling, but her eyes were blue ice. "There are things that it would be dangerous for you to talk about, perhaps even in front of Leane. A flapping tongue has killed more men than sudden storms ever did."

"Dangerous, Mother?" His mouth felt suddenly parched, but he resisted the urge to lick his lips. Light, how much does she know about Rand? If only Moiraine didn’t keep so many secrets. "Mother, I don’t know anything dangerous. I can hardly remember half of what I do know."

"Do you remember the Horn?"

"What Horn is that, Mother?"

She was on her feet and looming over him so fast he hardly saw her move. "You play games with me, boy, and I will make you weep for your mother to come running. I have no time for games, and neither do you. Now, do-you-remember?"

Clutching the blanket tightly around him, he had to swallow before he could say, "I remember, Mother."

She seemed to relax, just a little, and Mat shrugged his shoulders queasily. He felt as if he had just been allowed to lift them off a chopping block.

"Good. That is good, Mat." She sat back down slowly, studying him. "Do you know that you are linked to the Horn?" He mouthed the work, "linked" silently, shocked, and she nodded. "I did not think you knew. You were the first to blow the Horn of Valere after it was found. For you, it will summon dead heroes back from the grave. For anyone else, it is only a horn-so long as you live."

He took a deep breath. "So long as I live," he said in a dull voice, and the Amyrlin nodded. "You could have let me die." She nodded again. "Then you could have had anyone you wanted blow it, and it would have worked for them." Another nod. "Blood and ashes! You mean me to blow it for you. When the last battle comes, you mean me to call the heroes back from the grave to fight the Dark One for you. Blood and bloody ashes!"

She put an elbow on the arm of the chair and propped her chin on her hand. Her eyes never left him. "Would you prefer the alternative?"

He frowned, then remembered what the alternative was. If someone else had to sound the Horn…."You want me to blow the Horn? Then I’ll b low the Horn. I never said I would not, did I?"

The Amyrlin gave an exasperated sigh. "You remind me of my uncle Huan. No one could ever pin him down. He liked to gamble, too, and he’d much rather have fun than work. He died pulling children out of a burning house. He wouldn’t stop going back as long as there was one left inside. Are you like him, Mat? Will you be there when the flames are high?"

He could not meet her eyes. He studied his fingers as they plucked irritably at his blanket. "I’m no hero. I do what I have to do, but I am no hero."

"Most of those we call heroes only did what they had to do. I suppose it will have to be enough. For now. You must not speak to anyone but me of the Horn, my son. Or of your link to it."

For now? He thought. It’s all you are bloody going to get, now or ever. "I don’t mean to bloody tell everybo-" She arched an eyebrow, and he made his voice smooth again. "I do not want to tell anyone. I wish nobody knew. Why do you want to keep it such a secret? Don’t you trust your Aes Sedai?"

For a long moment he thought he had gone too far. Her face hardened, and her look could have carver axe handles.

"If I could make so that only you and I knew," she said coldly, "I would. The more people know a thing, the more the knowledge spreads, even with the best will. Most of the world believe the Horn of Valere is only a legend, and those who know better believe one of the Hunters has yet to find it. But Shayol Ghul knows it has been found, and that means at least some Darkfriends know. But they do not know where it is, and, if the Light shines on us, they do not know you sounded it. Do you really want Darkfriends coming after you? Halfmen, or other Shadowspawn? They want the Horn. You must know that. It will work as well for the Shadow as for the Light. But if it is to work for them, they must take you, or kill you. Do you want to risk that?"

Mat wished he had another blanket, and maybe a goose-down comforter. The room suddenly felt very cold. Are you telling me Darkfriends could come after me here? I though the White Tower could keep Darkfriends out." He remembered what Salene had said about the Black Ajah, and wondered what the Amyrlin would say to that.

"A good reason to stay, wouldn’t you say?" She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. "Rest, my son. Soon you will feel much better. Rest." She closed the door softly behind her.

For a long time Mat lay staring up at the ceiling. He barely noticed when a serving woman came with his piece of pie and another pitcher of milk, taking the tray of empty dishes when she went. His stomach rumbled loudly at the warm smell of apples and spices, but he paid that no mind either. The Amyrlin thought she held him like a sheep in a pen. And Selene…. Who in the light is she? What does she want? Selene had been right about some things; but the Amyrlin told him she meant to use him, and how. In a way. There were too many holes in what she had said to suit him, too many holes she could slip something deadly through. The Amyrlin wanted something, and Selene wanted something, and he was the rope they were tugging between them. He thought he would rather face Trollocs than be caught between those two.

There had to be a way out of Tar Valon, a way out of both their grasps. Once he was beyond the river, he could keep out of Aes Sedai hands, and Selene’s, and Darkfriends’, too. He was sure of it. There had to be a way. All he had to do was think about it from every angle.

The pie grew cold on the table.

Chapter 24

Scouting and Discoveries

Sunlight through the carved shutters, creeping across the bed, woke Mat. For a moment, he only lay there, frowning. He had not reasoned out any plan for escaping from Tar Valon before sleep had overtaken him, but neither had he given up. Too much memory still lay covered with fog, but he would not give up.

Two serving women came bustling with hot water and a tray heavy with food, laughing and telling him how much better he looked already, and how much sooner he would be back on his feet if he did what the Aes Sedai told him. He answered them curtly, trying not to sound bitter. Let them think I mean to go along. His stomach rumbled at the smells from the tray.

When they left, he tossed aside his blanket and hoped out of bed, pausing only to stuff half a slice of ham into his mouth before pouring out water to wash and shave. Staring into the mirror above the washstand, he paused in lathering his face. He did look better.

His cheeks were still hollow, but not quite as hollow as they had been. The dark circles had vanished from under his eyes, which no longer seemed set so deep in his head. It was as if every bite he had eaten the night before had gone into putting meat on his bones. He even felt stronger.

"At this rate," he muttered, "I will be gone before they know it." But he was still surprised when, after shaving, he sat down and consumed every scrap of ham, turnip, and pear on the tray.

He was sure they expected him to climb back into bed after he had eaten, but instead, he dressed. Stamping his feet to settle them in his boots, he eyed his spare clothes and decided to leave them, for now. I have to know what I’m doing, first. And if I have to leave them…. He tucked his dice cups into his pouch. With those, he could get all the clothes he needed.

Opening the door, he peeked out. More doors paneled in pale, golden wood lined halls, with colorful tapestries between, and a runner of blue carpet ran down the white tiled floor. But there was no one out there. No guard. He tossed his cloak over one shoulder and hurried out. Now to find a way outside.

It took some little wandering, down stairs and along corridors and across open courts, before he found what he wanted, a doorway to the outside, and he saw people before then: serving women and white-clad novices hurrying about their chores, the novices running even harder than the servants; a handful of roughly dressed male servants carrying large chests and other heavy loads; Accepted in their banded dresses. Even a few Aes Sedai.

The Aes Sedai did not seem to notice him as they strode along, intent on whatever purpose, or else they gave him no more than a passing glance. His were country clothes, but well made; he did not look vagabond, and the serving men showed that men were allowed in this part of the Tower. He suspected they might take him for another servant, and that was just as well with him, so long as no one asked him to lift anything.

He did feel some regret that none of the women he saw was Egwene or Nynaeve, or even Elayne. She’s a pretty one, even if she does have her nose in the air half the time. And she could tell me how to find Egwene and the Wisdom. I cannot go without saying goodbye. Light, I don’t suppose one of them would turn me in, just because they are becoming Aes Sedai themselves? Burn me for a fool! They’d never do that. Anyway, I will risk it.

But once out-of-doors, under a bright morning sky with only a few drifting white clouds, he put the women out of his mind for a time. He was looking across a wide, flagstoned yard with a plain stone fountain in the middle and a barracks on the other side that was made of gray stone. It looked almost like a huge boulder among the few trees growing out of rimmed holes in the flagstones close by. Guardsmen in their shirtsleeves sat in front of the long, low building, tending weapons and armor and harness. Guardsmen were what he wanted, now.

He sauntered across the yard and watched the soldiers as if he had nothing better to do. As they worked they talked and laughed among themselves like men after the harvest. Now and again one of them looked curiously at Mat as he strolled among them, but none challenged his right to be there. From time to time he asked a casual question. And finally he got the answer he sought.

"Bridge guard?" said a stocky, dark-haired man no more than five years older than Mat. His words had a heavy Illianer accent. Young he might have been, but a thin white scar crossed his left cheek, and the hands oiling his sword moved with familiarity and competence. He squinted up at Mat before returning to his task. "I do be on the bridge guard, and back there again this even. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering what conditions were like on the other side of the river." I might as well find out, too. "Good for traveling? It can’t be muddy, unless you have had more rain than I know about."

"Which side of the river?" the guardsman asked placidly. His eyes did not lift from the oiled rag he was running along his blade.

"Uh…east. The East Side."

"No mud. Whitecloaks." The man leaned top one side to spit, but his voice did not change. "Whitecloaks do be poking their noses into every village for ten miles. They have no hurt anyone yet, but them just being there do upset the folk. Fortune prick me if I do no think they mean to provoke us, for they do look like they would attack if they could. No good for anyone who do want to travel."

"What about the west, then?"

"The same." The guardsman raised his eyes to Mat’s. "But you will not be crossing, lad, east or west. Your name do be Matrim Cauthon, or fortune abandon me. Last night a sister, herself in person, did come to the bridge where I did stand guard. She did drill your features to us till each could speak them back to her. A guest, she did say, and no to be harmed. But no to be allowed out of the city, either, if you need to be tied hand and foot to keep you from it." He asked doubtfully. "You do no have the look of those the sisters do guest."

"I didn’t steal anything!" Mat said indignantly. Burn me, I didn’t even get a chance to work around to it easy. They must know me. "I’m no thief!"

"No, it is not that I do see in your face. No thievery. But you do have the look of the fellow who did try to sell me the Horn of Valere three days gone. So he did claim it be, all bent and battered as it did be. Do you have the Horn of Valere to sell? Or mayhap it do still be the Dragon’s sword?"

Mat gave a jump at the mention of the Horn, but he managed to keep his voice level. "I was sick." Others of the guardsmen were looking at him now. Light, they’ll all know I am not supposed to leave, now. He forced a laugh. "The sisters Healed me." Some of the guardsmen frowned at him. Perhaps they thought other men should show more respect than to call the Aes Sedai sisters. I guess the Aes Sedai don’t want me to go before I have all my strength back." He tried willing the men, all of those watching him now, to accept that. Just a man who was Healed. Nothing more. No reason to trouble yourself about him any further.

The Ilianer nodded. "You do have the look of sickness in your face, too. Perhaps that do be the reason. But never did I hear of so much effort to keep one sick man in the city."

"That’s the reason," Mat said firmly. They were all still looking at him. "Well, I need to be going. They said I have to take walks. Lots of long walks. To build up strength, you know."

He felt their eyes following him as he left, and he scowled. He had simply meant to find out how well his description had been passed around. If only the officers among the bridge guards had had it, he might have been able to slip by. He had always been good at slipping into places unseen. And out. It was a talent you developed when your mother always suspected you were up to some mischief and you had four sisters to tell on you. And now I’ve made sure half a barracks full of guardsmen will know me. Blood and bloody ashes!

Much of the Tower grounds were gardens full of trees, leatherleaf and paperbark and elms, and he soon found himself walking along a wide, twisting graveled path. It could have led through countryside, if not for the rooftops visible over the treetops. And the white bulk of the Tower itself, behind him but pressing on him as if he carried it on his shoulders. If there were ways out of the Tower grounds that were not watched, this seemed the place to find them. If they existed.

A girl in novice white appeared ahead on the path, striding purposely toward him. Wrapped in her own thoughts, she did not see him at first. When she came close enough for him to make out her big, dark eyes and the way her hair was braided, he grinned suddenly. He knew this girl-memory drifted up from shrouded depths-though he would never have expected to find her here. He had never expected to see her again at all. He grinned to himself. Good luck to balance bad. As he remembered, she had quite an eye for the boys.

"Else," he called to her. "Else Grinwell. You remember me, don’t you? Mat Cauthon. A friend and I visited your father’s farm. Remember? Have you decided to become Aes Sedai, then?"

She stopped short, staring at him. "What are you doing up and out?" she said coldly.

"You know about that, do you?" He moved closer to her, but she stepped back, keeping her distance. He stopped. "It’s not catching. I was Healed, Else." Those large, dark eyes seemed more knowing than he remembered, and not nearly so warm, but he supposed studying to be an Aes Sedai could do that. "What is the matter, Else? You look like you don’t know me."

"I know you," she said. Her manner was not as he remembered, either; he thought she could give Elayne lessons now. "I have…work to be about. Let me by."

He grimaced. The path was wide enough for six to walk abreast without crowding. "I told you it isn’t catching."

"Let me by!"

Muttering to himself, he stepped to one side of the gravel. She went past him on the other side, watching to make sure he did not come closer. Once by, she quickened her steps, glancing over her shoulder at him until she was out of sight around a bend.

Wanted to make sure I didn’t follow her, he thought sourly. First the Guardsmen and now Else. My luck is not in today.

He started off again, and soon heard a ferocious clatter from one side ahead, like dozens of sticks being beat together. Curious, he turned off toward it, into the trees.

A little way brought him to a wide expanse of broad ground, the earth beaten hard, at least fifty paces across and nearly twice as wide. At intervals around it under the trees stood wooden stands holding quarterstaffs, and practice swords made of strips of wood bound loosely together, and a few real swords and axes and spears.

Spaced across the open ground, pairs of men, most stripped to the waist, flailed at each other with more practice swords. Some moved so smoothly it almost seemed they danced with one another, flowing from stance to stance, stoke to stroke in continuous motion. There was nothing quickly apparent aside from skill to mark them from the others, but Mat was sure he was watching Warders.

Those who did not move so smoothly were all younger, each pair under the watchful eye of an older man who seemed to radiate a dangerous grace even standing still. Warders and students, Mat decided.

He was the only audience. Not ten paces from him, half a dozen women with ageless Aes Sedai faces and as many more in the banded white dresses of the Accepted stood watching one pair of students, bare to the waist and slick with sweat, under the guidance of a Warder shaped much like a block of stone. The Warder used a short-stemmed pipe in one hand, trailing tobac smoke, to direct his pupils.

Sitting down cross-legged under a leatherleaf, Mat rooted three large pebbles out of the ground and began to juggle them idly. He did not feel weak, exactly, but it was good to sit. If there was a way out of the Tower grounds, it would not go away while he took a short rest.

Before he had been there five minutes he knew who it was the Aes Sedai and Accepted were watching. One of the blocky Warder’s pupils was a tall, lithe young man who moved like a cat. And almost as pretty as a girl, Mat thought wryly. Every woman was staring at the tall fellow with sparkling eyes, even the Aes Sedai.

The tall man handled his practice sword almost as deftly as the Warders, now and then earning an approving gravelly comment from his teacher. It was not that his opponent, a youth more Mat’s age, with red-gold hair, was unskilled. Far from it, as much as Mat could see, though he had never claimed to know anything about swords. The golden-haired man met every lightning attack, turning it away before the bound strips could strike him, and even launched an occasional attack of his own. But the handsome fellow countered those attacks and flowed back into his own in the space of a heartbeat.

Mat shifted the pebbles to one hand, but kept them spinning in the air. He did not think he would care to face either of them. Certainly not with a sword.

"Break!" The Warder’s voice sounded like rocks emptying out of a bucket. Chests heaving, the two men let their practice swords fall to their sides. Sweat matted their hair. "You can rest till I finish my pipe. But rest fast; I am almost in the dottle."

Now that they had stopped dancing about, Mat got a good look at the youth with red-gold hair and let the pebbles drop. Burn me, I’ll bet my whole purse that’s Elayne’s brother. And the other one’s Galad, or I’ll each my boots. On the journey from Tomon Head it had seemed half of Elayne’s conversations had been of Gawyn’s virtues and Galad’s vices. Oh, Gawyn had the same vices according to Elayne, but they were small; to Mat they sounded like the sort of things no one but a sister would consider vices at all. As for Galad, once Elayne was pinned down, he sounded like what every mother said she wanted her son to be. Mat did not think he wanted to spend much time in Galad’s company. Egwene blushed whenever Galad was mentioned, though she seemed to think no one noticed.

A ripple seemed to pass through the watching women when Gawyn and Galad stopped, and they appeared on the point of stepping forward almost as one. But Gawyn caught sight of Mat, said something quietly to Galad, and the two of them walked by the women. The Aes Sedai and Accepted turned to follow with their eyes. Mat scrambled to his feet as the pair approached.

"You are Mat Cauthon, are you not?" Gawyn said with a grin. "I was sure I recognized you from Egwene’s description. And Elayne’s. I understand you were sick. Are you better now?"

"I’m fine," Mat said. He wondered if he was supposed to call Gawyn "my lord" or something of that sort. He had refused to call Elayne "my lady"-not that she demanded it, actually-and he decided that he would not do her brother better.

"Did you come to the practice yard to learn the sword?" Galad asked.

Mat shook his head. "I was only out walking. I don’t know much about swords. I think I’ll put my trust in a good bow, or a good quarterstaff. I know how to use those."

"If you spend much time around Nynaeve," Galad said, you’d need bow, quarterstaff, and sword to protect yourself. And I don’t know whether that would be enough."

Gawyn looked at him wonderingly. "Galad, you just nearly made a joke."

"I do have a sense of humor, Gawyn," Galad said with a frown. "You only think I do not because I do not care to mock people."

With a shake of his head, Gawyn turned back to Mat. "You should learn something of the sword. Everyone can do with that sort of knowledge these days. Your friend, Rand al’Thor-carried a most unusual sword. What do you hear of him?"

"I haven’t seen Rand in a long time," Mat said quickly. Just for a moment, when he had mentioned Rand, Gawyn’s look had gained intensity. Light, does he know about Rand? He couldn’t. If he did, he’d denounce me for being a Darkfriend just for being Rand’s friend. But he knows something. "Swords aren’t the be-all and end-all, you know. I could do fairly well against either of you, I think, if you had a sword and I had my quarterstaff."

Gawyn’s cough was obviously meant to swallow a laugh. Much too politely, he said, "You must be very good." Galad’s face was frankly disbelieving.

Perhaps it was that they both clearly thought he was making a wild boast. Perhaps it was because he had mishandled questioning the guardsman. Perhaps it was because Else, who had such an eye for the boys, wanted nothing to do with him, and all those women were staring at Galad like cats watching a jug of cream. Aes Sedai and Accepted or not, they were still women. All these explanations ran through Mat’s head, but he rejected them angrily, especially the last. He was going to do it because it would be fun. And it might earn some coin. His luck would not even have to be back.

"I will wager," he said, "two silver marks from each of you that I can beat both of you at once, just the way I said. You can’t have fairer odds than that. There are two of you, and one of me, so two to one are fair odds." He almost laughed aloud at the consternation on their faces.

"Mat," Gawyn said, "there’s no need to make wagers. You have been sick. Perhaps we will try some time when you are stronger."

"It would be far from a fair wager," Galad said. "I’ll not take your wager, now or later. You are from the same village as Egwene, are you not? I…I would not have her angry with me."

"What does she have to do with it? Thump me once with your swords, and I will hand a silver mark to each of you. If I thump you till you quit, you give me two each. Don’t you think you can do it?"

"This is ridiculous," Galad said. "You would have no chance against one trained swordsman, let alone two. I’ll not take such advantage."

"Do you think that?" asked a gravel voice. The blocky Warder joined them, thick black eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. "You think you two are good enough with your swords to take a boy with a stick?"

"It would not be far, Hammar Gaidin," Galad said.

"He has been sick," Gawyn added. "There is no need for this."

"To the yard," Hammar grated with a jerk of his head back over his shoulder. Galad and Gawyn gave Mat regretful looks, then obeyed. The Warder eyed Mat up and down doubtfully. "Are you sure you’re up to this, lad? Now I take a close look at you, you ought to be in a sickbed."

"I am already out of one," Mat said, "and I’m up to it. I have to be. I don’t want to lose my two marks."

Hammar’s heavy brows rose in surprise. "You mean to hold to that wager, lad?"

"I need the money." Mat laughed.

His laughter cut off abruptly as he turned toward the nearest stand that held quarterstaffs and his knees almost buckled. He stiffened them so quickly he thought anyone who noticed would think he had just stumbled. At the stand he took his time choosing out a staff, nearly two inches thick and almost a foot taller than he was. I have to win this. I opened my fool mouth, and now I have to win. I can’t afford to lose those two marks. Without those to build on, it will take forever to win the money I need.

When he turned back, the quarterstaff in both hands before him, Gawyn and Galad were already waiting out where they had been practicing. I have to win. "Luck," he muttered. Time to toss the dice."

Hammar gave him an odd look. "You speak the Old Tongue, lad?"

Mat stared back at him for a moment, not speaking. He felt cold to the bone. With an effort, he made his feet start out onto the practice yard. "Remember the wager," he said loudly. "Two silver marks from each of you against two from me."

A buzz rose from the Accepted as they realized what was happening. The Aes Sedai watched in silence. Disapproving silence.

Gawyn and Galad split apart, on to either side of him, keeping their distance, neither with his sword more than half-raised.

"No wager," Gawyn said. "There’s no wager."

At the same time, Galad said, "I’ll not take your money like this."

"I mean to take yours," Mat said.

"Done!" Hammar roared. "If they have not the nerve to cover your wager, lad, I’ll pay the score myself."

"Very well," Gawyn said. "If you insist on it-done!"

Galad hesitated a moment more before growling, "Done, then. Let us put an end to this farce."

The moment’s warning was all Mat needed. As Galad rushed at him, he slid his hands along the quarterstaff and pivoted. The end of the staff thudded into the tall man’s ribs, bringing a grunt and a stumble. Mat let the staff bounce off Galad and spun, carrying it around just as Gawyn came within range. The staff dipped, darted under Gawyn’s practice sword, and clipped his ankle out from under him. As Gawyn fell, Mat completed the spin in time to catch Galad across the upraised wrist, sending his practice sword flying. As if his wrist did not pain him at all, Galad threw himself into a smooth, rolling dive and came up with his sword in both hands.

Ignoring him for the moment, Mat half turned, twisting his wrists to whip the length of the staff back beside him. Gawyn, just starting to rise, took the blow on the side of his head with a loud thump only partly softened by the padding of his hair. He went down in a heap.

Mat was only vaguely aware of an Aes Sedai rushing over to tend to Elayne’s fallen brother. I hope he’s alright. He should be. I’ve hit myself harder than that falling off a fence. He still had Galad to deal with, and from the way Galad was poised on the balls of his feet, sword raised precisely, he had begun to take Mat seriously.

Mat’s legs chose that moment to tremble. Light, I can’t weaken now. But he could feel it creeping back in, the wobbly feeling, the hunger as if he had not eaten for days. If I wait for him to come to me, I’ll fall on my face. It was hard to keep his knees straight as he started forward. Luck, stay with me.

From the first blow, he knew that luck, or skill, or whatever had brought him this far, was still there. Galad managed to turn that one with a sharp clack, and the next, and the next, and the next, but strain stiffened his face. That smooth swordsman, almost as good as the Warders, fought with every ounce of his skill to keep Mat’s staff from him. He did not attack; it was all he could do to defend. He moved continually to the side, trying not to be forced back, and Mat pressed him, staff a blur. And Galad stepped back, stepped back again, wooden blade a thin shield against the quarterstaff.

Hunger gnawed at Mat as if he had swallowed weasels. Sweat rolled down into his eyes, and his strength began to fade as if it leached out with the sweat. Not yet. I can’t fall yet. I have to win. Now. With all his reserve he threw all his reserves into one last surge.

The quarterstaff flickered past Galad’s sword an in quick succession struck knee, wrist, and ribs and finally thrust into Galad’s stomach like a spear. With a groan, Galad folded over, fighting not to fall. The staff quivered in Mat’s hands, on the point of a final crushing thrust to the throat. Galad sank to the ground.

Mat almost dropped the quarterstaff when he realized what he had been about to do. Win, not kill. Light, what was I thinking? Reflexively he ground the butt of the staff, and as soon as he did, he had to clutch at it to hold himself erect. Hunger hollowed him like a knife reaming marrow from a bone. Suddenly he realized that not only the Aes Sedai and Accepted were watching. All practice, all learning, had stopped. Warders and students alike stood watching him.

Hammar moved to stand beside Galad, still groaning on the ground and trying to push himself up. The Warder raised his voice to shout, "Who was the greatest blademaster of all time?"

From the throats of dozens of students came a massed bellow. "Jearom, Gaidin!"

"Yes!" Hammar shouted, turning to make sure all heard. "During his lifetime, Jaerom fought over ten thousand times, in battle and single combat. He was defeated once. By a farmer with a quarterstaff! Remember that. Remember what you just saw." He lowered his eyes to Galad, and lowed his voice as well. "If you cannot get up by now, lad, it is finished." He raised a hand, and the Aes Sedai and Accepted rushed to surround Galad.

Mat slid down the staff to his knees. None of the Aes Sedai even glanced his way. One of the Accepted did, a plump girl he might have liked to ask for a dance if she were not going to be Aes Sedai. She frowned at him, sniffed, and turned back to peering at what the Aes Sedai were doing around Galad.

Gawyn was on his feet, Mat noted with relief. He pulled himself up as Gawyn came over. Mustn’t let them know. I’ll never get out of here if they decide to nurse me from sunup to sunup. Blood darkened the red-gold hair on the side of Gawyn’s head, but there was neither cut nor bruise apparent.

He pushed two silver marks into Mat’s hand with a dry, "I think I will listen next time." He noticed Mat’s glance, touched his head. "They Healed it, but it was not bad. Elayne has given me worse more than once. You are good with that."

"Not as good as my da. He’s won the quarterstaff at Bel Tine every year as long as I can remember, except once or twice when Rand’s da did." That interested look came back into Gawyn’s eyes, And Mat wished he had never mentioned Tam al’Thor. The Aes Sedai and Accepted were all still clustered around Galad. "I…I must have hurt him badly. I did not mean to do that."

Gawyn glanced that way-there was nothing to be seen but two rings of women’s backs, Accepted’s white dresses making the outer ring as they peered over the shoulders of crouching Aes Sedai-and laughed. "You did not kill him-I heard him groaning-so he should be on his feet by now, but they’re not going to let this chance pass, now they have their hands on him. Light, four of them are Green Ajah!" Mat gave him a confused look-Green Ajah? What does that have to do with anything?-and Gawyn shook his head. "It doesn’t matter. Just rest assured that the worst that Galad has to worry about is finding himself Warder to a Green Aes Sedai before his head clears." He laughed. "No, they would not do that. But I will wager you those two marks of mine in your hand that some of them wish they could."

"Not your marks," Mat said, shoving them in his coat pocket, "mine." The explanation made little sense to him. Except that Galad was well. All he knew of what passed between Warders and Aes Sedai were the pieces he remembered of Lan and Moiraine, and there was nothing there like what Gawyn seemed to be suggesting. "Do you think they’d mind if I collected my wager from him?"

"They very likely would," Hamar said dryly as he joined them. "You are not very popular with those particular Aes Sedai right now." He snorted. "You’d think even Green Aes Sedai would be better than girls just loose from their mother’s apron strings. He isn’t that good-looking."

"He is not," Mat agreed.

Gawyn grinned at both of them, until Hammar glared at him. "Here," the Warder said, pushing two more silver coins into Mat’s hand. "I will collect from Galad later. Where are you from, lad?"

"Manetheren." Mat froze when he heard the name come out of his mouth. "I mean, I’m from the Two Rivers. I have heard too many old stories." They just looked at him without saying anything. "I…I think I will go back and see if I can find something to eat." Not even the midmorning bell had rung yet, but they nodded as if it had made sense.

He kept the quarterstaff-no one had told him to put it back-and walked slowly until trees hid him from the practice yard. When they did, he leaned on the staff as though it were the only thing holding him up. He was not sure it was not.

He thought that if he parted his coat, he would see a whole where his stomach should have been, a hole growing larger as it pulled the rest of him in. But he hardly thought of hunger. He kept hearing voices in his head. You speak the Old Tongue, lad? Manetheren. It made him shiver. Light help me, I keep digging myself deeper. I have to get out of here. But how? He hobbled back to the Tower proper like an old, old man. How?

Chapter 28

A Way Out

Clad only in his breeches, Mat was just finishing a snack after breakfast-some ham, three apples, bread, and butter-when the door to his room opened, and Nynaeve, Egwene, and Elayne filed in, all smiling at him brightly. He got up for a shirt, then stubbornly sat down again. They could have at least knocked. In any case, it was good to see their faces. At first, it was.

"Well, you do look better," Egwene said.

"As if you had had a month and good food and rest," Elayne said.

Nynaeve pressed a hand to his forehead. He flinched before he recalled she had done much the same for at least five years, back home. She was just the Wisdom then, he thought. She wasn’t wearing that ring.

She had noticed his flinch. She gave him a tight smile. "You look ready to be up and about, to me. Are you tired of being cooped up, yet? You never could stand two days in a row indoors."

He eyed the last apple core reluctantly, then dropped it back on the plate. Almost, he started to lick the juice off his fingers, but they were all three looking at him. And still smiling. He realized he was trying to decide which of them was prettiest, and could not. Had they been anybody but who-and what-they were, he would have asked any and all of them to dance a jig or a reel. He had danced with Egwene often enough, back home, and even once with Nynaeve, but that seemed a long time ago.

"’One pretty woman means fun at the dance. Two pretty women mean trouble in the house. Three pretty women mean run for the hills.’" He gave Nynaeve an even tighter smile than her own. "My da used to say that. You’re up to something, Nynaeve. You are all staring like cats staring at a finch caught in a thornbush, and I think I am the finch."

The smiles flickered and vanished. He noticed their hands and wandered why they all looked like they had been washing dishes. The Daughter-Heir of Andor surely never washed a dish, and he had as hard a time imagining Nynaeve at it, even knowing she had done her own back in Emond’s Field. They all three wore Great Serpent rings, now. That was new. And not a particularly pleasant surprise. Light, it had to happen sometime. It’s none of my business, and that is all there is to it. None of my business. It just isn’t.

Egwene shook her head, but it seemed as much for the other two women as for him. "I told you we should ask him straight out. He’s stubborn as any mule when he wants to be, and tricksome as a cat. You are, Mat. You know it, so stop frowning."

He put his grin back quickly.

Hush, Egwene," Nynaeve said. "Mat, just because we want to ask you a favor does not mean we don’t care how you feel. We do care, and you know that, unless you’re being even more wool-headed than usual. Are you well? You look remarkably well compared to how I last saw you. It really does look more like a month than two days."

"I’m ready to run ten miles and dance a jig at the end of it." His stomach growled, reminding him how long it was to midday yet, but he ignored it, and hoped they had not noticed. He almost did feel as if he had had a month of rest and food. And had had one meal in the last day. "What favor?" he asked suspiciously. Nynaeve did not ask favors, in his recollection; Nynaeve told people what to do and expected to see it done.

I want you to carry a letter for me," Elayne said before Nynaeve could speak. "To my mother in Caemlyn." She smiled, making a dimple in her cheek. "I would appreciate it so very much, Mat." The morning light seemed to pick out highlights in her hair.

I wonder if she likes to dance. He pushed the thought right out of his head. "That does not sound too very hard, but it’s a long trip. What do I get out of it?" From the look on her face, he did not think that dimple had failed her very often.

She drew herself up, slim and proud. He could almost see a throne behind her. "Are you a loyal subject of Ando? Do you not wish to serve the Lion Throne, and your Daughter-Heir?"

Mat snickered.

"I told you that would not work either," Egwene said. "Not with him."

Elayne had a wry twist to her mouth. "I thought it worth a try. It always works on the Guards in Caemlyn. You said if I smiled-" She cut off short, very obviously not looking at him.

What did you say, Egwene? He thought, furiously, That I’m a fool for any girl who smiles at me? He kept his outward calm, though, and managed to maintain his grin.

"I wish asking were enough," Egwene said, "but you do not do favors, do you, Mat? Have you ever done anything without being coaxed, wheedled, or bullied?"

He only smiled at her. "I will dance with both of you, Egwene, but I won’t run errands." For an instant he thought sure was going to stick out her tongue at him.

"If we can go back to what we planned in the first place," Nynaeve said in a too-calm voice. The other two nodded, and she turned her attentions on him. For the first time since coming in, she looked like the wisdom of old, with a stare that could pin you in your tracks and her braid ready to lash like a cat’s tail.

"You are even ruder than I remembered, Matrim Cauthon. With you sick so long-and Egwene,, and Elayne. And I taking care of you like a babe in swaddling-I had almost forgotten. Even so, I would think you would have a little gratitude in you. You’ve talked about seeing the world, seeing great cities. Well, what better city than Caemlyn? Do what you want, show your gratitude, and help someone all at the same time." She produced a folded parchment from inside her cloak and set it on the table. It was sealed with a lily, in golden yellow wax. "You cannot ask for more than that."

He eyed the paper regretfully. He barely remembered passing through Caemlyn, once, with Rand. It was a shame to stop them now, but he thought it beat. If you want the fun of the jig, you have to pay the harper sooner or later. And the way Nynaeve was now, the longer he kept from paying, the worse it would be. "Nynaeve, I can’t."

"What do you mean, you cannot? Are you a fly on the wall or a man? A chance to do a favor for the Daughter-Heir of Andor, to see Caemlyn, to meet Queen Morgase in all probability, and you cannot? I really do not know what more you could possibly want. Don’t you skitter away like grease on a griddle this time, Matrim Cauthon! Or has your heart changed so you like seeing these all around you?" She waved her left hand in his face, practically hitting him in the nose with her ring.

"Please, Mat?" Elayne said, and Egwene was staring at him as if he had grown horns like a Trolloc.

He squirmed on his chair. "It is not that I don’t want to. I cannot! The Amyrlin made it so I can’t get off the bloo-, the island. Change that, and I will carry your letter in my teeth, Elayne."

Looks passed between them. He sometimes wondered if women could read each other’s minds. They certainly seemed to read his when he least wanted it. But this time, whatever they had decided silently among themselves, they had not read his thoughts.

"Explain," Nynaeve said curtly. "Why would the Amyrlin want to keep you here?"

He shrugged, and looked her straight in the eye, and gave his best rueful grin. "It’s because I was sick. Because it went so long. She said she would not let me go until I would not go off somewhere and die. Not that I’m going to, of course. Die, I mean."

Nynaeve frowned, and jerked her braid, and suddenly took his head between her hands; a chill ran through him. Light, the Power! Before the thought was done, she had released him.

"What…? What did you do to me, Nynaeve?"

"Not a tenth part of what you deserve, in all likelihood," she said. You are as healthy as a bull. Weaker than you look, but healthy."

"I told you I was," he said uneasily. He tried to get his grin back. Nynaeve, she looked like you. The Amyrlin, I mean. Managing to loom even if she is a foot too short for it, and bullying…." The way her eyebrows climbed, he decided that was not a road to go down any further. As long as he kept them away from the Horn. He wondered if they knew. "Well. Anyway, I think they want to keep me here because of that dagger. I mean, until they figure out exactly how it did what it did. You know how Aes Sedai are." He gave a small laugh. They all just looked at him. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Burn me! They want to be bloody Aes Sedai. Burn me, I’m going on too long. I wish Nynaeve would stop staring at me like that. Keep it short. "The Amyrlin made it so I cannot cross a bridge or board a ship without an order from her. You see? It’s not that I don’t want to help. I just can’t."

"But you will if we get you out of Tar Valon?" Nynaeve said intently.

"You get me out of Tar Valon, and I’ll carry Elayne to her mother on my back."

Elayne’s eyebrows went up, this time, and Egwene shook her head, mouthing his name with a sharp look in her eyes. Women had no sense of humor, sometimes.

Nynaeve motioned the two of them to follow her to the windows, when they turned their backs to him and talked so softly he could catch only a murmur. He thought he heard Egwene say something about only needing one if they stayed together. Watching, he wondered if they really thought they could get around the Amyrlin’s order. If they can do that, I will carry their bloody letter. I really will carry it in my teeth.

Without thinking, he picked up an apple core and bit off the end. One chew, and he hastily spit the mouthful of bitter seeds back onto the plate.

When they came back to the table, Egwene handed him a thick, folded paper. He eyed them suspiciously before opening it out. As he read, he began humming to himself without knowing it.

What the bearer does is done at my order and by my authority. Obey, and keep silent, at my command.

Siuan Sanche

Watcher of the Seals

Flame of Tar Valon

The Amyrlin Seat

And sealed at the bottom with the Flame of Tar Valon in a circle of white wax as hard as stone.

He realized he was humming "A pocket Full of Gold" and stopped. "Is this real? You didn’t…? How did you get this?"

"She did not forget it, if that’s what you mean," Elayne said.

"Never mind how we got it," Nynaeve said. "It is real. That is all that need concern you. I would not show it around, were I you, or the Amyrlin will take it back, but it will get you past the Guards and onto a ship. You said you’d take the letter, if we did that"

"You can consider it in Morgase’s hands right now." He did not want to stop reading the paper, but he folded it back up anyway, and laid it on top of Elayne’s letter. "You wouldn’t happen to have a little coin to go with this, would you? Some silver? A gold mark or two? I have almost enough for my passage, but I hear things are growing expensive downriver."

Nynaeve shook her head, "Don’t you have money? You gambled with Hurin almost every night until you grew too sick to hold the dice. Why should things be more expensive downriver?"

"We gambled for coppers, Nynaeve, and he would not even do that after a while. It doesn’t matter. I will manage. Don’t you listen to what people say? There’s civil war in Cairhien, and I hear it is bad in Tear, too. I’ve heard a room at an inn in Aringill costs more than a good hose back home."

"We have been busy," she said sharply, and exchanged worried looks with Egwene and Elayne that set him wondering again.

"It doesn’t matter. I can make out." There had to be gaming in the inns near the docks. A night with the dice would put him aboard a ship in the morning with a full purse.

"Just you deliver that letter to Queen Morgase, Mat," Nynaeve said. "And do not let anyone know you have it."

"I’ll take it to her. I said I would, didn’t I? You would think I didn’t keep my promises." The looks he got from Nynaeve and Egwene reminded him of a few he had not kept. "I will do it. Blood and-I will do it!"

They stayed a while longer, talking of home for the most part. Egwene and Elayne sat on the bed, and Nynaeve took the armchair, while he kept his stool. Talk of Emond’s field made him homesick, and it seemed to make Nynaeve and Egwene sad, as if they were speaking of something they would never see again. He was sure their eyes moistened, but when he tried to change the subject, they brought it back again, to the people they knew, to Bel tine and Sunday, to harvest dances and picnic gatherings for the shearing.

Elayne talked to him of Caemlyn, of what to expect at the Royal Palace and who to speak to, and a little of the city. Sometimes she held herself in a way that made him all but see the crown on her head. A man would have to be a fool to let himself get involved with a woman like her. When they rose to leave, he was sorry to see them go.

He stood, suddenly feeling awkward. "Look, you have done me a favor here." He touched the Amyrlin’s paper, on the table. "A big favor. I know you’re all going to be Aes Sedai"-he stumbled a little on that-"and you will be a queen one day, Elayne, but if you ever need help, if there is ever anything I can do, I will come. You can count on it. Did I sat something funny?"

Elayne had a hand over her mouth, and Egwene was struggling openly with a laugh. "No, Mat," Nynaeve said smoothly, but her lips twitched. "Just something I have observed about men."

"You would have to be a woman to understand," Elayne said.

"Journey well and safely, Mat" Egwene said. "And remember, if a woman does need a hero, she needs him today, not tomorrow." The laughter bubbled out of her.

He stared at the door closing behind them. Women, he decided for at least the hundredth time, were odd.

Then his eyes fell on Elayne’s letter, and the folded paper lying atop it. The Amyrlin’s blessed, not-to-be-understood, but welcome-as-a-fire-in-winter paper. He danced a little caper in the middle of the flowered carpet. Caemlyn to see, and a queen to meet. Your own words will free me of you, Amyrlin. And get me away from Selene, too.

"You’ll never catch me," he laughed, and meant it for both of them. "You’ll never catch Mat Cauthon."

Chapter 30

The First Toss

After Nynaeve and the others left him, Mat spent most of the day in his room, except for one brief excursion. He was planning. And eating. He ate nearly everything the serving women brought him, and asked for more. They were more than happy to oblige. It was bread and cheese and fruit he asked for, and he piled winter-wrinkled apples and pears, wedges of cheese and loaves of bread inside the wardrobe, leaving empty trays for them to take away.

At midday he had to endure a visit from an Aes Sedai-Anaiya, he seemed to remember her name was. She put a hand on his head and sent cold chills through him. It was the One Power, he decided, not simply being touched by an Aes Sedai. She was a plain woman despite her smooth cheeks and Aes Sedai serenity.

"You seem much better," she told him, smiling. Her smile made him think of his mother. "Even hungrier than I expected, so I hear, but better. I am informed you are trying to eat the larders bare. Believe me when I say we will see you have all the food you need. You do not have to worry that we’ll let you miss a meal before you are fully well again."

He gave her the grin he used on his mother when he especially wanted her to believe him. "I know you won’t. And (I do feel better. I thought I might see some of the city this afternoon. If you have no objections, of course. Maybe visit an inn tonight. There’s nothing like a night of common-room talk to pick one’s spirits up."

He thought her lips twitched on the edge of a bigger smile. "No one will try to stop you, Mat. But do not try to leave the city. It will only upset the guards, and bring you nothing but a trip back here under escort."

"I would not do that, Aes Sedai. The Amyrlin Seat said I’d starve to death in a few days if I left."

She nodded as if she did not believe a word he said. "Of course." As she turned from him, her eyes fell on the quarterstaff he had brought from the practice yard, propped in the corner of the room. "You do not need to protect yourself from us, Mat. You are as safe here as you can be anywhere. Almost certainly safer."

"Oh, I know that, Aes Sedai. I do." After she left he frowned at the door, wondering if he had managed to convince her of anything.

It was more evening than afternoon when he left the room for what he hoped was the final time. The sky was purpling, and the setting sun painted clouds to the west in shades of red. Once he had his cloak around him, and the big leather script he had found on his earlier foray dangling from his shoulder and bulging with the bread and cheese and fruit he had squirreled away, one look in the mirror told him there was no hiding what he intended. He tied the rest of his clothes up in a roll with the blanket from the bed and slung that across his shoulders, too. The quarterstaff did for a walking staff. He left nothing behind. His coat pockets held all his smaller belongings, and his belt pouch held the most important. The Amyrlin Seat’s paper. Elayne’s letter. And his dice cups.

He saw Aes Sedai as he made his way out of the Tower, and some of them noticed him, those most merely flickered an eyebrow, and none spoke to him. Anaiya was one. She gave him an amused smile and a rueful shake of her head. He returned a shrug and the guiltiest grin he could manage, and she went silently on, still shaking her head. The guards at the Tower gates simply looked at him.

It was not until he was across the big square and into the streets of the city that relief surged up in him. And triumph. If you can’t hide what you are going to do, do it so everybody thinks you are a fool. Then they stand around waiting to see you fall on your face. Those Aes Sedai will be waiting for the guards to bring me back. When I do not return by morning, then they’ll start a search. Not too frantic at first, because they’ll think I have gone to ground somewhere in the city. By the time they realize I haven’t, this rabbit will be a long way downriver from the hounds.

With as light a heart as he could remember having in years, or so it seemed, he began to hum, "We’re over the border again," heading toward the harbor where vessels would be sailing down to Tear and all the villages along the Erinin between. He would not be going so far as that, of course. Aringill, where he would take to land again for the rest of the trip to Caemlyn, was only halfway downriver.

Twilight was beginning to cover Tar Valon, but there was still enough light to grace the fantastical buildings, and the oddly shaped towers connecting by high bridges spanning open air over hundred-pace drops. People yet filled the streets, in so many different kinds of clothing that he thought every nation must be represented. Along the major avenues, pairs of lamplighters used their ladders to light lanterns atop tall poles. But in the part of Tar Valon he sought, the only light was what spilled from windows.

Ogier had built the great buildings and towers of Tar Valon, but other, newer parts had grown under the hands of men. Newer meaning two thousand years in some cases. Down near Southharbor, men’s hands had had tried to match, if not duplicate, the fanciful Ogier work. Inns where ships’ crew caroused bore enough stonework for palaces. Statues in niches and cupolas on rooftops, ornately worked cornices and intricately carved friezes, all decorated chandlers’ shops and merchant houses. Bridges ached across the streets here, too, but the streets were cobblestone, not great paving blocks, and many of the bridges were wood instead of stone, sometimes as low as second stories of buildings they joined, and never higher than four.

The dark streets hummed with as much life as any in Tar Valon. Traders off their vessels and those who bought what the vessels carried, people who traveled the river Erinin and people who worked it, all filled the taverns and the common rooms of inns, in company with those who sought the such folk carried, by fair means or murky. Raucous music filled the streets from bittern and flute, harp and hammered dulcimer. The first inn Mat entered had three dice games in progress, men crouched in circles near the common-room walls and shouting the wins and loses.

He only meant to gamble an hour or so before finding a ship, just long enough to add a few coins to his purse, but he won. He had always won more than he lost, as far as he could remember, and there had been times with Hurin, and in Shienar, when six or eight tosses in a row won for him. Tonight, every toss won. Every toss.

From the looks some men gave him, he was glad he had left his own dice in his pouch. Those looks made him decide to move on. With surprise he realized he had nearly thirty silver marks in his purse now, but he had not won so much from any one man that they would not all be glad to see him go.

Except for one dark sailor with tight curls-one of the Sea Folk, someone had said, though Mat wondered what one of the Atha’an Miere was doing so far from the sea-who followed him down the darkened street, arguing for a chance for a chance to make good his losses. He wanted to reach the docks-thirty silver marks was more than enough-but the sailor argued on, and he had only used half his hour, so he gave in, and with the man entered the next tavern they passed.

Hoe won again, and it was as if a fever gripped him. He won every throw. From tavern to inn to tavern he went, never staying long enough to anger anyone with the amount of his winnings. And he still won every toss. He exchanged silver for gold with a moneychanger. He played at crowns, and fives, and maiden’s ruin. He played games with five dice, and with four, and three, and even only two. He played he did not know before he squatted in the circle, or took a place at the table. And he won. Somewhere during the night, the dark sailor-Raab, he said his name was-staggered away, exhausted but with a full purse; he had decided to put his wagers on Mat. Mat visited another money changer-or perhaps two; the fever seemed to cloud his brain as badly as his memories of the past were clouded-and made his way to another game. Winning.

And so he found himself, he did not know how many hours later, inn a tavern filled with tobac smoke-The Tremalking Splice, he thought it was called-staring down at five dice, each showing a deeply carved crown. Most of the patrons here seemed interested only in drinking as much as they could, but the rattle of dice and shouts of players from another game in the far corner were almost submerged by a woman singing to a quick tune from a hammered dulcimer.

"I’ll dance with a girl with eyes of brown,

or a girl with eyes of green,

I’ll dance with a girl with any color eyes,

But yours are the prettiest I’ve seen.

I’ll kiss a girl with hair of black,

Or a girl with hair of gold,

I’ll kiss a girl with any color hair,

But it’s you I want to hold."

The singer had named the song as "What he said to Me." Mat remembered the tune as "Will you dance with me," with different words, but at that moment all he could think of were those dice.

"The king again," one of the men squatting with Mat muttered. It was the fifth time in a row Mat had thrown the king.

He had won the bet of a gold mark, not even caring by this time that his Andoran mark outweighed the man’s Ilianer coin, but he scooped the dice into the leather cup, rattled it hard, and spun them across the floor again. Five crowns. Light, it can’t be. Nobody ever threw the kings six times running. Nobody.

"The Dark One’s own luck," another man growled. He was a bulky fellow, his dark hair tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, with heavy shoulders, scar on his face, and a nose that could have been broken more than once.

Mat was scarcely aware of moving before he had the bulky man by the collar, hauling him to his feet, slamming him back against the wall. "Don’t you say that!" He snarled. "Don’t you ever say that!" The man blinked down at him in astonishment; he was a full head taller than Mat.

"Just a saying," somebody behind him was muttering. "Light, it’s just a saying."

Mat released his grip on the scar-faced man’s coat and backed away. "I…I…I don’t like anybody saying things like that about me. I’m no Darkfriend!" Burn me, not the Dark One’s luck. Not that! Oh, Light, did that bloody dagger really do something to me?

"Nobody said you was," the broken-nosed man muttered. He seemed to be getting over his surprise, and trying to decide whether to be angry.

Gathering his belongings from where he had piled them behind him, Mat walked out of the tavern, leaving the coins where they lay. It was not that he was afraid of the big man. He had forgotten the man, and the coins, too. All he wanted was to be outside, in fresh air, where he could think.

In the street, he leaned against the wall of the tavern not far from the door, breathing the coolness in. The dark streets of Southharbor were all but empty, now. Music and laughter still floated from the inns and taverns, but few people made their way through the night. Holding the quarterstaff upright in front of him with both hands, he lowered his head to his fists and tried to think at the puzzle from every side.

He knew he was lucky. He could remember always being lucky. But somehow, his memories from Emond’s Field did not show him as lucky as he had been since leaving. Certainly he had gotten away with a great deal, but he could also remember being caught in pranks he had been so sure would succeed. His mother had always seemed to know what he was up to, and Nynaeve able to see through whatever defenses he put up. But it was not just since leaving the Two Rivers that he had become lucky. The luck had come once he took the dagger from Shadar Logoth. He remembered playing at dice back home, with a sharp-eyed, skinny man who worked for a merchant once come down from Baerlon to buy tobac. He remembered the strapping his father had given him, too, on learning Mat owed the man a silver mark and four pence.

"But I’m free of the bloody dagger," he mumbled. Those bloody Aes Sedai said I was." He wondered how much he had won tonight.

When he dug into his coat pockets, he found them filled with loose coins, crowns and marks, both silver and gold that glittered and glinted in the light from nearby windows. He had two purses now, it seemed, and both fat. He undid the strings, and found more gold. And still more stuffed into his belt pouch between and around and on top of his dice cups, crumpling Elayne’s letter and the Amyrlin’s paper. He had a memory of tossing silver pence to serving girls because they had pretty smiles or pretty eyes or pretty ankles, and because silver pence were not worth keeping.

A big man moved out from the tavern, the door already swinging shut to cut off the light that might have shown his face.

Mat pressed his back close against the wall, stuffed the purses back into his coat, and firmed his grip on the quarterstaff. Wherever his luck tonight had come from, he did not mean to lose all that gold to a footpad.

The man turned toward him, peered, then gave a start. "C-cool night," he said drunkenly. He staggered closer and Mat saw that most of his size was fat. "I have to…. I have to…." Stumbling, the fat man moved on up the street, talking to himself disjointedly.

"Fool!" Mat muttered, but he was not sure whether he meant it for the fat man or for himself. "Time to find a ship to take me away from here." He squinted at the black sky, trying to estimate how long till dawn. Two, maybe three hours, he thought. "Past time." His stomach growled at him; he dimly recalled eating in some of the inns, but he did not remember what. The fever of the dice had had him by the throat. A hand pushed into the script found only crumbs. "Way past time. Or one of them will come pick me up with her fingers and stick me in her pouch." He pushed away from the wall and started for the docks, where the ships would be.

At first he thought the faint sounds behind him were echoes of his boots on the cobblestones. Then he realized someone was following him. And trying to be stealthy. Well, these are footpads, for sure.

Hefting the quarterstaff, he briefly considered turning to confront them. But it was dark, and the footing on cobblestones uncertain, and he had no idea how many there were. Just because you did well against Gawyn and Galad doesn’t make you a bloody hero out of a story.

He turned down a narrower, twisting side street, trying to walk on tiptoe and move quickly at the same time. Every window was dark here, and most shuttered. He was almost to the end when he saw movement ahead, two men peering into the side street from where it let out onto another. And he heard slow footsteps behind him, soft scrapes of boot leather on stone.

In an instant he ducked into the shadowy corner where one building stuck out further than the rest. It seemed the best he could do for the moment. Gripping the quarterstaff nervously, he waited.

A man appeared from back the way he had come, crouching as he eased himself ahead one slow step at a time, and then another man. Each carried a knife in his hand and moved as if stalking.

Mat tensed. If they came just a few steps closer before they noticed him hiding in the deeper shadows of the corner, he could take them by surprise. He wished his stomach would stop fluttering. Those knives were a great deal shorter than the practice swords, but they were steel, not wood.

One man squinted toward the far end of the narrow street and suddenly straightened, shouting, "Didn’t he come your way, then?"

"I have seen nothing but the shadows," came the answer in a heavy accent. "I wish to be out of this. There are the strange things moving this night."

Not four paces from Mat, the two men exchanged looks, sheathed their knives, and trotted back the way they had come.

He let out a long, slow breath. Luck. Burn me if it’s not good for more than dice.

He could no longer see the men at the mouth of the street, but he knew they were out on the next street somewhere. And more behind him the other way.

One of the buildings he was crouched against stood only a single story high here, and the roof looked flat enough. And a white stone frieze carved in huge grape ran up the joining of the two buildings.

Easing his quarterstaff up till one end rested on the edge of the roof, he gave it a hard shove. It landed with a loud clatter on the roof tiles. Not waiting to see if anyone had heard, he scrambled up the frieze, the big leaves giving easy toeholds even for a man in boots. In seconds he had the staff back in his hands and was trotting across the roof, trusting to luck for his footing.

Three more time he climbed, each time gaining one story. The slightly sloping, tiled roofs ran some distance at that level, and there was a breeze at that height, prickling the hair on the back of his neck with its chill and almost making him think he was being followed. Stop that, fool! They’re three streets away by now, looking for somebody else with a fat purse, and bad luck to them.

His boots slipped on the tiles, and he decided it might be a good idea to think about getting back down into the street himself. Cautiously, he moved to the edge of the roof and peered down. An empty street lay a good forty or more below him, with three taverns and an inn spilling light and music onto the cobblestones. But off to his right was a stone bridge running from the top floor of his building to the one on the other side.

The bridge looked awfully narrow, running through darkness untouched by the tavern lights, arching over a long fall to hard cobblestones, but he tossed the quarterstaff down and made himself follow before he could think about it too much. His boots thumped onto the bridge, and he let himself roll the way he had as a boy falling out of a tree. He fetched up against the waist-high railing.

"Bad habits pay off in the long run," he told himself as he got to his feet and picked up the staff.

The window at the other end of the bridge was tightly stuttered and lightless. He did not think whoever lived in there would appreciate a stranger appearing in the middle of the night. He could see lots of stonework, but if there was as much as a fingerhold in reach of the bridge, the night hid it. Well, stranger or no stranger, inside I go.

He turned from the railing and suddenly became aware of a man sharing the bridge with him. A man with a dagger in his hand.

Mat grabbed at the hand as the knife darted toward his throat. He barely caught the fellow’s wrist with his fingers, and then the quarterstaff between them tangled itself in his legs, tripping him to fall back against the railing, to fall half over it pulling the other man on top of him. Balanced there on the small of his back, teetering with his assailant’s bared teeth in his face, he was aware of the long drop under his head as he was of the blade catching faint moonlight as it edged toward his throat. His finger’s grip on the man’s wrist was slipping, and his other hand was caught with the quarterstaff between their bodies. Only seconds had passed since he first saw the man, and in seconds more, he was going to die with a knife in his throat.

"Time to toss the dice," he said. He thought the other man looked confused for an instant, but an instant was all he had. With a heave of his legs, Mat flipped them both off into the empty air.

For a stretched-out moment he seemed to have no weight. Air whistled past his ears and ruffled his hair. He thought he heard the other man scream, or start to. The impact knocked all the air out of hi lungs and made silver-black flecks dance across his blurring vision.

When he could breath again-and see-he realized he was laying on top of the man who had attacked him, his fall cushioned by the other man’s body. "Luck," he whispered. Slowly he climbed to his feet, cursing the bruise the quarterstaff had put across his ribs.

He expected the other man to be dead-not many could survive a thirty foot fall to cobblestones with another’s weight on top of him-but what he had not expected to see was the fellow’s dagger driven to his the hilt into his own heart. Such an ordinary-looking man to have tried to kill him. Mat did not think he would have even noticed him in a crowded room.

"You have bad lock, fellow," he told the corpse shakily.

Suddenly, everything that had happened rushed back on him. The footpads in the twisting street. The scramble over the rooftops. This fellow. The fall. His eyes rose to the bridge overhead, and a fit of trembling hit him. I must have been crazy. A little adventure is one thing, But Rogosh Eagle-eye wouldn’t ask for this.

He realized he was standing over a dead man with a dagger in his chest, just waiting for someone to come along and run shouting for city guards with the Flame of Tar Valon on their chests. The Amyrlin’s paper might get him away from them, but maybe not before she found out. He could still end up in the White Tower, without that paper, and possibly not even allowed outside the Tower grounds.

He knew he should be on his way to the docks right then, and on the first vessel sailing if it was a rotten tub full of old fish, but his knees were shaking hard enough in reaction that he could hardly walk. What he wanted was to sit down for just a minute. Just a minute to steady his knees, and then he was headed for the docks.

The taverns were closer, but he started toward the inn. The common room of an inn was a friendly place, where a man could rest a minute and not be worrying about who might be sneaking up behind him. Enough light came out through the windows for him to make out the sign. A woman with her hair in braids, holding what he thought was an olive branch, and the words "The Woman of Tanchico."

Chapter 31

The Woman of Tanchico

The common room of the inn was brightly lit, the tables not near a quarter full so late. A few white-aproned serving women with mugs of ale or wine passed among the men, and a low murmur ran the sound of a harp being strummed and plucked. The patrons, some with pipes clenched in their teeth and one pair hunched over a stones board, had the looks of ship’s officers and minor merchants from the smaller houses, their coats well cut and of fine wool, but with none of the gold or silver or embroidery that richer men might have had. And for once there was no clack and rattle of dice to be heard. Fires blazed on the long hearths at the ends of the room, but even without those there would have been a warm feeling about the place.

The harper stood on a tabletop, reciting "Mara and the Three Foolish Kings," to the music of his harp. His instrument, all worked in gold and silver, was fit for a palace. Mat knew him. He had saved Mat’s life, once.

The harper was a lean man who would have been tall except for a stoop, and he moved with a limp when he shifted his feet on the tabletop. Even here inside, he wore his cloak, all covered with fluttering patches in a hundred colors. He always wanted everyone to know he was a gleeman. His long mustaches and bushy eyebrows were as snow-white as the thick hair on his head, and his blue eyes held a look of sorrow as he recited. The look was as unexpected as the man. Mat had never known Thom Merrilin to be a sorrowful man.

He took a table, setting his things on the floor by his stool, and ordered two mugs. The pretty young serving girl’s big brown eyes twinkled at him.

"Two, young master? You do not such a hard drinking man as that." Her voice held a mischievous edge of laughter.

After rummaging a bit, he brought out two silver pennies from his pocket. One more than paid for the wine, but he slipped her another for her eyes. "My friend will be joining me."

He knew Thom had seen him. The old gleeman had nearly stopped the story dead when Mat came in. That was new, too. Few things startled Thom enough for him to let it show, and nothing short of Trollocs had ever made him stop a story in the middle that Mat knew. When the girl brought the wine and his coppers in change, he let the pewter mugs sit and listened to the end of the story.

"’It was as we said it should be,’ said King Madel, trying to untangle a fish from his long beard." Thom’s voice seemed almost to echo inside a great hall, not an ordinary common room. His plucked harp sounded the three kings’ final foolishness. "’It was as we said it would be,’ announced Orander. And, feet slipping in the mud, he sat down with a great splash. ‘It was as we said it must be,’ proclaimed Kadar as he searched, up to his elbows in the river, fore his crown. ‘The woman knows not whereof she speaks. She is a fool!’ Madel and Orander agreed with him loudly. And with that, Mara had had enough. ‘I’ve given them all the chances they deserve and more,’ she murmured to herself. Slipping Kadar’s crown into her bag with the first two, she climbed back onto her cart, clucked to her mare, and drove straight back to her village. And when Mara had told them all that happened, the people of Heape would have no king at all." He strummed the major theme of the kings’ foolishness once more, this time sliding to a crescendo that sounded even more like laughter, made a sweeping bow, and nearly fell off the table.

Men laughed and stamped their feet, though likely every one of them had heard the story many times before, and called for more. The story of Mara was always well received, except perhaps by kings.

Thom nearly fell again climbing down from the table, and he was more unsteady in his walk than a somewhat stiff leg could account for as he came to where Mat was sitting. Casually putting his harp on the table, he dropped onto a stool in front of the second mug and gave Mat a flat stare. His eyes had always been sharp as awls, but they seemed to be having trouble focusing.

"Common," he muttered. His voice was still deep, but it no longer seemed to reverberate. "The tale is a hundred times better in Plain Chant, and a thousand in High, but they want Common." Without another word, he buried his face in his wine.

Mat could not recall ever seeing Thom finish playing that harp without immediately putting it away in its hard leather case. He had never seen him the worse for drink. It was a relief to hear the gleeman complaining about his listeners; Thom never thought their standards were as high as his. At least something of him had not changed.

The serving girl came back, with no twinkle in her eyes. "Oh, Thom," she said softly, "If I’d known he was the friend you awaited, I’d not have brought you wine for him if you gave a hundred silver pence."

"I did not know he was drunk," Mat protested.

But her attention was back on Thom, her voice gentle again. "Thom, you need some rest. They’ll keep you telling stories all night and all day, if you let them."

Another woman appeared on Thom’s other side, lifting her apron off over her head. She was older than the first, but no less pretty. The two might have been sisters. "A beautiful story, I’ve always thought, Thom, and you tell it beautifully. Come, I’ve slipped a warming pan into your bed, and you can tell me all about the court in Caemlyn."

Thom peered into the mug as if surprised to find it empty, then blew out his long mustaches and looked from one woman to the other. "Pretty Mada. Pretty Saal. Did I ever tell you that two pretty women have loved me in my life? That is more than most men can claim."

"You’ve told us all about it, Thom," the older woman said sadly. The younger glared at Mat as if it were all his fault.

"Two," Thom murmured. "Morgase had a temper, but I thought I could ignore that, so it ended with her wanting to kill me. Dena, I killed. As good as. Not much difference. Two chances I’ve had, more than most, and I threw them both away."

"I will take care of him," Mat said. Mada and Saal were both glaring at him, now. He gave them his best smile, but it did not work. His stomach muttered loudly. "Don’t I smell chicken roasting? Bring me three of four." The women blinked and exchanged startled looks when he added, "Do you want something eat, too, Thom?"

"I could do with more of this fine Andoran wine." The gleeman raised his cup hopefully.

"No more wine for you tonight, Thom." The older woman would have taken his cup if he had let her.

Almost on top of the first woman, the younger said, in a mixture of firmness and pleading, "You’ll have some chicken, Thom. It is very good."

Neither would leave until the gleeman agreed to eat something, and when they did go, they gave Mat such a combination of stares and sniffs that he could only shake his head. Burn me, you would think I was encouraging him to drink more! Women! But pretty eyes on the pair of them.

"Rand said you were alive," he told Thom when Mada and Saal were out of hearing. Moiraine always said she thought you were. But I heard you were in Cairhien, and meaning to go on to Tear."

"Rand is well, then?" Thom’s eyes sharpened to almost the keenness Mat remembered. "I am not sure I expected that. Moiraine is still with him, is she? A fine-looking woman. A fine woman, if she were not Aes Sedai. Meddle with that sort, and you get more than your fingers burned."

"Why wouldn’t you expect Rand to be alright?" Mat asked carefully. "Do you know something that could harm him?"

"Know? I don’t know anything, boy. I suspect more than is healthy for me, but I know nothing."

Mat abandoned that line of talk. No use firming his suspicions. No use letting him know I know more than’s healthy myself.

The older woman-Thom called her Mada-came back with three chickens with crisp, brown skins, giving the white-haired man a worried look, and Mat a warning one, before she left. Mat ripped off a leg and set to as he talked. Thom frowned at his cup and never looked at the birds.

"Why are you here in Tar Valon, Thom? It’s the last place I’d have expected to see you, the way you feel about Aes Sedai. I heard you were coining money in Cairhien."

"Cairhien," the old gleeman muttered, the sharpness fading from his eyes again. Such trouble it causes killing a man, even when he deserves killing." He made a flourish with one hand and was holding a knife. Thom always had knives secreted about him. Drunk he might have been, but he held the blade steady enough. "Kill a man who needs killing, and sometimes others pay for it. The question is, was it worth doing anyway? There’s always a balance, you know. Good and evil. Light and Shadow. We would not be human if there wasn’t a balance."

"Put that away," Mat growled around a mouthful. I don’t want to talk about killing." Light, that fellow is still out there lying in the street. Burn me, I ought to be on a ship by now. "I just asked why you’re in Tar Valon. If you had to leave Cairhien because you killed someone, I do not want to know about it. Blood and ashes, if you can’t pull your wits out of the wine enough to talk straight, I’ll leave now."

With a sour look, Thom made the knife disappear. "Why am I in Tar Valon? I’m here because it is the worst place I could be, except maybe Caemlyn. It’s what I deserve, boy. Some of the Red Ajah still remember me. I saw Elaida in the street the other day. If she knew I was here, she would peel my hide off in strips, and then she would stop being pleasant.

"I never knew you felt sorry for yourself," Mat said disgustedly. "Do you mean to drown yourself in wine?"

"What do you know of it, boy?" Thom snarled. "Put a few years on you, see something of life, maybe love a woman or two, and then you’ll know. Perhaps you will, if you have the brains to learn. Aaaaaah! You want to know why I’m in Tar Valon? Why are you in Tar Valon? I remember you shivering when you found out Moiraine was Aes Sedai. You nearly soiled yourself anybody even mentioned the Power. What are you doing in Tar Valon, with Aes Sedai on every side?"

"I’m leaving Tar Valon. That’s what I’m doing here. Leaving!" Mat grimaced. The gleeman had saved his life, and maybe more. A Fade had been involved. That was why Thom’s right leg did not work as well as it should. There could not be enough wine on a ship to keep him this drunk. "I am going to Caemlyn, Thom. If you need to risk your fool life for some reason, why not come with me?"

"Caemlyn?" Thom said musingly.

"Caemlyn, Thom. Elaida will likely be going back there sooner or later, so you’d have her to worry about. And from what I remember, if Morgase put her hands on you, you will wish Elaida had you."

Caemlyn. Yes. Caemlyn would fit my mood like a glove." The gleeman glanced at the chicken platter and gave a start. "What did you do, boy? Stuff them up your sleeve?" There was nothing left of the three birds but bones and carcasses with only a few strips of flesh remaining.

"Sometimes I get hungry," Mat muttered. It was an effort not lick his fingers. "Are you coming with me, or not?"

Oh, I will come, boy." As Thom pushed himself to his feet, he did not seem as unsteady as he had been. "You wait here-and try not to eat the table-while I get my things and say some good-byes." He limped away, not staggering once.

Mat drank a little of his wine and stripped off a few shreds that were left on the chicken carcasses, wondering if he had time to order another, but Thom was back quickly. His harp and flute in their dark leather cases hung on his back with a tied blanket roll. He carried a plain walking staff as tall as he was. The two serving women followed on either side. Mat decided they were sisters. Identical big brown eyes looked up at the gleeman with identical expressions. Thom was kissing first Saal, then Mada, and patting cheeks as he headed for the door, jerking his head for Mat to follow. He was outside before Mat could finish collecting his own belongings and pick up his quarterstaff.

The younger of the two women, Saal stopped Mat as he reached for the door. "Whatever you said to him, I forgive you for the wine, even if it is taking him away. I’ve not seen him this alive in weeks." She pressed something into his hand, and when he glanced at it, his eyes widened in confusion. She had given him a silver Tar Valon mark. "For whatever it was you said. Besides whoever is feeding you is not doing a good job of it, but you still have pretty eyes." She laughed at the expression on his face.

Mat was laughing, too, in spite of himself, as he went out into the street, rolling the silver coin across the back of his fingers. So I have pretty eyes, do I? His laughter shut off like the last drip from a wine barrel: Thom was there, but not the corpse. The windows of the taverns down the street put enough light across the cobblestones for him to be sure of it. The city guard would not have carried a dead man away without asking questions, at those taverns and at The Woman of Tanchico, too.

"What are you staring at, boy?" Thom asked. "No Trollocs in those shadows."

"Footpads," Mat muttered. "I was thinking about footpads."

"No street thieves or strong-arms in Tar Valon, either, boy. When the guards take a footpad-not that many tray that game here; the word spreads-but when they do, they haul him to the Tower, and whatever it is the Aes Sedai do to him, the fellow leaves Tar Valon the next day as wide eyed as a goosed girl. I understand they’re even harder on women caught thieving. No, the only way you’ll have your money stolen here is somebody selling you polished brass for gold or using shaved dice. There are no footpads."

Mat turned on his heel and strode past Thom, heading toward the docks, quarterstaff pushing on the cobblestones as if he could push himself ahead faster. "We’re going to be on the first ship sailing, wherever it is. The first, Thom."

Thom’s stick clicked hurriedly after him. "Slow down, boy. What’s your hurry? There are plenty of ships, sailing day and night. Slow down. There aren’t any footpads."

"The first bloody ship, Thom! If it’s sinking, we’ll be on it!" If they weren’t footpads, what where they? They had to be thieves. What else could they be?

Chapter 32

The First Ship

Southharbor itself, the great Ogier-made basin, was huge and round, surrounded by high walls of the same silver-streaked white stone as the rest of Tar Valon. One long wharf, most of it roofed, ran all the way around, except where the wide gates stood open to give access to the river. Vessels of every size lined the wharf, most moored by the stern, and despite the hour dockmen in course, sleeveless shirts hurried about5 loading and unloading bales and chests, crates and barrels, with ropes and booms, or on their backs. Lamps hanging from the roof beams lit the wharf and made a band of light around the black water in the middle of the harbor. Small open boats scuttled through the darkness, the square lanterns atop their tall sternposts making it seem as if fireflies skittered across the harbor. They were small only compared to the ships, though; some had as many as six pair of long oars.

When Mat led a still muttering Thom under an arch of polished red-stone and down broad steps to the wharf, crewmen on one three-masted ship were unfastening the mooring lines not twenty paces away. The vessel was larger than most Mat could see, between fifteen and twenty spans from sharp stern to squared bow, with a flat, railed deck almost level with the wharf. The important thing was that it was casting off. The first ship that sails.

A gray-haired man came up the wharf: three lines of hemp rope sewn down the sleeves of his dark coat marked him as a dockmaster. His wide shoulders suggested that he might have begun as a dockman hauling rope instead of wearing it. He glanced casually in Mat’s direction, and stopped, surprise on his leathery face. "Your bundles say what you’re planning, lad, but you might as well forget it. The sister showed me a drawing of you. You’ll board no ship in Southharbor, lad. Go back up those stairs so I don’t have to tell a man off to watch you."

"What under the light…." Thom murmured

"That’s all changed," Mat said firmly. The ship was casting off the last mooring line; the furled triangular sails still made thick, pale bundles on the long, slanted booms, but men were readying the sweeps. He pulled the Amyrlin’s paper out of his pouch and thrust it in the dockmaster’s face. "As you can see, I’m on the business of the Tower, at the order of the Amyrlin Seat herself. And I have to leave on that very vessel there."

The dockmaster read the words, then read them again. "I never saw such a thing in my life. Why would the Tower say that you couldn’t go, then give you…that?"

"Ask the Amyrlin, if you want," Mat told him in a weary voice that said he did not think anyone could possibly be stupid enough to do that, "but she’ll have my hide, and yours, if I do not sail on that ship."

"You’ll never make it," the dockmaster said, but he was already cupping his hands to his mouth. "Aboard the Grey Gull there! Stop! The Light burn you, stop!"

The shirtless fellow at the tiller looked back, then spoke to a tall companion in a dark coat with puffy sleeves. The tall man never took his eyes off the crewman just dipping the sweep into the water. "Give way together," he called, and the sweepblades curled up froth.

"I’ll make it," Mat snapped. The first ship I said, and the first ship I meant! "Come on, Thom!"

Without waiting to see if the gleeman followed, he ran down the wharf, dodging around men and barrows stacked with cargo. The gap between the Gray Gull‘s stern and the wharf widened as the sweeps bit deeper. Hefting his quarterstaff, he hurled it ahead of him toward the ship like a spear, took one more step, and jumped as hard as he could.

The dark water passing beneath his feet looked icy, but in a heartbeat he had cleared the ship’s rail and was rolling across the deck. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard a grunt and a curse behind him.

Thom Merrilin hoisted himself up on the railing with another curse, and climbed over onto the deck. "I lost my stick," he muttered. "I’ll want another." Rubbing his right leg, he peered down the still widening strip of water behind the vessel and shivered. "I had a bath today already." The shirtless steersmen stared wide-eyed from him to Mat and back again, clutching the tiller as if wondering if he could use it to defend himself from madmen.

The tall man seemed nearly as stunned. His pale blue eyes bulged, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His dark beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with rage, and his narrow face grew purple. "By the stone!" he bellowed finally. "What is the meaning of this? I’ve no room on this vessel for as much as a ship’s cat, and I’d not take vagabonds and I’d not take vagabonds who leap on my deck if I did. Sanor! Vasa! Heave this rubbish over the side!" Two extremely large men, barefoot and stripped to the waist, straightened from coiling lines and started toward the stern. The men at the sweeps continued their work, bending to lift the blades, taking three long steps along the deck, then straightening and walking backwards, hauling the ship ahead on their blades.

Mat waved the Amyrlin’s paper toward the bearded man-the captain, he supposed-with one hand, and fished a gold crown out of his pouch with the other, taking care even in his haste that the fellow saw that there were more where that came from. Tossing the heavy coin to the man, he spoke quickly, still waving the paper. "For the inconvenience of our boarding as we did, Captain. More to come for passage. On business of the White Tower. Personal command of the Amyrlin Seat. Imperative we sail immediately. To Aringill, in Andor. Utmost urgency. The blessing of the White Tower on all who aid us; The Tower’s wrath on any who impede us."

Certain the men had seen the Flame of Tar Valon seal by that name-and little more, Mat hoped-he folded the paper and thrust it out of sight. Eyeing the two big men uneasily as they came up on either side of the captain-Burn me, they both have arms like Perrin’s!-he wished he had his quarterstaff in hand. He could see it lying where it had landed, further down the deck. He tried to look sure and confident, the sort of man others did not trifle with, a man with the power of the White Tower behinds him. A long way behind me, I hope.

The captain looked at Mat doubtfully, and even more so at Thom in his gleeman’s cloak and none too steady afoot, but he motioned Sanor and Vasa to stop where they were. "I would not anger the Tower. Burn my soul, for the time being the river trade takes me from Tear to this den of…I come too often to anger…anyone." A tight smile appeared on his face. "But I spoke the truth. But the Stone, I did! Six cabins I have for passengers, and all full. You can sleep on the deck and eat with the crew for another gold crown. Each."

That is ridiculous!" Thom snapped. "I don’t care what the war has done downriver, that is ridiculous!" The two large sailors shifted their bare feet.

"It is the price," the captain said firmly. "I do not want to anger anyone, but I’d as soon not have any business you can be on aboard my vessel. Like letting a man pay you so he can coat you with hot tar, mixing in that business. You can pay the price, or you go over the side, and the Amyrlin Seat herself can dry you off. And I’ll keep this for the trouble you’ve given me, thank you." He stuffed the gold crown Mat had tossed him into a pocket of his puffy-sleeved coat.

"How much for one of the cabins?" Mat asked. "To ourselves, you can put whoever is in it now with someone else." He did not want to sleep out in the cold night. And if you don’t overwhelm a fellow like this, he’ll steal your breeches and say he’s doing you a favor. His stomach rumbled loudly. "And we eat what you eat, not with the crew. And plenty of it!"

"Mat," Thom said, "I’m the one who is supposed to be drunk here." He turned to the captain, flourishing his patch-covered cloak as well as he could with blanketroll and instrument cases hung about him. "As you may have noticed, Captain, I am a gleeman." Even in the open air, his voice suddenly seemed to echo. "For the price of our passage, I would be more than happy to entertain your passengers and your crew-"

"My crew is aboard to work, gleeman, not be entertained." The captain stroked his pointed beard; his eyes priced Mat’s plain coat to the copper. "So you want a cabin, do you?" He barked a laugh. "And my meals? Well, you can have my cabin, and my meals. For five gold crowns from each of you! Andoran weight!" Those were the heaviest. He began to laugh so hard his words came out in wheezes. Flanking him, Sanor and Vasa grinned wide grins. "For ten crowns, you can take my cabin, and my meals, and I’ll move in with the passengers and eat with the crew. Burn my soul, I will! By the Stone, I swear it! For ten gold crowns…." Laughter choked off anything else.

He was still laughing and gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes when Mat pulled out one of his purses, but the laughter stopped by the time Mat had counted five into his hands. The captain blinked in disbelief; the two big crewmen looked poleaxed.

"Andoran weight, you said?" Mat asked. It was hard to judge without scales, but he laid seven more on the pile. Two actually were Andoran, and he thought the others made up the weight. Close enough, for this fellow. After a moment, he added another two Tairen crowns. "For whoever you’ll be pushing out of the cabin they paid for." He did not think the passengers would see a copper of it, but sometimes it paid to appeared generous. "Unless you mean to share with them? No, of course not. They ought to have something for having to crowd in with others. There’s no need for you to eat with your crew, Captain. You are welcome to share Thom’s meal and mine in your cabin." Thom stared at him as hard as the others did.

"Are you…?" The bearded man’s voice was a hoarse whisper. "Are you…by any chance…a young lord in disguise?"

"I am no lord." Mat laughed. He had reason to laugh. The Gray Gull was well out into the darkness of the harbor, now, with the wharfs a band of light pointing up the black gap, not far ahead now, where the water gates let out onto the river. The sweeps drove the vessel toward that gap quickly. Men were already swinging the long, slanting booms around preparatory to unlashing the sails. And with gold in his hands, the captain no longer seemed ready to throw anyone overboard. "If you don’t mind, Captain, could we see our cabin? Your cabin, I mean. It’s late and I for one want a few hours sleep." His stomach spoke to him. "And supper!"

As the vessel put its bow into the blackness, the bearded man himself led the way down a ladder to a short, narrow passage lined with doors set close together. While the captain cleared his things from his cabin-it ran the width of the stern, with its bed and all its furnishings built into the walls except two chairs and a few chests-and saw that Mat and Thom were settled, Mat learned a great deal, beginning with the fact that the man would not be pushing any of the passengers out of their quarters. He had too much respect for the coin they had paid, if not for them, to allow that. The captain would take his first’s cabin, and that officer would take the second’s bed, pushing each lower man down till the dockmaster would end sleeping in the bow with the crew.

Mat did not think that information could be very useful, but he listened to everything the man said. It was always best to know not only where you were going, but who you were dealing with, or they might just take your coat and boots and leave you to walk home through the rain in bare feet.

The captain was a Tairen named Huan Mallia, and he spoke with great volubility once he had worked out Mat and Thom to his own satisfaction. He was not nobly born, not him, but he would not have anyone think he was a fool. A young man with more gold than any young man should have by right might be a thief, if everyone did not know thieves never escaped Tar Valon with their haul. A young man dressed like a farmboy but with the air and confidence of the lord he denied being-"By the Stone, I’ll not say you are, if you say you’re not."

Mallia winked and chuckled and tugged at the point of his beard. A young man carrying a paper bearing the Amyrlin Seat’s seal and bound for Andor. There was no secret that Queen Morgase had visited Tar Valon, though her reason certainly was. It was obvious to Mallia that something was afoot between Caemlyn and Tar Valon. And Mat and Thom were messengers-for Morgase-he thought, by Mat’s accent. Anything he could do to help in so great an enterprise would be his pleasure, not that he meant to poke where he was not wanted.

Mat exchanged startled looks with Thom, who was stowing his instrument cases under a table built out from one wall. The room had two small windows on either side, and a pair of lamps in jointed brackets for light. "That’s nonsense," Mat said.

"Of course," Mallia replied. He straightened from pulling clothes out of a chest at the foot of the bed and smiled. "Of course." A cupboard in the wall seemed to hold charts of the river he would need. "I’ll say no more."

But he did mean to poke, though he attempted to disguise it, and he rambled while he tried to pry. Mat listened, and answered the questions with grunts or shrugs or a word or two, while Thom said less than that. The gleeman kept shaking his head while unburdening himself of his possessions.

Mallia had been a river man all his life, though he dreamed of sailing on the sea. He hardly spoke of a country beside Tear without contempt; And was the only one to escape, and the praise he finally managed was grudging despite his obvious efforts. Good horses in Andor, I’ve heard. Not bad. Not as good as Tairen stock, but good enough. You make good steel, and iron goods, bronze and copper-I’ve traded for them often enough, though you charge a weighty price-but then you have those mines in the Mountains of Mist. Gold mines, too. We have to earn our gold, in Tear."

Mayene received his greatest contempt. "Even less a country than Murandy is. One city and a few leagues of land. They underprice the oil from our good Tairen olives just because their ships know how to find the oilfish shoals. They’ve no right to be a country at all."

He hated Illian. "One day we’ll loot Illian bare, tear down every town and village, and sow their filthy grounds with salt." Mallia’s beard almost bristled with outrage at how filthy the Illian land was. "Even their olives are putrid! One day we’ll carry every last Illianer pig off in chains! That is what the High Lord Samon says."

Mat wondered what the man thought Tear would do with all those people if they actually fulfilled this scheme. The Illianers would have to be fed, and they would surely do no work in chains. It made no sense to him, but Mallia’s eyes shone when he spoke of it.

Only fools let themselves be ruled by a king or a queen, by one man or woman. "Except Queen Morgase, of course," he put in hastily. "She is a fine woman, so I’ve heard. Beautiful, I’m told." All those fools bowing to one fool. The High Lords ruled Tear together, reaching their decisions in concert, and that was how things should be. The High Lords knew what things were right and good and true. Especially the High Lord Samon.

Beyond kings and queens, beyond even Illian, lay a bigger hatred Mallia attempted to keep hidden, but he talked so much in trying to find out what they were up to, and grew so carried away by the sound of his own voice, that he let more slip than he intended.

They must travel a great deal, serving a queen like Morgase. They must have seen many lands. He dreamed of the sea because then he could see lands he had only heard of, because then he could find the Mayener oilfish shoals, could out-trade the Sea Folk and the filthy Illianers. And the sea was far from Tar Valon. They must understand that, forced as they were to travel among odd places and people, places and people they could not stomach if they were not serving Queen Morgase.

"I never like docking there, never knowing who might be using the Power." He almost spat the last word. Since he had heard the High Lord Samon speak, though…. "Burn my soul, it makes me feel like hull-worms are burrowing into my belly to just looking at their White Tower, now, knowing what they plan."

The High Lord Samon said the Aes Sedai meant to rule the world. Samon said they meant to crush every nation, put their foot on every man’s throat. Samon said Tear could no longer hold the Power out of its own lands and believe that was enough. Samon said Tear had its rightful day of glory coming, but Tar Valon stood between Tear and glory.

"There’s no hope for it. Sooner or later they will have to be hunted down and killed, every last Aes Sedai. The High Lord Samon says the other ones might be saved-the young ones, the novices, the Accepted-if they’re brought to the Stone, but the rest must be eradicated. That’s what the High Lord Samon says. The White Tower must be destroyed."

For a moment Mat stood in the middle of his cabin, arms full of clothes and books and rolled charts, hair almost brushing the deck beams overhead, staring at nothing with pale blue eyes while the White Tower tumbled into ruin. Then he gave a start as if realizing what he had said. His pointed beard waggled uncertainly.

"That is…that’s what he says. I…I think that may be going too far, myself. The High Lord Samon…. He speaks so that he carries a man beyond his own beliefs. If Caemlyn can make covenants with the Tower, why, so can Tear." He shivered and did not seem to know it. "That is what I say."

"As you say," Mat told him, and felt mischief bubble inside. "I think your suggestion is the right one, Captain. But don’t stop with a few Accepted, though. Ask a dozen Aes Sedai to come, or two. Think what the Stone of Tear would be like with two dozen Aes Sedai in it."

Mallia shuddered. "I will send a man for my money chest," he said stiffly, and stalked out.

Mat frowned at the closed door. "I think I shouldn’t have said that."

"I don’t know why you might think that," Thom said dryly. "Next you could be telling the Lord Captain Commander of the Whitecloaks he should marry the Amyrlin Seat." His brows drew down, like white caterpillars. "High Lord Samon. I never heard of any High Lord Samon."

It was Mat’s turn to be dry. "Well even you cannot know everything about all the kings and queens and nobles there are, Thom. One or two might have just escaped your notice."

"I know the names of the kings and queens, boy, and the names of all the high lords of Tear, too. I suppose they could have raised a Lord of the Land, but I think I would have heard of the old High Lord dying. If you had settled for booting some poor fellow out of their cabin instead of taking the captain’s we’d each have a bed to ourselves, narrow and hard as it might be. Now we have to share Mallia’s. I hope you don’t snore, boy. I cannot abide snoring."

Mat ground his teeth. As he recalled, Thom had a snore like a woodrasp working on an oak knot. He had forgotten that.

It was one of the two large men-Sanor of Vas; he did not give his name-who came to pull the captain’s iron-bound chest from under the bed. He never said a word, only made sketchy bows, and frowned at them, when he thought they were not looking, and left.

Mat was beginning to wonder if the luck that had been with him all night had deserted him at last. He was going to have to put up with Thom’s snoring, and truth to tell, it might not have been the best luck in the world to jump onto this particular ship waving a paper signed by the Amyrlin Seat and sealed with the Flame of Tar Valon. On impulse he pulled out one of his cylindrical leather dice cups, popped off the tight-fitting lid, and upended the dice on the table.

They were spotted dice, and five single pips stared up at him. The Dark One’s eyes, that was called in some games. It was a losing toss in those, a winning in other games. But what game am I playing? He scooped the dice up, tossed them again. Five pips. Another toss, and again the Dark One’s eyes winked at him.

"If you used those dice to win all that gold," Thom said quietly, "no wonder you had to leave by the first ship sailing." He had stripped down to his shirt, and had that half over his head when he spoke. His knees were all knobby and his legs seemed all sinew and stringy muscle, the right a little shrunken. "Boy, a twelve-year-old girl would cut your heart out if she knew you were using dice like that against her."

"It’s the dice," Mat muttered. "It’s the luck." Aes Sedai luck? Or the Dark one’s luck? He pushed the dice back into the cup and capped it.

"I suppose," Thom said, climbing into the bed, "you aren’t going to tell me where all that gold came from, then."

"I won it. Tonight. With their dice."

"Uh-huh. And I suppose you’re not going to explain that paper you were waving around-I saw the seal, boy!-or all that talk about White Tower business, or why that dockmaster had your description from an Aes Sedai, either."

"I am carrying a letter to Morgase for Elayne, Thom," Mat said a good deal more patiently than he felt. Nynaeve gave me the paper. I don’t know where she got it."

"Well, if you are not going to tell me, I am going top sleep. Blow out the lamps, will you?" Thom rolled on his side and pulled a pillow over his head.

Even after Mat had stripped off down to his smallclothes and crawled under the blankets-after blowing out the lamps-he could not sleep, though Mallia had done well by himself with a good feather mattress. He had been right about Thom’s snoring, and that pillow muffled nothing. It sounded as if Thom were cutting wood cross-grain with a rusty saw. And he could not stop thinking. How had Nynaeve and Egwene, and Elayne, gotten that paper from the Amyrlin? They had to be involved with the Amyrlin Seat herself-in some plot, one of those White Tower machinations-but now that he thought about it, they had to be holding something back from the Amyrlin, too.

"‘Please carry a letter to my mother, Mat," he said softly, in a high-pitched, mocking voice. "Fool! The Amyrlin would have sent a Warder with any letter from the Daughter-Heir to the Queen. Blind fool, wanting to get out of the Tower so bad I couldn’t see it." Thom’s snore seemed to trumpet agreement.

Most of all, though, he thought about luck, and footpads.

The first bump of something against the stern barely registered on him. He paid no attention to a thump and a scuttle from the deck overhead, or the tread of boots. The vessel itself made enough noises, and there had to be someone on deck for the ship to make its way downriver. But stealthy footsteps in the passageway leading to his door merged with thoughts of footpads and made his ears prick up.

"He nudged Thom in the ribs with an elbow. "Wake up," he said softly. "There’s somebody outside in the hall." He was already easing himself off the bed, hoping the cabin floor-Deck, floor, whatever it bloody is!-would not creak under his feet. Thom grunted, smacked his lips, and resumed snoring.

There was no time to worry about Thom. The footsteps were right outside. Taking up his quarterstaff, Mat placed himself in front of the door and waited.

The door swung open slowly, and two cloaked men, one behind the other, were faintly outlined by dim moonlight through the hatch at the top of the ladder they had crept down. The moonlight was enough to glint off bare knifeblades. Both men gasped; they obviously had not expected to find anyone waiting for them.

Mat thrust with the quarterstaff, catching the first man hard right under where his ribs joined together. He herd his father’s voice as he struck. It’s a killing blow, Mat. Don’t ever use it unless it’s your life. But those knives made it for his life; there was no room in the cabin for swinging a staff.

Even as the man made a choking sound and folded toward the deck, fighting vainly for breath, Mat stepped forward and drove the end of the quarterstaff over him into the second man’s throat with a loud crunch. That fellow dropped his knife to clutch at his throat, and fell on top of his companion, both of them scraping their boots across the deck, death rattles already sounding in their throats.

Mat stood there, staring down at them. Two men. No, burn me, three! I don’t think I ever hurt another human before, and now I’ve killed three men in one night. Light!

Silence filled the dark passageway, and he heard the thump of boots on the deck overhead. The crewmen all went barefoot.

Trying not to think about what he was doing, Mat ripped the cloak from one of the dead men and settled it on his shoulders, hiding the pale linen of his smallclothes. On bare feet he padded down the passage and climbed the latter, barely sticking his eyes above the hatch coping.

Pale moonlight reflected off the taut sails, but night still covered the deck with shadows, and there was no side except the rush of water on the vessel’s sides. Only one man at the tiller, the hood of his cloak pulled up against the chill, seemed to be on deck. The man shifted, and boot leather scuffed on the deck planks.

Holding the quarterstaff low and hoping it would not be noticed, Mat climbed on up. "He’s dead," he muttered in a low, rough whisper.

"I hope he squealed when you cut his throat." The heavily accented voice was one Mat remembered calling from the mouth of a twisting street in Tar Valon. "This boy, he causes too much of the trouble. Wait! Who are you?"

Mat swung the staff with a his strength. The thick wood smashed into the man’s head, the hood of his cloak only partly muffling a sound like a melon hitting the floor.

The man fell across the tiller, shoving it over, and the vessel lurched, staggering Mat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shape rising out of the shadows by the railing, and the gleam of a blade, and he knew he would never get his staff around before it struck home. Something else that shone streaked through the night and merged with the dim shape with a dull thunk. The rising motion began a fall, and a man sprawled almost at Mat’s feet.

A babble of voices rose belowdeck as the ship swung again, the tiller shifting with the first man’s weight.

Thom limped from the hatch in cloak and smallclothes, raising the shutters on a bull’s eye lantern. "You were lucky, boy. One of those below had this lantern. Could have set the ship on fire, laying there." The light showed a knife hilt sticking up from the chest of a man with dead, staring eyes. Mat had never seen him before; he was sure he would have remembered someone with that many scars on his face. Thom kicked a dagger away from the dead man’s outflung hand, then bent to retrieve his own knife, wiping the blade on the corpse’s cloak. "Very lucky, boy. Very lucky indeed."

There was a rope tied to the stern rail. Thom stepped over to it, shining the light down astern, and Mat joined him. At the other end of the rope was one of the small boats from Southharbor, its square lantern extinguished. Two men stood among the pulled-in oars.

"The Great Lord take me, it him!" one of them gasped. The other darted forward to work frantically at the knot holding the rope.

"You want to kill these two as well?" Thom asked, his voice booming as it did when he performed.

"No, Thom," Mat said quietly. "No."

The men in the boat must have heard the question and not the answer, for they abandoned the attempt to free their boat and leaped over the side with great splashes. The sound of them thrashing away across the river was loud.

"Fools," Thom muttered. "The river narrows somewhat after Tar Valon, but it must still be half a mile or more wide here. They’ll never make it in the dark."

"By the Stone!" came a shout from the hatch. "What happens here? There are dead men in the passageway! What’s Vasa doing laying atop the till? He’ll take us onto a mudbank!" Naked save for linen underbreeches, Mallia dashed to the tiller, hauling the dead man off as he pulled the long lever to put the course straight again. "That isn’t Vasa! Burn my soul, who are all these dead men?" Others were clambering on deck now, barefoot crewmen and frightened passengers wrapped in cloaks and blankets.

Shielding his actions with his body, Thom slipped his knife under the rope and severed it in one stroke. The small boat began falling back into the darkness. "River brigands, Captain," he said. "Young Mat and I have saved your vessel from river brigands. They might have cut everyone’s throat if not for us. Perhaps you should reconsider your passage fee."

"Brigands!" Mallia exclaimed. "There are plenty of those around Cairhien, but I never heard of it this far north!" The huddled passengers began to mutter about brigands and having their throats cut.

Mat walked stiffly to the hatch. Behind him, he heard Mallia. "He’s a cold one. I never heard that Andor employed assassins, but burn my soul, he is a cold one."

Mat stumbled down the ladder, stepped over the two bodies in the passage, and slammed the door of the captain’s cabin behind him. He made it halfway to the bed before the shaking hit him, and then all he could do was sink down on his knees. Light, what game am I playing in? I have to know the game if I am going to win. Light, what game?

Chapter 40

A Hero in the Night

Leaning on the rail, Mat watched the walled town of Aringill come closer as the sweeps worked the Gray Gull in toward the long, tarred-timber docks. Protected by the high stone wingwalls that thrust out into the river, those docks swarmed with people, and more were leaving the ships of various sizes that lay tied all along them. Some of the people pushed barrows, or pulled sledges of tall-wheeled carts, all piled high with furniture and chests lashed in place, but most carried bundles on their backs, if that. Not everyone bustled. Many men and women huddled together uncertainly, and children clung crying to their legs. Soldiers in red coats and shiny breastplates kept trying to make them move off the docks into the town, but most seemed too frightened to move.

Mat turned and shaded his eyes to peer at the river they were leaving. The Erinin was busier here than he had seen it south of Tar Valon, with nearly a dozen vessels under way in sight, ranging from a long, sharp-prowed splinter darting upriver against the current, pushed by two triangular sails, to a wide, bluff-bowed ship with square sails, still wallowing along well to the north.

Nearly half the ships he could see had nothing to do with the river trade, though. Two broad-beamed craft with empty decks were lumbering across the river, toward a smaller town on the far bank, while three others labored back toward Aringill, their docks packed with people like barrels of fish. The setting sun, still its own height above the horizon, shadowed a banner flying over the other town. That shore was Cairhien, but he did not need to see the banner t know it was the white lion of Andor. There had been talk enough in the few Andoran villages where the Gray Gull had stopped briefly.

He shook his head. Politics did not interest him. As long as they don’t tell me I’m an Andoran just because of some map. Burn me, they might even try to make me fight in their bloody army, if this Cairhien business spreads. Following orders. Light! With a shiver, he turned back to Aringill. Barefoot men on the Gray Gull were readying ropes to toss to others on the docks.

Captain Mallia was eyeing him from the back by the tiller. The fellows had near given up hi efforts to ingratiate himself with them, his attempts to learn what their important mission was. Mat had finally showed him the sealed letter and told him that he was carrying it from the Daughter-Heir to the Queen. A personal message from a daughter to her mother; no more. Mallia had only seemed to hear the words "Queen Morgase."

Mat grinned to himself. A deep coat pocket held two purses fatter than when he had boarded the vessel; he had enough loose coin to more than fill another two. His luck had not been quite so good as on that first, strange night when the dice and everything else had seemed to go crazy, but still it was enough good. After the third night, Mallia had given up trying to show his friendliness by gambling, but his money chest was already lighter by then. It would be lighter still after Aringill. Mallia had need to restock his food-Mat glanced at the people milling on the docks-if he could, here, at any price.

The grin faded as his thoughts went back to the letter. A little work with a hot knife blade, and the golden lily seal had been lifted. He ha found nothing: Elayne was studying hard and was making progress and eager to learn. She was a dutiful daughter, and the Amyrlin Seat had punished her for running away and told her never to speak of it again, so her mother would understand why she could not say more. She said she had been raised to the Accepted, and was that not wonderful, so soon, and she was being trusted with greater duties now, and would have to leave Tar Valon for just a short time on the service of the Amyrlin herself. Her mother was not to worry.

It was all very well for her to tell Morgase not to worry. It was him she had landed in the soup kettle. This silly letter had to be the reason those men had come after him, but even Thom had been able to make nothing of it, though he muttered about "cipher" and "codes" and "the Game of Houses."

Mat had the letter safe in the lining of his coat, now, its seal replaced, and he was willing to bet no one would ever know. If someone wanted it badly enough to kill him for it, they might try again. I told you I’d deliver it, Nynaeve, and I bloody will, no matter who tries to stop me. Even so, he would have words to say the next time he saw those three irritating women-If I ever do. Light, I never thought of that-words he did not think they would enjoy hearing.

As the crewmen hurled their lines onto the dock, Thom came on deck, his instrument cases on his back and his bundle in one hand. Even with a limp he strutted to the rail, giving the tail of his clock little flourishes to make the colored patches flutter, and blowing out his long, white moustaches importantly.

"Nobody is watching, Thom," Mat said. "I don’t think they would even see a gleeman unless he had food in his hands."

Thom stared at the docks. "Light! I had heard it was bad, but I did not expect this! Poor fools. Half of them look as if they are starving. It may cost us one of your purses for a room tonight. And the other for a meal, if you intend to keep on the way you’ve been going. Nearly made me ill to watch you. You try eating that way where those people down there can see you, and you may have your brains battered out."

Mat only smiled at him.

Mallia came stumping down the deck, tugging the point of his beard, as the Gray Gull was warped into her berth. Crewmen ran to set a gangplank, and Sanor stood guard on it, heavy arms folded across his chest, in case the throng on the dock decided to board. None of them did.

"So you will be leaving me here," Mallia told Mat. The captain’s smile was not as ready as it might have been. "Are you certain there is nothing I can do to help further? Burn my soul, I never saw such a rabble! Those soldiers ought to clear the docks-with the sword, if need be! -So decent traders can do business. Perhaps Sanor can make a path through this scum to your inn for you.

So you know where we are staying? Not bloody likely. "I had thought of eating before I went ashore, and maybe a game of dice to pass the time." Mallia’s face went white. "But I think I would like a steady floor under me for my next meal. So we will leave you now, Captain. It has been an enjoyable voyage."

While relief still battled consternation on the captain’s face, Mat picked up his things from the deck and, using the quarterstaff as a walking stick, made his way to the gangplank with Thom. Mallia followed as far as the head of the plank, murmuring regrets at their departure that jumped from real to insincere and back again. Mat was certain the man hated losing a chance to ingratiate himself with hid High Lord Samon by learning details of a pact between Andor and Tar Valon.

As Mat and the gleeman pushed through the crowds, Thom muttered, "I know the man is far from likable, but why do you have to keep taunting him? Wasn’t it enough that you ate every scrap of what he thought would feed him all the way to Tear?"

"I have not been eating it all for nearly two days." The hunger had simply been gone one morning, to his great relief. It was as if Tar Valon had loosed its last hold on him. "I’ve been throwing most of it over the side, and a hard job making sure nobody saw." Among those drawn faces, many of them children’s, it did not seem so funny anymore. "Mallia deserved taunting. What about that ship [, yesterday? That one that was stuck on a mudbank or something. He could have stopped to help, but he would not go near it no matter however much they shouted." There was a woman with long, dark hair ahead who might have been pretty if she had not looked so bone weary, peering into the face of every man who passed her as if looking for someone; a boy little taller than her waist and two girls shorter clung to her, all crying. "All that talk about river brigands and traps. It didn’t look like any trap to me."

Thom dodged around a high-wheeled cart-a cage holding two squealing pigs was lashed atop the canvas-covered mound-and nearly tripped over a sledge being pulled by a man and a woman. "And you go out of your way to help people, do you? Strange how that has escaped my eye."

"I’ll help anyone who can pay," Mat said firmly. "Only fools in stories do something for nothing."

The two girls fought sobbed into their mother’s shirts while the boy fought his tears. The woman’s deep-set eyes rested on Mat for a moment, studying his face, before drifting on; they looked as if she wished she could weep, too. On impulse he dug a fistful of coins out of his pocket without looking to see what they were and pressed them into her hand. She gave a start of surprise, stared at the gold and silver in her hand with incomprehension that quickly turned to a smile, and opened her mouth, tears of gratitude filling her eyes.

"Buy them something to eat," he said quickly, and hurried on before she could speak. He noticed Thom looking at him. "What are you gawking at? Coin comes easily as long as I can find somebody who likes to dice." Thom nodded slowly, but Mat was not sure he had gotten his point across. Bloody children’s crying was getting on my nerves, that’s all. Fool gleeman will probably expect me to give away gold to every waif that comes along, now. Fool! For an uncomfortable moment, he was not certain whether the last had been meant for Thom or himself.

Taking himself in hand, he avoided looking at any face long enough to really see it until he found the one he wanted, at the foot of the dock. The helmetless soldier in red coat and breastplate, urging people into the town, had the grizzled look of a squadman, an experienced leader of ten or so. Squinting into the setting sun, he reminded Mat of Uno, though he had both his eyes. He looked almost as tired as the people he was chivying. "Move along," he was shouting in a hoarse voice. "You can’t bloody stay here. Move along. Into the town with you."

Mat stationed himself squarely in front of the soldier and put on a smile. "Your pardon, Captain, but can you tell me where I can find a decent inn? And a stable with good horses to sell. We have a long way to go, come morning."

The soldier eyed him up and down, examined Thom and his gleeman’s cloak, then shifted back to Mat. "Captain, is it? Well, boy, you’ll have the Dark One’s own luck if you find a stable to sleep on. Most of this lot are sleeping under hedges. And if you find a horse that hasn’t been slaughtered for cooking, you’ll likely have to fight the man who owns it to make him sell."

"Eating horse!" Thom muttered disgustedly. Has it really become that bad on this side of the rive? Isn’t the queen sending food?"

"It is bad, gleeman." The soldier looked as if he wanted to spit. "They’re crossing over faster than the mills can grind flour, or wagons carry foodstuffs from the farms. Well, it will not last much longer. The order has come down. Tomorrow, we stop letting anyone cross, and if they try, we send them back." He scowled at the people milling on the dock as if it were all their fault, then brought the same hard look to bear on Mat. "You are taking up space, traveler. Move along." His voice rose to a shout again, directed at everything within hearing. "Move along! You can’t bloody stay here! Move along!"

Mat and Thom joined the thin stream of people, carts, and sledges flowing toward the gates in the town wall, and into Aringill.

The main streets were paved with flat gray stones, but they were crowded with so many people that it was difficult to see the stones under your own boots. Most appeared to be moving aimlessly, with nowhere to go, and those who had given up squatted dejectedly along the sides of the street, the lucky ones with bundled belongings in front of them or some cherished possession clutched in their arms. Mat saw three men holding clocks, and a dozen more with silver goblets or platters. The women held children to their breasts, mainly. A babble filled the air, a low, wordless hum of worry. He pushed through the crowd with a frown on his face, searching for the sign that would mark an inn. The buildings were every sort, wood and brick and stone all cheek by jowl, with roofs of tile, or slate, or thatch.

"It does not sound like Morgase," Thom said after a time, half to himself. His bushy white eyebrows were pulled down like a white arrow pointing to his nose.

"What does not sound like her," Mat asked absently.

"Stopping the crossing. Sending people back. She always had a temper like lightning, but she always had a soft heart, too, for anyone poor or hungry." He shook his head. Mat saw a sign, then- the Riverman, it said, and showed a barefoot, shirtless fellow doing a jig-and turned that way, forcing a flow across the flow with the quarterstaff. "Well, it had to be her. Who else could it be? Forget Morgase, Thom. We’re a long way to Caemlyn, yet. First let us see how much gold it takes to buy a bed for the night."

The commonroom of the Riverman looked as crowded as the street outside, and when the innkeeper heard what Mat wanted, he laughed till his chins shook. "I am sleeping four to a bed, now. If my own mother came to me, I could not give her a blanket by the fire."

"As you may have noticed," Thom said, his voice taking on that echoing quality, "I am a gleeman. Surely you can find at least pallets in a corner in return for me entertaining your patrons with stories and juggling, eating of fire, and sleight of hand." The innkeeper laughed in his face.

"I have slept in enough stables and barns since leaving Emond’s Field," Mat told him, "and under enough bushes, too. I want a bed.

But at the next four inns he found, the innkeeper gave him the same answer as the first; the last two almost threw him out bodily when he offered to dice for a bed. And when the owner of the fifth told him he could not give a pallet to the Queen herself-this at a place called The Good Queen-he sighed and asked, ""What about your stable, then? Surely we can bed down in the hayloft for a price."

"My stable is for horses," the round-faced man said, "not that many are left in the city." He had been polishing a silver cup; now he opened one door of a shallow cupboard standing on top of a deep, drawered chest and placed it inside with others; none of them matched. A tooled leather dice cup sat atop the chest, just beyond the arch of the cupboard’s doors. "I do not put people in there to frighten the horses, and perhaps make off with them. Those who pay me for stabling their animals want them well tended, and I’ve two of my own in there, besides. There are no beds in my stable for you."

Mat eyed the dice cup thoughtfully. He pulled a golden Andoran crown out of his pocket and set it atop the chest. The next coin was a silver Tar Valon mark, then a gold one, and a gold Tairen crown. The innkeeper looked at the coins and licked his plump lips. Matt added two silver Illianerr marks and another gold Andoran crown, and looked at the round-faced man. The innkeeper hesitated. Mat reached for the coins. The innkeeper’s hand reached them first.

"Perhaps just the two of you would not disturb the horses too greatly."

"Mat smiled at him. "Speaking of horses, what price for those two of yours? With saddles and bridles, of course."

"I will not sell my horses," the man said, clutching the coins to his chest.

Mat picked up the dice cup and rattled it. "Twice as much again against the horses, saddled and bridles." He shook his coat pocket to make the loose coins rattle, too, to show he had more money to cover the wager. "My one toss against the best of your two." He almost laughed as greed lit the innkeeper’s entire face.

When Mat walked into the stable, the first thing he did was check along the half-dozen stalls with horses in them for a pair of brown geldings. They were nondescript animals, but they were his. They needed currying badly, but otherwise they seemed in good condition, especially considering that all stablemen but one had run off. The innkeeper had been extremely disparaging of their complaints that they could no longer live on what he paid them, and he seemed to think it a crime that the one man who remained had actually had the audacity to say that he was going home to bed just because he was tired from doing three men’s work.

"Five sixes," Thom muttered behind him. The looks he cast around the stable did not seem as enthralled as they might, seeing that he had suggested it in the first place. Dust motes shone in the last light of the setting sun coming through the big doors, and the ropes used to hoist hay bales hung like vines from pulleys in the roof beams. The hayloft was dim in the gloom above. When he threw four sixes and a five on his second toss, he’d thought you’d lost for sure, and so did I. You have been winning every toss of late."

"I win enough." Mat was just as relieved not to be winning every throw. Luck was one thing, but remembering that night still sent shivers down his back. Still, for one moment as he shook that dice cup, he had all but known what the pips would be. As he tossed the quarterstaff up into the loft, thunder crashed in the sky. He scrambled up the ladder, calling back to Thom. "This was a good idea. I’d think you would be happy to be in out of the rain tonight."

Mast of the hay was in bales stacked against the outer walls, but there was more than enough loose for him to make a bed with his cloak over it. Thom appeared at the top of the ladder as he was pulling two loaves of bread and a wedge of green veined cheese from his leather script. The innkeeper-his name was Jeral Florry-had parted with the food for merely enough coin to have bought one of those horses in peaceful days. They ate while rain began drumming on the roof, washing the food down with water from their waterbottles–Florry had had no wine at any price-and when they were done, Thom dug out his tinderbox and thumbed his long-stemmed pipe full of tobac and settled back for a smoke.

Mat was laying on his back, staring at the shadowed roof and wondering if the rain would break before morning-he wanted that letter out of his hands as quickly as possible-when he heard an axle creak in the stable. Rolling to the edge of the loft, he peered down. There was enough dusk left for him to see. A slender woman was straightening from the shafts of the high-wheeled cart she had just dragged in out of the rain, pulling off her cloak and muttering to herself as she shook the wet from it. Her hair was plaited in a multitude of small braids, and her silk dress-he thought it was a pale green-was elaborately embroidered across her breasts The dress had been fine, once, but now it was tattered and stained. She knuckled her back, still talking to herself in a low voice, and hurried to the stable doors to peer out into the rain. Just as hurriedly, she ducked out to pull the big doors shut, enclosing the stable in darkness. There was a rustling below, a clink and a slosh, and suddenly a small flare of light bloomed into a lantern in her hands. She looked around, found a hook on a stall post, hung the lantern, and went to dig under the roped canvas covering her hart.

"She did that quickly," Thom said softly around his pipe. She could have set fire to the stable striking flint and steel in the dark like that."

The woman came out with the end of a loaf of bread, which she gnawed as if it were hard and her hunger did not care.

"Is there any of that cheese left?" Mat whispered. Thom shook his head.

The woman began sniffing at the air, and Mat realized she probably smelled Thom’s tobac smoke. He was about to stand and announce their presence when one of the stable doors opened again.

The woman crouched, ready to run, as four men walked in out of the rain, doffing their wet cloaks to reveal pale coats with wide sleeves and embroidery across the chest, and baggy breeches embroidered down the legs. Their clothes might be fancy, but they were all big men, and their faces were grim.

"So, Aludra," a man in a yellow coat said, "you did not run so fast as you thought to, eh?" He had a strange accent to Mat’s ear.

"Tammuz," the woman said as if it were a curse. "It is not enough that you cause me to be cast out of the Guild with your blundering, you great ox-brain you, but now you chase after me as well." She had the same odd way of speaking as the man. "Do you think that I am glad to see you?"

The one called Tammuz laughed. "You are a very large fool, Aludra, which I always knew. Had you merely gone away, you could have lived in some quiet place. But you could not forget the secrets in your head, eh? Did you believe that we would not hear that you try to earn you way by making what it is the right of the Guild alone to make? Suddenly there was a knife in his hand. "It will be a great pleasure to cut your throat, Aludra."

Mat was not even aware that he had stood up until one of the doubled ropes dangling from the ceiling was in his hands and he had launched himself out of the loft. Burn me for a bloody fool!

He only had time for that one frantic thought, and then he was plowing through the cloaked men, sending them toppling like pins in a game of bowls. The ropes slipped through his hands, and he fell, tumbling across the straw-covered floor himself, coins spilling from his pockets, to end up against a stall. When he scrambled to his feet, the four men were already rising, too. And they all had knives in their hands, now. Light, blind fool! Burn me! Burn me!

"Mat!"

He looked up, and Thom tossed his quarterstaff down to him. He snagged it out of the air just in time to knock the blade out of Tammuz’s fist and thump him a sharp crack on the side of the head. The man crumpled, but the other three were right behind, and for a hectic moment Mat had al he could do with a whirling staff to keep knife blades away from him, rapping knees and ankles and ribs until he could land a good blow on a head. When the last man fell, he stared at them a moment, then raised his glare to the woman, "Did you have to choose this stable to be murdered in?"

She slipped a slim-bladed dagger back into the sheath at her belt. "I would have helped you, but I feared that you might mistake me for one of these great buffoons if I came near you with steel in my hand. And I chose this stable because the rain is wet and so am I, and no one was watching this place."

She was older than he had thought, at least ten or fifteen years older than he, but pretty still, with large, dark eyes and a small, full mouth that seemed on the point of a pout. Or getting ready for a kiss. He gave a small laugh and leaned on his staff. "Well, what is done is done. I suppose you were not trying to bring us trouble."

Thom was climbing down from the loft, awkwardly because of his leg, and Aludra looked from him to Mat. The gleeman had put his cloak back on; he seldom let anyone see him without it, especially for the first time. "This is like a story," she said. "I am rescued by a gleeman and a young hero"-she frowned at the men sprawled on the stable floor-"from these whose mothers were pigs!"

"Why did they want to kill you?" Mat asked. He said something about secrets."

"The secrets," Thom said in very nearly his performing voice, "of making fireworks, unless I miss my guess. You are an Illuminator, are you not?" He made a courtly bow with an elaborate swirl of his cloak. "I am Thom Merilin, a gleeman, as you have seen." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And this is Mat, a young man with a knack for finding trouble."

I was an Illuminator," Aludra said stiffly, "but this great pig, Tammuz, he ruined a performance for the king of Cairhien, and nearly destroyed the chapter house, too. Burn me, I was Mistress of the Chapter House, so it was me that the Guild held responsible." Her voice became defensive. "I do not tell the secrets of the Guild, no matter what Tammuz says, but I will not let myself starve while I can make fireworks. I am no more in the Guild, so the laws of the Guild, they do not apply to me now."

Galldrian," Thom said, sounding almost as wooden as she had. "Well, he is dead now, and he’ll see no more fireworks."

"The Guild," she said, sounding tired, "they all but blame me for this war in Cairhien, as if that one night of disaster, it made Gallrian die." Thom grimaced. "It seems I can no longer remain here," she went on. "Tammuz and these other oxen, they will wake soon. Perhaps this time they will tell the soldiers that I stole what I have made." She eyed Thom and then Mat, frowning in thought, and seemed to reach a decision. "I must reward you, but I have no money. However, I have something that is perhaps as good as gold. Maybe better. We shall see what you think."

Mat exchanged glances with Thom as went to root under the canvas covering her cart. I’ll help anyone who can pay. He thought a speculative light appeared in Thom’s blue eyes.

Aludra separated one bundle from a number like it, a short roll of heavy, oiled cloth almost as fat as her as her arms would go around. Setting it down on the straw, she undid the binding cords and unrolled the cloth across the floor. Four rows of pockets ran along the length of it, the pockets in each roll larger than those in the one before. Each pocket held a wax-coated cylinder of paper just large enough for its end, trailing a dark cord, to stick out.

"Fireworks," Thom said. "I knew it. Aludra, you must not do this. You can sell those for enough to live ten days or more at a good inn, and eat well every day. Well, anywhere but here in Aringill."

Kneeling beside the long strip of oiled cloth, she sniffed at him. "Be quiet, you old one you." She made it sound not unkindly. "I am not allowed to show gratitude? You think I would give you this if I had no more for selling? Attend me closely."

Mat squatted beside her, fascinated. He had seen fireworks twice in his life. Peddlers had brought them to Emond’s Field, at great expense to the Village Council. When he was ten, he had tried to cut one open to see what was inside, and had caused an uproar. Bran al’Vere, the Mayor, had cuffed him; Doral Baran, who had been the Wisdom then, had switched him; and his father had strapped him when he got home. Nobody in the village would talk to him for a month, except for Rand and Perrin, and they mostly told him what a fool he had been. He reached out to touch one of the cylinders. Aludra slapped his hand away.

"Attend me first, I say! These smallest, they will make a loud bang, make a bang and a bright light. The next, they will make the bang and the light, and many sparkles. The last"-these were fatter than his thumb-"make all of those things, but the sparkles, they are many colors. Almost like a nightflower, but not up in the sky."

Nightflower? Mat thought.

"You must be especially careful of these. You see, the fuse, it is very long." She saw his blank look, and waggled one of the long, dark cords at him. "This, this!"

"Where you put the fire," he muttered. "I know that." Thom made a sound in his throat and stroked his moustaches with a knuckle as if covering a smile.

Aludra grunted. "Where you put the fire. Yes. Do not stay close to any of them, but these largest, you run away from when you light the fuse. You comprehend me?" She briskly rolled up the long cloth. "You may sell these if you wish, or use them. Remember, you must never put this close to fire. Fire will make them all explode. So many as this at once, it could destroy a house, maybe." She hesitated over retying the cords, then added, "And there is one last thing, which you may have heard. Do not cut open any of these, as some great fools do to see what is inside. Sometimes when what is inside touches air, it will explode without the need of fire. You can lose fingers, or even a hand."

"I’ve heard that," Mat said dryly.

She frowned at him as if wondering if he meant to do it anyway, then finally pushed the rolled bundle toward him. "Here. I must go now, before these sons of goats awaken." Glancing at the still open door, and the rain falling in the night beyond, she sighed. "Perhaps I will find somewhere else dry. I think I will go toward Lugard, tomorrow. These pigs, they will expect me to go to Caemlyn, yes?"

It was even further to Lugard than to Caemlyn, and Mat suddenly remembered that hard end of bread. And she had said she had no money. The fireworks would buy no meals until she could find someone who could afford them. She had never even looked at the gold and silver that had spilled from his pockets when he fell; it glittered and sparkled among the straw in the lantern light. Ah, Light, I cannot let her go hungry, I suppose. He scooped up as much as he could reach quickly.

"Uh…Aludra? I have plenty, you can see. I thought perhaps…." He held out the coins toward her. "I can always win more."

She paused with her cloak half around her shoulders, then smiled at Thom as she swept it the rest of the way on. "He is young yet, eh?"

"He is young," Thom agreed. "And not half so bad as he would like to think himself. Sometimes he is not."

Mat glowered at both of them and lowered his hand.

Lifting the shafts of her cart, Aludra got it turned around and got it started for the door, giving Tammuz a kick in the ribs as she passed. He groaned groggily.

"I would like to know something, Aludra," Thom said. "How did you light that lantern so quickly in the dark?"

Stopping short of the door, she smiled over her shoulder at him. "You wish me to tell you all my secrets? I am grateful, but I am not in love. That secret, not even the Guild knows, for it is my discovery alone. I will tell you this much. When I know how to make it work properly, and work only when I want it to, sticks will make my fortune for me." Throwing her weight against the shafts, she pulled the cart into the rain, and the night swallowed her.

"Sticks?" Mat said. He wondered if she might not be a little strange in the heard

Tammuz groaned again.

"Best we do the same as she, boy," Thom said. "Else it’s a choice between slitting four throats and maybe spending the next few days explaining ourselves to the Queen’s Guards. These look the sort who’d set them on us out of spite. And they have enough to be spiteful for, I suppose." One of Tammuz’s companions twitched as if coming to, and muttered something incomprehensible.

By the time they had gathered everything and saddled the horses, Tammuz was up on his hands and knees with his head hanging, and the others were stirring and groaning, too.

Swinging into his saddle, Mat stared at the rain outside the open door, falling harder than ever. "A bloody hero," he said. "Thom if I ever look like acting the hero again, you kick me."

"And what would you have done differently?"

Mat scowled at him, then pulled up his hood and spread the tail of his cloak over the fat roll tied behind the high cantle of his saddle. Even with oiled cloth, a little more protection from the rain could not hurt. "Just kick me!" He booted his horse in the ribs and galloped into the rainy night.

Chapter 45

Caemlyn

Mat had vague memories of Caemlyn, but when they approached it in the early hours after sunrise, it seemed as if he’d never been there before. They had not been alone on the road since first light, and other riders surrounded them now, and trains of merchants’ wagons and folk afoot, all streaming toward the great city.

Built on rising hills, it was surely as large as Tar Valon, and outside the huge walls-a fifty foot height of pale, grayish stone worked with white and silver sparkling in the sun, spaced with tall, round towers with the Lion Banner of Andor waving atop them, white on red-outside those walls, it seemed as though another great city had been placed, wrapping around the walled city, all red brick and gray stone and white plastered walls, inns pushed in on houses of three and four storiesso fine they must belong to wealthy merchants, shops with goods displayed on tables under awnings crowded against wide, windowless warehouses. Open markets under red and purple roof tiles lined the road on both sides, men and women already crying their wares, bargaining at the top of their voices, while penned calves and sheep and goats and pigs, caged geese and chickens and ducks, added to the din. He seemed to remember thinking Caemlyn was too noisy when he was here before; now it sounded like a heartbeat, pumping wealth.

The road led to arched gates twenty feet high, standing open under the watchful eye of red-coated Queen’s Guards in their shining breastplates-they eyed Thom and him no more than anyone else, not even his quarterstaff slanted across his saddle in front of him; all they cared was that people kept moving, it seemed-and then they were within. Slender towers here rose even taller than those along the walls, and gleaming domes shone white and gold above streets teeming with people. Just inside the gates the road split into two parallel streets, separated by a wide strip of grass and trees. The hills of the city rose like steps toward a peak, which was surrounded by another wall, shining as white as Tar Valon’s, with still more domes and towers within. That was the inner city, Mat recalled, and atop those highest hills stood the Royal Palace.

"No point waiting," he told Thom. "I’ll take the letter straight on." He looked at the sedan chairs and carriages making their way through the crowds, the shops with all their goods displayed. "A man could earn some gold in this city, Thom, once he found a game of dice, or cards." He was not so lucky at cards as at dice, but few except nobles and the wealthy played those games anyway. Now that’s who I should find a game with.

Thom yawned at him and hitched at his gleeman’s cloak as if it were a blanket. "We have ridden all night, boy. Let’s at least find something to eat, first. The Queen’s Blessing has good meals." He yawned again. "And good beds."

"I remember that," Mat said slowly. He did, in a way. The innkeeper was a fat man with graying hair, Master Gill. Moiraine had caught up to Rand and him there, when he had thought they were finally free of her. She’s off playing her game with Rand, now. Nothing to do with me. Not anymore. "I will meet you there, Thom. I said I’d have this letter out of my hands an hour after I arrived, and I mean to. You go on."

Thom nodded and turned his horse aside, calling over his shoulder through a yawn. "Do not become lost, boy. It’s a big city, Caemlyn."

And a rich one. Mat heeled his mount up on the crowded street. Lost! I can find my bloody way. The sickness appeared to have erased parts of his memory. He could look at an inn, its upper floors sticking out over the ground floor all the way around and its sign creaking in the breeze, and remember seeing it before, yet not recall another thing he could see from that spot. A hundred paces of street might abruptly spark in his memory, while the parts before and after remained as mysterious as dice still in the cup.

Even with the holes in his memory he was sure he had never been to the Inner City or the Royal Palace-I couldn’t forget that!-yet he did not need to remember the way. The streets of the new city-he remembered that name suddenly; it was the part of Caemlyn less than two thousand years old-ran every which way, but the main boulevards all led to the Inner City. The Guards at the gates made no effort to stop anyone.

Within those white walls were buildings that could almost have fit Tar Valon. The curving streets toped hills to reveal thin towers, their tiled walls sparkling with a hundred colors in the sunlight, or to look down on parks laid in patterns made to be viewed from above, or to show sweeping vistas across the entire city to the rolling plains and forests beyond. It did not matter which streets he took here. They all spiraled in on what he sought, the Royal Palace of Andor.

In no time, he found himself crossing the huge oval plaza before the Palace, riding toward its tall, gilded gates. The pure white Palace of Andor would certainly not have been out of place among Tar Valon’s wonders, with its slender towers and golden domes shining in the sun, its high balconies and intricate stonework. The gold leaf on one of those domes could have kept him in luxury for a year.

There were fewer people in the plaza than elsewhere, as if it were reserved for great occasions. A dozen of the Guards stood before the closed gates, bows slanted, all at exactly the same angle, across their gleaming breastplates, faces hidden by the bars of their burnished helmets’ face-guards. A heavyset officer, with his red cloak thrown back to reveal a knot of gold braid on his shoulder, was walking up and down the line, eyeing each man as if he thought he might find rust or dust.

Mat dre3w rein and put on a smile. "Good morning to you, Captain."

The officer turned, staring at him through the bars in his face-guard with deep, beady eyes, like a pudgy rat in a cage. The man was older than he had expected-surely old enough to have more than one knot of rank-and fat rather than stocky. "What do you want, farmer?" he demanded roughly.

Mat drew a breath. Make it good. Impress this fool so he doesn’t keep me waiting all day. I don’t want to have to flash the Amyrlin’s paper around to keep from kicking my heels. "I come from Tar Valon, from the White Tower, bearing a letter from-"

"You come from Tar Valon, farmer?" The fat officer’s stomach shook as he laughed, but then his laughter cut off as if severed with a knife, and he glared. "We want no letters from Tar Valon, rogue, if you have such a thing! Our good Queen-may the light illumine her!-will take no word from the White Tower until the Daughter-Heir is returned to her. I never heard of any messenger from the Tower wearing a country man’s coat and breeches. It is plain to me that you are up to some trick, perhaps thinking you’ll find a few coins if you come claiming to carry letters, but you will be lucky if you don’t end in a prison cell! If you do come from Tar Valon, go back and tell the Tower to return the Daughter-Heir before we come and take her! If you’re a trickster after silver, get out of my sight before I have you beaten within an inch of your life! Either way, you half-wit looby, be gone!

Mat had been trying to edge a word in from the beginning of the man’s speech. He said quickly, "The letter is from her, man. It is from-"

"Did I not tell you to be gone, ruffian?" the aft man bellowed. His face was growing nearly as red as his coat. "Take yourself out of my sight, you gutter scum! If you are not gone by the time I count ten, I will arrest you form littering the plaza with your presence! One! Two!"

"Can you count so high, you fat fool?" Mat snapped. "I told you, Elayne sent-"

"Guards!" the officer’s face was purple now. "Seize this man for a Darkfriend!"

Mat hesitated for a moment, sure no ne could take such a charge seriously, but the red-coated guards dashed toward him, all dozen men in breastplates and helmets, and he wheeled his horse and galloped ahead of them, followed by the fat man’s shouts. The gelding was no racer, but it outdistanced men afoot easily enough. People dodged out of his way along the curving streets, shaking fists after him and shouting as many curses as the officer had.

Fool, he thought, meaning the fat officer, then added another for himself. All I had to say was her bloody name in the beginning. Elayne, the Daughter-Heir of Andor, sends this letter to her mother, Queen Morgase." Light, who could have thought they’d think that way about Tar Valon. From what he remembered of his last visit, Aes Sedai and the White Tower had been close behind Queen Morgase in the Guard’s affection. Burn her, Elayne could have told me. Reluctantly, he added, I could have asked questions, too.

Before he reached the arched gates that let out into the New City, he slowed to a walk. He did not think the Guards from the Palace could still be chasing him, and there was no point in attracting the eyes of those at the gate by galloping through, but they looked at him now no more than when he had first entered.

As he rode under the broad arch, he smiled and almost turned back. He had suddenly remembered something, and had an idea that appealed to him a good deal more than walking through the palace gates. Even if the fat officer had not been watching the gates, he thought he would like it better.

He became lost twice while searching for the Queen’s Blessing, but at last he found the sign with a man kneeling before a woman with red-gold hair and a crown of golden roses, her hand on his head. It was a broad stone building of three stories, with tall windows even up under the red roof tiles. He rode around back to the stableyard, where a horse-faced fellow, in a leather vest that could hardly be any tougher than his skin, took his horse’s reigns. He thought he remembered the fellow. Yes. Ramey.

"It has been a long time, Ramy." Mat tossed him a silver mark. "You remember me, don’t you?"

"Can’t say as I…" Ramy began, then caught the shine of silver where he had expected copper; he coughed, and his short nod turned into something that combined a knuckled forehead with a jerky bow. "Why, of course I do, young master. Forgive me. Slipped my mind. Mind no good for people. Good for horses. I know horses, I do. A fine animal, young master. I’ll take good care of him, you can be sure."" He delivered it all quickly, with no room for Mat to say a word, then hurried the gelding into the stable before he might have to come up with Mat’s name.

With a sour grimace, Mat put the fat roll of fireworks under his arm and shouldered the rest of his belongings. Fellow couldn’t tell me from Hawkwing’s toenails. A bulky, muscular fellow was sitting on an upturned barrel beside the door to the kitchen, gently scratching the ear of a black-and-white cat crouched on his knee. The man studied Mat with heavy-lidded eyes, especially the quarterstaff across his shoulder, but he never stopped his scratching. Mat thought he remembered him, but he could not bring up a name. He said nothing as he went through the door, and neither did the man. No reason they should remember me. Probably have bloody Aes Sedai coming for people every day.

In the kitchen, two undercooks and three scullions were darting between stoves and roasting spits under the direction of a round woman with her hair in a bun and a long wooden spoon that she used to point out what she wanted done. Mat was sure he remembered the round woman. Coline, and what a name for a woman that wide, but everybody called her Cook.

"Well, Cook," he announced, "I am back, and not a year since I left."

She peered at him a moment, then nodded. "I remember you." He began to grin. "You were with that young prince, weren’t you?" she went on. "The one who looked so like Tigraine, the Light illumine her memory. You’re his serving man, aren’t you? Is he coming back, then, the young prince?"

"No," he said curtly. A prince! Light! "I do not think he will be anytime soon, and I don’t think you would like it if he did." She protested, saying what a fine, handsome young man the prince was-Burn me, is there a woman anywhere who doesn’t moon over Rand and make calf eyes if you mention his bloody name? She’d bloody scream if she knew what he is doing now-but he refused to let her get it out. "Is Master Gill about? And Thom Merrilin?"

"In the library," she said with a tight sniff. "You tell Basel Gill when you see him that I said those drains need cleaning. Today, mind." She caught sight of what something one of the undercooks was doing to a beef roast and waddled over to her. "Not so much, child. You will make the meat too sweat if you put so much arrath on it." She seemed to have forgotten Mat already.

He shook his head as he went in search of this library he could not remember. He could not remember that Coline was married to Master Gill, either, but if he had ever heard a goodwife send instructions to her husband, that had been it. A pretty serving girl with big eyes giggled and directed him down a hall beside the common room.

When he stepped into the library, he stopped and stared. There had to be more than three hundred books on the shelves built on the walls, and more lying on the tables; he had never seen so many books in one place in his life. He noticed a leather-bound copy of The Travels of Jain Farstrider on a small table near the door. He had always meant to read that-Rand and Perrin had always been telling him things out of it-but he never did seem to get around to reading the books he meant to read.

Pink-faced Basel Gill and Thom Merrilin were seated at one of the tables, facing each other across a stones board, pipes in their teeth trailing thin blue streamers of tobac smoke. A calico cat sat on the table beside a wooden dice cup, her tail curled over her feet, watching them play. The gleeman’s cloak was nowhere in sight, so Mat supposed he had already gotten a room.

"You’re done sooner than I expected, boy," Thom said around his pipestem. He tugged one long, white mustache as he considered where to place his next stone on the board’s cross-hatchings. "Basel, you remember Mat Cauthon."

"I remember," the fat innkeeper said, peering at the board. Sickly the last time you were here, I recall. I hope you are better now, lad."

"I’m better," Mat said. "Is that all you remember? That I was sick?"

Master Gill winced at Thom’s move and took his pipe out of his mouth. "Considering who you left with, lad, and considering the way things are now, maybe it’s best I remember o more than that."

"Aes Sedai not in such good order now, are they?" Mat set his things in one big armchair, the quarterstaff propped against the back, and himself in another with one leg swinging over the arm. "The Guards at the palace seemed to think the White Tower had stolen Elayne." Thom eyed the roll of fireworks uneasily, looked at his smoking pipe, and muttered to himself before going back to his study of the board.

"Hardly that," Gill said, "but the whole city knows she disappeared from the Tower. Thom says she’s returned, but we’ve heard none of that here. Perhaps Morgase knows, but everyone down to a stableboy is stepping lightly so that she doesn’t snap off his head. Lord Gaebril has kept her from actually sending anyone to the headsman, but I’d not say she would not do it. And he has certainly not soothed her temper toward Tar Valon. If anything, I think he has made it wose.

"Morgase has a new advisor," Thom said in a dry voice. "Gareth Bryne did not like him, so Bryne has been retired to his estate to watch his sheep grow wool. Basel, are you going to place a stone or not?"

"In a moment, Thom. In a moment. I want to set it right." Gill clamped his teeth around his pipestem and frowned at the board, puffing up smoke.

"So the Queen has an advisor who doesn’t like Tar Valon," Mat said. "Well that explains the way the Guards acted when I said I came from there."

"If you told them that," Gill said, "you might be lucky you escaped without any broken bones. If it was any of the new men, at least. Gaebril has replaced half the Guards in Caemlyn with men of his choosing, and that is no mean feat considering how short a time he has been here. Some say Morgase may marry him." He started to put a stone on the board, then took it back with a shake of his head. "Time changes. People change. Too much change for me. I suppose I am growing old."

"I never admit defeat," Gill said stoutly. "I’ll beat you yet, Thom." He set a white stone on the intersection of two lines. "You will see." Thom snorted.

From what Mat could see of the board, he did not think Gill had much chance. "I will just have to avoid the guards and put Elayne’s letter right into Morgase’s hands." Especially if their all like that fat fool. Light, I wonder if he’s told them all I’m a Darkfriend?

"You did not deliver it?" Thom barked. "I thought you were anxious to be rid of the thing."

"You have a letter from the Daughter-Heir?" Gill exclaimed. "Thom, why did you not tell me?"

"I am sorry, Basel," the gleeman muttered. He glared at Mat from under those bushy eyebrows and blew out his moustaches. "The boy thinks someone is out to kill him over it, so I thought I’d let him say what he wanted and no more. Seems he does not care any longer."

"What kind of letter?" Gill asked. "Is she coming home? And Lord Gawyn? I hope they are. I’ve actually heard talk of war with Tar Valon, as if anyone could be fool enough to go to war with Aes Sedai. If you ask me, is it all one of those mad rumors we’ve heard about Aes Sedai supporting a false Dragon somewhere to the west, and using the Power as a weapon. Not that I can see why that would make anyone want to go to war with them; just the opposite."

"Are you married to Colline?" Mat asked, and Master Gill gave a start.

"The Light preserve me from that! You would think the inn was hers, now. If she was my wife…! What does that have to do with the Daughter-Heir’s letter?"

"Nothing," Mat said, "but you went on so long, I thought you must have forgotten your own questions." Gill made a choking sound, and Thom barked a laugh. Mat hurried on before the innkeeper could speak. "The letter is sealed; Elayne did not tell me what it says." Thom was eyeing him sideways and stroking his moustaches. Does he think I’ll admit we opened the thing? "But I don’t think she is coming home. She means to be Aes Sedai, if you ask me." He told them about his attempt to deliver the letter, smoothing over a few edges they had no need to know about.

"The new men," Gill said. "That officer sounds it, at least. I’ll wager on it. No better than brigands, most of them, except the ones with a sly eye. You wait until this afternoon, lad, when the Guards on the gate will have changed. Say the Daughter-Heir’s name right out, and just in case the new fellow is one of Gaebril’s men, too, duck your head at little. A knuckle to your forehead, and you’ll have no trouble."

"Burn me if I will. I pull wool and scratch gravel for nobody. Not to Morgase herself. This time, I’ll not go near the Guards at all." I would just as soon not know what word that fat fellow has spread. They stared at him as if he were mad.

"How under the Light," Gill said, "do you mean to enter the Royal Palace without passing the Guards?" His eyes widened as if he were remembering something. "Light, you don’t mean to…. Lad, you’d need the Dark One’s own luck to escape with your life!"

"What are you going on about now, Basel? Mat, what fool thing do you intend to try?"

"I am lucky, Master Gill," Mat said. "You just have a good meal waiting when I come back." As he stood, he picked up the dice cup and spun the dice out beside the stones board for luck. The calico cat leaped down, hissing at him with her back arched. The five spotted dice came to rest, each showing a single pip. The Dark One’s Eyes.

"That’s the best toss or the worst," Gill said. "It depends on the game you are playing, doesn’t it. Lad, I think you mean to play a dangerous game. Why don’t you take that cup out to the common room and lose a few coppers? You look to me like a fellow who might like a little gamble. I will see that the letter gets to the palace safely."

"Coline wants you to clean the drains," Mat told him, and turned to Thom while the innkeeper was still blinking and muttering to himself. "It doesn’t seem to make any odds whether I get an arrow in me trying to deliver that letter or a knife in my back waiting. It’s six up, and a half dozen down. Just you have that meal waiting, Thom." He tossed a gold mark on the table in front of Gill. "Have my things put in a room, Innkeeper. If it takes more coin, you will have it. Be careful of the big roll; it frightens Thom something awful."

As he stalked out, he heard Gill say to Thom, "I always thought that lad was a rascal. How does he come by gold?"

I always win, that’s how, he thought grimly. I just have to win once more, and I’m done with Elayne, and that’s the last of the White Tower for me. Just once more.

Chapter 46

A Message Out of the Shadow

Even as he returned to the Inner City on foot, Mat was far from certain that what he intended would actually work. It would if what he had been told was true, but it was the truth of that he was not sure of. He avoided the oval plaza in front of the Palace, but wandered around the sides of the huge structure and its grounds, along streets that curved with the contours of the hills. The golden domes of the palace glittered, mockingly out of reach. He had made his way almost all the way around, nearly back to the plaza, when he saw it. A steep slope thick with low flowers, rising from the street to a white wall of rough stone. Several leafy tree limbs stuck over the top of the wall, and he could see the tops of others beyond, in a garden of the Royal Palace.

A wall that looks like a cliff, he thought, and a garden on the other side. Maybe Rand was telling the truth.

A casual look both ways showed him he was had the curving street himself for a moment. He would have to hurry; the curves did not allow him to see very far; someone could come along any moment. He scrambled up the slope on all fours, careless of how hiss boots ripped holes in the banks of red and white blossoms. The rough stone of the wall gave plenty of fingerholds, and the ridges and knobs provided toeholds even for a man in boots.

Careless of them to make it so easy, he thought as he climbed. For a moment the climbing took him back home with Rand Perrin, to a journey they had made beyond the Sand Hills, into the edge of the Mountains of Mist. When they had returned to Emond’s Field, they had all caught the fury from everyone who could lay hands on them-him worst of all; everyone had assumed it had been his idea-but for three days they had climbed the cliffs, and slept under the sky, and eaten eggs filched from redcrests’ nests, and plump, gray-winged grouse fetched with an arrow, or a stone from a sling, and rabbits caught with snares, all the way laughing about how they were not afraid of the mountains’ bad luck and how they might find a treasure. He had brought home an odd rock from that expedition, with the skull of a good-sized fish somehow pressed into it, and a long, white tail feather dropped by a snow eagle, and a piece if white stone as big as his hand that looked almost as if it had been carved into a man’s ear. He thought it looked like an ear, even if Rand and Perrin did not, and Tam al’Thor had said it might be.

His fingers slipped out of a shallow groove, his balance shifted and he lost the toehold under his left foot. With a gasp, he barely caught hold of the top of the wall, and pulled himself up the rest of the way. For a moment he lay there, breathing hard. It would not have been that long a fall, but enough to break his head. Fool, letting my mind wander like that. Nearly killed myself on those cliffs that way. That was a long time ago. His mother had likely thrown all those things out already, anyway. With one last look each way to make sure no one had seen him-the curving length of street was still empty-he dropped inside the palace grounds.

It was a large garden, with flagstoned walks through expanses of grass among the trees, and grapevines thick on arbors over the walks. And everywhere, flowers. White blossoms covering the pear trees, and white and pink dotting the apple trees. Roses in every color, and bright golden sunburst, and purple Emond’s Glory, and many he could not identify. Some he was not sure could be real. One had odd blossoms in scarlet and gold that looked almost like a bird, and another seemed no different from a sunflower except that its yellow flowers were two feet and more across and stood on stalks as tall as Ogier.

Boots crunched on flagstone, and he crouched low behind a bush against the wall as two guardsmen marched past, their long, white collars hanging over their breastplates. They never glanced his way, and he grinned to himself. Luck. With just a little luck, they’ll never see me till I hand the bloody thing to Morgase.

He slipped through the garden like a shadow, as if stalking rabbits, freezing by a bush or hard against a tree trunk when he heard boots. Two more pairs of soldiers strode by along the paths, the second close enough for him to have taken two steps and goosed them. As they vanished among the flowers and trees, he plucked a deep red starblaze and stuck the wavypetaled flower in his hair with a grin. This was as much fun as stealing applecakes at Sunday, and easier. Women always kept a sharp watch on their baking; the fool soldiers never took their eyes off the flagstones.

It was not long before he found himself against the white wall of the Palace itself, and began sliding along it behind a row of flowering white roses on slatted frames, searching for a door. There were plenty of wide, arched windows just over his head, but he thought it might be a bit harder to explain being found climbing in through a window than walking down a hall. Two more soldiers appeared, and he froze; they would pass within three paces of him. He could hear voices from the window over his head, two men, just loud enough for him to make out the words.

"-on their way to Tear, Great Master." The man sounded frightened and obsequious.

"Let them ruin his plans, if they can." This voice was deeper and stronger, a man used to command. "It will serve him right if three untrained girls can foil him. He was always a fool, and he is still a fool. Is there any word of the boy? He is the one who can destroy us all."

"No, Great Master. He has vanished. But, Great Master, one of the girls is Morgase’s nit."

Mat half turned, then caught himself. The soldiers were coming closer; they did not appear to have seen his start through the thickly woven rose stems. Move, you fools! Get by so I can see who this bloody man is! He had lost some of the conversation.

"-has been far too impatient since regaining his freedom," the deep voice was saying. "He never realized that the best plans take time to mature. He wants the world in a day, and Callandor besides. The Great Lord take him! He may seize the girl and try to make some use of her. And that might strain my own plans."

"As you say, Great Master. Shall I order her brought out of Tear?"

"No. The fool would take it as a move against him, if he knew. And who can say what he chooses to watch aside from the sword? See that she dies quietly, Comar. Let her death attract no notice at all." His laughter was a rich rumble. "Those ignorant slatterns in their Tower will have a difficult time producing her after this disappearance. This may all be just as well. Let it be done quickly. Quickly, before he has time to take her himself."

The two soldiers were almost abreast him; Mat tried to will their feet to move faster.

"Great Master," the other man said uncertainly, "that may be difficult. We know she is on her way to Tear, but the vessel she traveled on was found at Aringill, and all three of them had left it earlier. We do not know whether she has taken another ship, or is riding south. And it may not be easy to find her once she reaches Tear, Great Master. Perhaps if you-"

"Are there none but fools in the world, now?" the deep voice said harshly. "Do you think I could move in Tear without him knowing? I do not mean to fight him, not now, not yet. Bring me the girls head, Comar. Bring me all three heads, or you will pray for me to take yours!"

"Yes, Great Master. It shall be as you say. Yes. Yes."

The soldiers crunched past, never looking to either side. Mat only waited for their backs to pass before leaping up to catch the broad stone windowsill and pull himself high enough to see through the window.

He barely noticed the fringed Tarabon carpet on the floor, worth a fat purse of silver. One of the broad, carved doors was swinging shut. A tall man, with wide shoulders and a deep chest straining the green silk of his silver-embroidered coat, was staring at the doors with dark blue eyes. His black beard was close cut, with a streak of white over his chin. All in all, he looked a hard man, and one used to giving orders.

"Yes, Great Master," he said suddenly, and Mat almost lost his grip on the sill. He had thought this must be the man with the deep voice, but it was the cringing voice he heard. Not cringing now, but still the same. "It shall be as you say, Great Master," the man said bitterly. "I will cut the three wenches heads off myself. As soon as I can find them!" He strode through the door, and Mat let himself back down.

For a moment he crouched there behind the rose frames. Someone in the palace wanted Elayne dead, and had thrown in Egwene and Nynaeve as afterthought. What under the Light are they doing, going to Tear? It had to be them.

He pulled the Daughter-Heir’s letter out of the lining of his coat and frowned at it. Maybe, with this in his hand, Morgase would believe him. He could describe on of the men. But the time for sulking was past; the big fellow could be off to Tear before he even found Morgase, and whatever she did then, there was no guarantee it could stop him.

Taking a deep breath, Mat wiggled between two of the rose frames at the cost of only a few pricks and snags from the thorns, and started down the flagstone path after the soldiers. He held Elayne’s letter out in front of him so the golden lily seal was plainly visible, and went over in his mind exactly what he meant to say. When he had been sneaking about, guardsmen kept popping up like mushrooms after rain, but now he walked almost the length of the garden without seeing even one. He passed several doors. It would not be so good to enter the Palace without permission-the Guards might do nasty things first and listen after-but he was thinking about going through the door when it opened and a helmetless young officer with one golden knot on his shoulder strode out.

The man’s hand immediately went to his sword hilt, and he had a foot of steel bared before Mat could push the letter toward him. "Elayne, the Daughter-Heir, sends this letter to her mother, Queen Morgase, Captain." He held the letter so the lily seal was prominent.

The officer’s eyes flickered to either side, as if searching for other people, without really ever leaving Mat. "How did you come into this garden?" He did not draw his sword further, but he did not sheath it, "Elber is on the main gates. He’s a fool, but he would never let anyone wander loose into the Palace."

"A fat man with eyes like a rat?" Mat cursed his tongue, but the officer gave a sharp nod; he almost smiled, too, but he did not seem to lessen his vigilance, or his suspicion. "He grew angry when he learned I had come from Tar Valon, and he wouldn’t even give me a chance to show the letter or mention the Daughter-Heir’s name. He said he would arrest me if I did not go, so I climbed the wall. I promised I would deliver this to Queen Morgase herself, you see, Captain. I promised it, and I always keep my promises. You see the seal?"

"That bloody garden wall again," the officer muttered. "It should be built three times so high." He eyed Mat. "Guardsmen-lieutenant, not captain. I am Guardsman-lieutenant Tallanvor. I recognize the Daughter-Heir’s seal." His sword finally slid all the way into his sheath. He stretched out a hand; not his sword hand. "Give me the letter, and I will take it to the Queen. After I show you out. Some would not be so gentle at finding you walking about loose."

"I promised to put it in her hands myself," Mat said. Light, I never thought they might not let me give it to her. "I did promise. To the Daughter-Heir."

Mat hardly realized Tallanvor’s hand was moving before the officer’s sword was resting against his neck. "I will take you to the Queen, countryman," Tallanvor said softly. "But know that I can take your head before you blink if you so much as think of harming her."

Mat put on his best grin. That slightly curved blade felt sharp on the side of his neck. "I am a loyal Andorman," he said, "and a faithful subject of the Queen, the Light illumine her. Why, if I had been here during the winter, I’d have followed Lord Gaebril for sure."

Tallanvor gave him a tight-mouthed stare, then finally took his sword away. Mat swallowed and stopped himself from touching his throat to see if he had been cut.

"Take the flower out of your hair," Tallanvor said as he sheathed his blade. "Do you think you came here courting?"

Mat snatched the starblaze blossom out of his hair and followed the officer. Bloody fool, putting a flower in my hair. I have to stop playing the fool, now.

It was not so much following, really, for Tallanvor kept an eye on him even while he led the way. The result was an odd sort of procession, with the officer to one side of him and ahead, but half turned in case Mat tried anything. For his part, Mat attempted to look as innocent as a babe splashing in his bathwater.

The colorful tapestries on the walls had earned their weaver’s silver, and so had the rugs on the white tile floors, even here in the halls. Gold and silver stood everywhere, plates and platters, bowels and cups, on chests and low cabinets of pollished wood, as fine as anything he had seen in the Tower. Servants darted everywhere, in red livery with white collars and cuffs and the White Lion of Andor on their breasts. He found himself wondering if Morgase played at dice. Wool-headed thought. Queen’s don’t toss dice. But when I give her this letter and tell her somebody in her Palace means to kill Elayne, I’ll wager she gives me a fat purse. He indulged himself in a small fancy of being made a lord; surly a man who revealed a plot to murder the Daughter-Heir could expect some such reward.

Tallanvor led him down so many corridors and across so many courtyards that he was beginning to wonder if he could find his way out again without help, when suddenly one of the courts had more than servants in it. A columned walk surrounded the court, with a round pool in the middle with white and yellow fish swimming beneath lilypads and floating and floating white waterlilies. Men in colorful coats embroidered in gold or silver, women with wide dresses worked even more elaborately, stood attendance on a woman with red-gold hair who sat on the raised rim of the pool, trailing her finger in the water and staring sadly at the fish that rose to her fingertips in hopes of food. A Great Serpent ring encircled the third finger of her left hand. A tall, dark man stood at her shoulder, the red silk of his coat almost hidden by the gold leaves and scrolls worked on it, but it was the woman who held Mat’s eye.

He did not need the wreath of finely made golden roses in her hair, or the stole hanging over here dress of white slashed with red, the red length of the stole embroidered with the Lions of Andor, to know he was looking at Morgase, by the Grace of the Light, Queen of Andor, Defender of the Realm, Protector of the people, High Seat of House Trakand. She had Elayne’s face and beauty, but it was what Elayne would have when she had ripened. Every other woman in the courtyard faded into the background by her very presence.

I’d dance a jig with her, and steel a kiss in the moonlight, too, no matter how old she is. He shook himself. Remember exactly who she is!

Tallanvor went to one knee, a fist pressed to the white stone of the courtyard. "My Queen, I bring a messenger who bears a letter from the Lady Elayne."

Mat eyed the man’s posture, then contented himself with a deep bow. "From the Daughter-Heir…uh…my Queen." He held out the letter as he bowed, so the golden yellow wax of the seal was visible. Once she reads it, and knows Elayne is alright, I will tell her. Morgase turned her deep blue eyes on him. Light! As soon as she’s in a good mood.

"You bring a letter from my scapegrace child?" Her voce was cold, but with an edge that spoke of heat ready to rise. "That must mean she is alive, at least! Where is she?"

"In Tar Valon, my Queen," he managed to get out. Light, wouldn’t I like to see a staring match between her and the Amyrlin. On second thought, he decided he would rather not. "At least she was when I left."

Morgase waved a hand impatiently, and Tallanvor rose to take the letter from Mat and hand it to her. For a moment she frowned at the lily seal, then broke it with a sharp twist of her wrists. She murmured to herself as she read, shaking her head at every other line. "She can say no more, can she?" she muttered. We shall se whether she hold to that…." Abruptly her face brightened. "Gaebril she has been raised to the accepted. Less than a year in the Tower, and raised already." The smile went as suddenly as it had come, and her mouth tightened. "When I put my hands on the wretched child, she will wish she were still a novice."

Light, Mat thought, will nothing put her in a good mood? He decided he was just going to have to say it out, but he wished she did not look as if she meant to cut someone’s head off. "My Queen, by chance I overheard-"

"Be silent, boy," the dark man in the gold-encrusted coat said calmly. He was a handsome man, almost as good looking as Galad and nearly as youthful-seeming, despite the white streaking his temples, but built on a bigger scale, with more than Rand’s height and very nearly Perrin’s shoulders. "We will hear what you have to say in a moment." He reached over Morgase’s shoulder and plucked the letter out of her hand. Her glare turned on him-Mat could see her temper heating-but the dark man laid a hand on her shoulder, never taking his eyes off what he was reading, and Morgase’s anger melted. "It seems she has left the Tower again," he said. "On the service of the Amyrlin Seat. The woman oversteps herself again, Morgase."

Mat had no trouble holding his tongue. Luck. It was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sometimes I don’t know if it’s good or bad. The dark man was the owner of the deep voice, the "Great Master" who wanted Elayne’s head. She called him Gaebril. Her advisor wants to murder Elayne? Light! And Morgase was staring up at him like an adoring dog with her master’s hand on her shoulder.

Gaebril turned nearly black eyes on Mat. The man had a forceful gaze, and a look of knowing. "What can you tell us of this, boy?"

"Nothing…uh…my Lord." Mat cleared his throat; the man’s stare was worse than the Amyrlin’s. "I went to Tar Valon to see my sister. She’s a novice. Else Grinwell. I’m Thom Grinwell, my Lord. The Lady Elayne learned I was meaning to see Caemlyn on my way back home-I’m from Comfrey, my Lord; a little village north of Baerlon; I’d never seen any place bigger than Baerlon before I went to Tar Valon-and she-the Lady Elayne, I mean-gave me that letter to bring." He thought Morgase had glanced at him when he said he had come from north of Baerlon, but he remembered there was a village named Comfrey there; he remembered hearing it mentioned.

Gaebril nodded, but he said, "Do you know where Elayne was going, boy? Or on what business? Speak the truth, and you have nothing to fear. Lie, and you will be put to the question."

Mat did not have to pretend a worried frown. "My Lord, I only saw the Daughter-Heir the once. She gave me the letter-and a gold mark!-and told me to bring it to the Queen. I know no more of what is in it than I’ve heard here." Gaebril appeared to consider it, with no sign on that dark face of whether he believed a word or not.

"No, Gaebril," Morgase said suddenly. "Too many have been put to the question. I can see the need as you have shown it to me, but not for this. Not a boy who only brought a letter whose contents he does not know."

"As my Queen commands, so shall it be," the dark man said. The tone was respectful, but he touched her cheek in a way that made color come to her face and her lips to part as if she expected a kiss.

Morgase drew an unsteady breath. "Tell me, Thom Grinwell, did my daughter look well when you saw her?"

"Yes, my Queen. She smiled, and laughed, and showed a saucy tongue-I mean…."

Morgase laughed softly at the look on his face. "Do not be afraid, young man. Elayne does have a saucy tongue, far too often for her own good. I am happy she is well." Those blue eyes studied him deeply. "A young man who has left his small village often finds it difficult to return to it. I think you will travel far before you see Comfrey again. Perhaps you will even return to Tar Valon. If you do, and if you see my daughter, tell her that what I said in anger is often repented. I will not remove her from the White Tower before time. Tell her that I often think of my own times there, and I miss the quiet talks with sheriam in her study. Tell her that I said that, Thom Grinwell."

Mat shrugged uncomfortably. "Yes, my Queen. But…um…I do not mean to go to Tar Valon again. Once in a man’s life is enough. My da needs me to help work the farm. My sisters will be stuck with milking, with me gone."

Gaebril laughed, a deep rumble of amusement. "Are you anxious then to milk cows, boy? Perhaps you should see something of the world before it changes. Here!" He produced a purse and tossed it; Mat felt coins through the wash-leather when he caught it. "If Elayne can give you a gold mark for carrying her letter, I will give you ten for bringing it safely. See the word before you go back to your cows."

"Yes, my Lord." Mat lifted the purse and managed a weak grin. "Thank you, my Lord."

But the dark man had already waved him away and turned to Morgase with his fists on his hips. "I think the time has come, Morgase, to lance that festering sore on the border of Andor. By your marriage to Taringil Damodred, you have a claim to the Sun Throne. The Queen’s Guard can make that claim as strong as any. Perhaps I can even aid them, in some small way. Hear me."

Tallanvor touched Mat on the arm, and they backed away, bowing. Mat did not think anyone noticed. Gaebril was still speaking, and every lord and lady seemed to hang on his words. Morgase was frowning as she listened, yet she nodded as much as any other.

Chapter 47

To Race the Shadow

From the small courtyard with its pool of fish, Tallanvor led Mat swiftly to the great court at the front of the Palace, behind the tall, gilded gates gleaming in the sun. It would be midday, soon. Mat felt an urge to be gone, a need to hurry. It was hard keeping his pace to the young officer’s. Someone might wonder, if he started running, and maybe-just maybe-things had really been the way they seemed back there. Maybe Gaebril did not suspect that he knew. Maybe. He remembered those nearly black eyes, seizing and holding like a pair of pitchfork tines through his head. Light, maybe. He forced himself to walk as if he had all the time in the world-Just a haybrain country lout staring at the rugs and the gold. Just a mudfoot who’d never think anyone might put a knife in his back-until Tallanvor led him through a sallyport in one of the gates, and followed him out.

The fat officer with the rat’s eyes was still there with the Guards, and when he saw Mat his face went red again. Before he could open his mouth, though, Tallanvor spoke. "He has delivered a letter to the Queen from the Daughter-Heir. Be glad, Elber, that neither Morgase nor Gaebril knows that you tried to keep it from them. Lord Gaebril was most interested in the Lady Elayne’s missive."

Elber’s face went from red to as white as his collar. He glared once at Mat, and scuttled back along the line of guardsmen, his beady eyes peering through the bars of their face-guards as if to determine whether any of them had seen his fear.

"Thank you," Mat tld Tallanvor, and meant it. He had forgotten all about the fat man until he was staring him in the face again. "Fare you well, Tallanvor."

He started acros the oval plaza, trying not to walk too fast, and was surprised when Tallanvor walked along. Light, is he Gaebril’s man, or Morgase’s? He was just beginning to feel an itch between his shoulder blades, as if a knife were about to go in-He doesn’t know, burn me! Gaebril doesn’t suspect I know!-when the young officer finally spoke.

"Did you spend long in Tar Valon? In the White Tower? Long enough to learn anything of it?"

"I was only there three days," Mat said cautiously. He would have made the time less-if he could have delivered the letter without admitting ever being in Tar Valon, he would have-but he did not think the man would believe he had gone all that way to see his sister and left the same day. What under the Light is he after? "I learned what I saw in that time. Nothing of any importance. They did not guide me around and tell me things. I was only there to see Else."

"You must have heard something, man. Who is Sheriam? Does talking to her in her study mean anything?"

Mat shook his head vigorously to keep relief from showing on his face. "I don’t know who she is," he said truthfully. Perhaps he had heard Egwene, or perhaps Nynaeve, mention the name. An Aes Sedai, maybe? "Why should it mean anything?"

"I do not know," Tallanvor said softly. "There is too much I do not know. Sometimes I think she is trying to say something…." He gave Mat a sharp look. "Are you a loyal Andorman, Thom Grinwell?"

"Of course I am." Light, if I say that much more often, I may start believing it. "What about you? Do you serve Morgase and Gaebril loyally?"

Tallanvor gave him as hard as the dice’s mercy. "I serve Morgase, Thom Grinwell. Her I serve to the desth. Fare you well!" He turned and strode back toward the Palace with a hand griping his sword hilt.

Watching him go, Mat muttered to himself. "I will wager this"-he gave Gaebril’s wash-leather purse a toss-"that Gaebril says the same." Whatever gamed they played in the Palace, he wanted no place in any of them. And he meant to make sure Egwene and the others were out of them, too. Fool women! Now I have to keep their bacon from burning instead of looking after my own! He did not start to run until the streets hid him from the Palace.

When he came dashing into The Queen’s Blessing, nothing very much had changed in the library. Thom and the innkeeper still sat over the stones board-a different game, he saw from the positions of the stones, but no better for Gill-and the calico cat was back on the table, washing herself. A tray holding their unlit pipes and the remains of a meal for two sat near the cat, and his belongings were gone from the armchair. Each man had a wine cup at his elbow.

"I will be leaving, Master Gill," he said. "You can keep the coin and take a meal out of it. I’ll stay long enough to eat, but then I am on the road to Tear."

What is your hurry, boy?" Thom seemed to be watching the cat more than the board. "We only just arrived here."

"You delivered the Lady Elayne’s letter, then?" the innkeeper said eagerly. "And kept your skin whole, it seems. Did you really climb over that wall like the other young man? No, that does not matter. Did the letter sooth Morgase? Do we still have to keep tiptoeing on eggs, man?"

"I suppose it soothed her," Mat said. "I think it did." He hesitated a moment, bouncing Gaebril’s purse on him hand. It made a clinking sound. He had not looked to see if it really held ten gold marks; the weight was about right. "Master Gill, what can you tell me of Gaebril? Aside from the fact that he does not like Aes Sedai. You said that he had not been in Caemlyn long?"

"Why do you want to know about him?" Thom asked. "Basel, are you going to place a stone or not?" The innkeeper stuck a black stone on the board, and the gleeman shook his head.

"Well, lad," Gill said, "there is not much to tell. He came out of the west during the winter. Somewhere out your way, I think. Maybe it was the Two Rivers. I’ve heard the mountains mentioned."

"We have no lords in the Two Rivers," Mat said. Maybe there are some up around Baerlon. I do not know."

"That could be it, lad. I had never even heard of him before, but I do not keep up with the country lords. Came while Morgase was still in Tar Valon, he did, and half the city was afraid the Tower was going to make her disappear, too. The other half did not want her back. The riots started up again, the way they did last year at the tail of winter."

Mat shook his head. "I do not care about politics, Master Gill. It’s Gaebril I want to know about." Thom frowned at him, and began cleaning the dottle from his long-stemmed pipe with a straw.

"It is Gaebril I am telling you about, lad," Gill said. "During the riots, he made himself leader of the faction supporting Morgase-got himself wounded in the fighting, I hear-and by the time she returned, he had it all suppressed. Gareth Bryne didn’t like Gaebril’s method’s-he can be a very hard man-but Morgase was so pleased to find order restored that she named him to the post Elaida used to hold."

The innkeeper stopped. Mat waited for him to go on, but he did not. Thom thumbed his pipe full of tobac and walked over to light a spill at a small lamp kept for the purpose on the mantel above the fireplace.

"What else?" Mat asked. "The man has to have a reason for what he does. If he marries Morgase, would he be king when she dies? If Elayne were dead, too, I mean?"

Thom choked lighting his pipe, and Gill laughed. "Andor has a queen, lad. Always a queen. If Morgase and Elayne both died-the Light send it not so!-then Morgase’s nearest female relative would take the throne. At least there is no question who that is this time-a cousin, the Lady Dyelin-not like the succession, after Tigraine vanished. It took two years before Morgase sat on the Lion Throne, then. Dyelin could keep Gaebril as her advisor, or marry him to cement the line-though she would not likely do that unless Morgase had had a child by him-but he would be the Prince Consort even then. No more than that. Thank the Light, Morgase is a young woman, yet. And Elayne is healthy. Light! The letter did not say she is ill, did it?"

"She is well." For now, at least. "Isn’t there anything else you can tell me about him? You do not seem to like him. Why?"

The innkeeper frowned in thought, and scratched his chin, and shook his head. "I suppose I would not like him marrying Morgase, but I do not truly know why. He’s said to be a fine man; the nobles all look to him. I do not like most of the men he’s brought into the Guards. Too much has changed since he came, but I cannot lay it all at his door. There just seem to be too many people muttering in corners since he came. You would think we were all Cairhienin, they were they were before this civil war, all plotting and trying to find advantage. I keep having bad dreams since Gaebril came, and I am not the only one. Fool thing to worry about, dreams. It is probably only worry about Elayne, and what Morgase means to do concerning the White Tower, and people acting like Cairhienin. I just do not know. Why are you asking all these questions about Lord Gaebril?"

"Because he wants to kill Elayne," Mat said, "and Egwene and Nynaeve with her." There was nothing useful in what Gill had told him that he could see. Burn me, I don’t have to know ehy he wants them dead. I just have to stop it. Both men were staring at him again. As if he were mad. Again.

"Are you coming down sick again?" Gill said suspiciously. I remember you staring at everyone crossways the last time. It’s either that, or else you think this is some sort of prank. You have the look of a prankster to me. If that is it, it’s a nasty one!"

Mat grimaced. "It is no bloody prank. I overheard him telling some man called Comar to cut Elayne’s head off. And Egwene’s and Nynaeve’s while he was about it. A big man, with a white stripe in his beard."

"That does sound like Lord Comar," Gill said slowly. "He was a fine soldier, but it is sad he left the Guard over some matter of weighted dice. Not that anyone says it to his face; Comar was one of the best blades in the Guards. You really mean it, don’t you?"

"I think he does, Basel," Thom said. "I very much think he does."

"The Light shine on us! What did Morgase say? You did tell her, did her!"

"Of course, I did," Mat said bitterly. "With Gaebril standing right there, and her gazing at him like a lovesick lapdog! I said, ‘I may be a simple village man who just climbed over your wall half an hour past, but I already happen to know your trusted advisor there, the one you seem to be in love with, intends to murder your daughter.’ Light, man, she’d have my head cut off!"

"She might at that." Thom stared into the elaborate carvings on the bowl of his pipe and tugged one moustache. "Here temper was ever as sudden as lightning, and twice as dangerous."

"You know it better than most, Thom," Gill said absently. Staring at nothing, he scrubbed both hands through his graying hair. "There has to be something I can do. I haven’t held a sword since the Aiel War, but…. Well, that would do no good. Get myself killed and do nothing by it. But I must do something!"

"Rumor." Thom rubbed the side of his nose; he seemed to be studying the stones board and talking to himself. "No one can keep rumors from reaching Morgase’s ears, and if she hears it strongly enough, she will start to wonder. Rumor is the voice of the people, and the voice of the people often speaks truth. Morgase knows that. There is not a man alive I would back against her in the Game. Love or no love, once Morgase starts examining Gaebril closely, he’ll not be able to hide as much as his childhood scars from her. And if she learns that he means to harm Elayne"-he placed a stone on the board; it seemed an odd placement at first glance, but Mat saw that in three more moves, a third of Gill’s stones would be trapped-"Lord Gaebril will have a most elaborate funeral."

"You and your Game of Houses," Gill muttered. Still, it might work." A sudden smile appeared on his face. "I even know who to tell to start it. All I need do is mention to Gilda that I dreamed it, and in three days she’ll have told the serving girls in half the New City that it is a fact. She is the greatest gossip the Creator ever made."

"Just be certain it cannot be traced back to you, Basel."

"No fear of that, Thom. Why a week ago, a man told me one of my own bad dreams as a thing he’d heard from somebody who’d had it from someone else. Gilda must have eavesdropped on me telling it to Coline, but when I asked, he gave me a string of names that led all the way to the other side of Caemlyn and vanished. Why, I actually went over there and found the last man, just out of curiosity to see how many mouths had passed it, and he claimed it was his very own dream. No fear, Thom."

Mat did not really care what they did with their rumors-no rumors would help Egwene or the others-but one thing puzzled him. "Thom, you seem to be taking this all very calmly. I thought Morgase was the great love of your life."

The gleeman stared into the bowel of his pipe again. "Mat, a very wise woman once told me that time would heal my wounds, that time smoothed everything over. I didn’t believe her. Only she was right."

"You mean you do not love Morgase anymore."

"Boy it has been fifteen years since I left Caemlyn a half step ahead of the headsman’s axe, with the ink of Morgase’s signature still wet on the warrant. Sitting here listening to Basel natter on"-Gillprotested, and Thom raised his voice-"natter on, I say, about Morgase and Gaebril, and how they might marry, I realized the passion faded a long time gone. Oh, I suppose I am still fond of her, perhaps I even love her a little, but it is not a grand passion anymore."

"And here I half thought you’d go running up to the Palace to warn her." He laughed, and was surprised when Thom joined him.

"I am not so big a fool as that, boy. Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this. Men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget. Morgase might kiss my cheek and give me a cup of wine and say how she has missed me. And then she might just let the Guards haul me off to prison and the headsman. No. Margase is one of the most capable women I’ve ever known, and that is saying something. I could almost pity Gaebril once she learns what he is up to. Tear, you say? Is there any chance of you waiting until tomorrow to leave? I could use a night’s sleep."

"I mean to be as far toward Tear as I can before nightfall." Mat blinked. "Do you mean to come with me? I thought you meant to stay here."

"Did you not just hear me say I had decided not to have my head cut off? Tear sounds a safer place to me than Caemlyn, and suddenly that does not seem so bad. Beside, I like those girls." A knife appeared in his hand and was as suddenly gone again. "I’d not like anything to happen to them. But if you mean to reach Tear quickly, it’s Aringill you want. A fast boat will have us there days sooner than horses, even if we rode them to death. And I do not say it just because my bottom has already taken on the shape of a saddle."

"Aringill, then. As long as it’s fast."

"Well," Gill said, "I suppose if you’re leaving, lad, I had better see about getting you that meal." He pushed back his chair and started for the door.

"Hold this for me, Master Gill," Mat said, and tossed him the wash-leather purse.

"What’s this, lad? Coin?"

"Stakes. Gaebril doesn’t know it, but he and I have a wager." The cat jumped down as Mat picked up the wooden dice cup and spun the dice out on the table. Five sixes. "And I always win."

Chapter 49

A Storm in Tear

…Page 486

Rain drumming on the deck over his head, Mat stared at the stones board on the table between him and Thom, but he did not really concentrate on the game, even with an Andoran silver mark riding on the outcome. Thunder crashed, and lightning flashed in the small windows. Four lamps lit the captain’s cabin of the Swift. Bloody ship may be as sleek as the bird, but it’s still taking too bloody long. The vessel gave a small jolt, then another; the motion seemed to change. He had better not run us into the bloody mud! If he is not making the best time he can wring out of this buttertub, I will stuff that gold down his throat! Yawning-he had not slept well since leaving Caemlyn; he could not stop worrying long enough to sleep well-yawning, he set a whit stone on the intersection of two lines; in three moves, he would capture nearly a fifth of Thom’s black stones.

"You could be a good player, boy," the gleeman said around his pipe, placing his next stone, "if you put your mind to it." His tobac smoke smelled like leaves and nuts.

Mat reached for another stone from the pile at his elbow, then blinked and let it lie. In the same three moves, Thom’s stones would surround over a third of his. He had not seen it coming, and he could see no escape. "Do you ever lose a game? Have you ever lost a game?"

Thom removed his pipe and knuckled his moustaches. "Not in a long while. Morgase used to beat me about half the time. It is said good commanders of soldiers and good players of the Great Game are good at stones, as well. She is the one, and I’ve no doubt she could command a battle, too."

"Wouldn’t you rather dice some more? Stones takes too much time."

"I like a chance to win more than one toss in nine or ten," the white-haired man said dryly.

Mat bounded to his feet as the door banged open to admit Captain Derne. The square-faced man whipped his cloak from his shoulders, shaking the rain off and muttering curses to himself. "The Light sear my bones, I do not know why I ever let you hire Swift. You, demanding more flaming speed in the blackest night or the heaviest rain. More speed. Always more bloody speed! Could have run on a bloody mudflat a hundred times over by now!"

"You wanted the gold," Mat said harshly. "You said this heap of old boards was fast, Derne. When do we reach Tear?"

The captain smiled a tight smile. "We are tying off to the dock, now. And burn me for a bloody farmer if I can carry anything that can flaming talk ever again! Now, where is the rest of my gold?"

Mat hurried to one of the small windows and peered out. In the harsh glare of lightning flashes he could see a wet stone dock, if not much else. He fished the second purse of gold from his pocket and tossed it to Derne. Whoever heard of a riverman who didn’t dice! "About time," he growled. Light send I’m not too late.

He had stuffed all his spare clothes and his blankets into the leather script, and he hung that on one side of him and the roll of firework on the other, from the cord he tied to it. His cloak over it all, but gapped a little in the front. Better he got wet than the fireworks. He could dry out and be as good as new; a test with a bucket had shown that fireworks could not. I guess Rand’s da was right. Mat had always thought the Village Council would not set them off in the rain because they made a better show on clear nights.

"Aren’t you about ready to sell those things?" Thom was settling his gleeman’s cloak on his shoulders. It covered his leather-cased harp and flute, but his bundle of clothes and blankets he slung on his back outside the patch-covered cloak.

"Not until I figure out how they work, Thom. Besides, think what fun it will be when I set them all off."

The gleeman shuddered. "As long as you don’t do it all at once, boy. As long as you don’t throw them into the fireplace at supper. I’d not put it past you, the way you’ve been behaving with them. You’re lucky the captain here did not throw us off the ship two days ago."

"He wouldn’t." Mat laughed. "Not while that purse was in the offing. Eh, Derne?"

Derne was tossing the purse of gold in his hand. "I have not asked before this, but you’ve given me the gold, now, and you’ll not take it back. What is all this about? All this flaming speed."

"A wager, Derne." Yawning, Matv picked up his quarterstakk, ready to go. "A wager."

"A wager!" Derne stared at the heavy purse. The other just like it was locked in his money chest. "There must be a flaming kingdom riding on it!"

"More than that," Mat said.

Rain bucketed down on the deck so hard that he could not see the gangplank except when the lightning crackled above the city; the roar of the downpour barely let him hear himself think. He could see lights in windows up a street, though. There would be inns, up there. The captain had not come on deck to see them ashore, and none of the crew had stayed out in the rain, either. Mat and Thom made their way to the stone dock alone.

Mat cursed when his boots sank into the mud of the street, but there was nothing for it, so he kept on, striding along as fast as he could with his boots and the butt of his staff sticking at every step. The air smelled of fish, rank even with the rain. "We’ll find an inn," he said, loudly, so he could be heard, "and then I will go out looking."

"In this weather?" Thom shouted back. Rain was rolling down his face, but he was more interested in keeping his instruments covered than his face.

Comar could have left Caemlyn before us. If he had a good horse instead of the crowbates we were riding, he could have set out downriver from Aringill maybe a full day ahead of us, and I don’t know how much of that we caught up with that idiot Derne."

"It was a quick passage," Thom allowed. "Swift deserves its name."

"Be that as it may, Thom, rain or no rain, I have to find him before he finds Egwene, Nynaeve, and Elayne."

"A few more hours won’t make that much difference, boy. There are hundreds of inns in a city the size of Tear. There may be hundreds more outside the walls, some of them little places with no more than a dozen rooms to let, so tiny you could walk right by them and never know they were there." The gleeman hitched the hood of his cloak up more, muttering to himself. "It will take weeks to search them all. But it will take Comar the same weeks. We can spend the night in out of the rain. You can wager whatever coin you have left that Comar won’t be out in it."

Mat shook his head. A tiny inn with a dozen rooms. Before he left Emond’s Field, the biggest building he had ever seen was the Winspring Inn. He doubted if Bran al’Vere had any more than a dozen rooms to let. Egwene had lived with her parents and her sisters in the rooms at the front of the second floor. Burn me, sometimes I think we should never any of us left Emond’s Field. But Rand surely had had to, and Egwene would probably have died if she had not gone to Tar Valon. Now she might die because she did go. He did not think he could settle for the farm again; the cows and the sheep certainly would not play dice. But Perrin still had a chance to go home. Go home, Perrin, he found himself thinking. Go home while you still can. He gave himself a shake. Fool! Why would he want to? He thought of bed, but pushed it away. Not yet.

Lightning streaked across the sky, three jagged bolts together, casting a stark light over a narrow house that seemed to have bunches of herbs hanging in the windows, and a shop, shut up tight, but a potter’s from the sign with its bowls and plates. Yawning, he hunched his shoulders against the driving rain and tried to pull his boots out of the clinging mud more quickly.

"I think I can forget about this part of the city, Thom," he shouted. "All this mud, and that stink of fish. Can you see Nynaeve or Egwene-or Elayne!-choosing to stay here? Women like things neat and tidy, Thom, and smelling good."

"May be, boy," Thom muttered, then coughed. "You would be surprised what women will put up with. But it may be."

Holding his cloak to keep the roll of fireworks covered, Mat lengthened his stride. "Come on, Thom. I want to find Comar or the girls tonight, one or the other."

Thom limped after him, coughing now and again.

They strode through the wide gates in the city-unguarded, in the rain-Mat was relived to feel paving stones under his feet again. And not more than fifty paces up the street was an inn, the windows of the common room spilling light onto the street, music drifting out into the night. Even Thom covered that last fifty paces through the rain quickly, limp or no limp.

The White Crescent had a landlord whose girth made his long blue coat fit snugly below the waist as well as above, unlike those of most of the men in the low-backed chairs at the tables. Mat thought the landlord’s baggy breeches, tied at the ankle above low shoes, had to be big enough for two ordinary men to fit inside, one in each leg. The serving women wore dark, high-necked dresses and short white aprons. There was a fellow playing a hammered dulcimer between the two stone fireplaces. Thom eyed the fellow critically and shook his head.

The rotund innkeeper, Cavan Lopar by name, was more than glad to give them rooms. He frowned at their muddy boots, but silver from Mat’s pocket-the gold was running low-and Thom’s patch-covered cloak smoothed his fat forehead. When Thom said he would perform for a small fee some nights, Lopar’s chins waggled with pleasure. Of a big man with a white streak in his beard, he knew nothing, nor of three women meeting the description Mat gave. Mat left everything but his cloak and his quarterstaff in his room, barely looking to see that it had a bed-sleep was enticing, but he refused to let himself think of it-then wolfed down a spicy fish stew and rushed back out into the rain. He was surprise that Thom came with him.

"I thought you wanted to be in where it was dry, Thom."

The gleeman patted the flute case he still had under his cloak. The rest of his things were up in his room. "People talk to a gleeman, boy. I may learn something you would not. I’d not like to see those girls harmed any more than you."

There was another inn a hundred paces down the rain-filled street on the other side, and another two hundred beyond that, and then more. Mat took them as he came to them, ducking in long enough for Thom to flourish his cloak and tell a story, then let someone buy him a cup of wine afterwards while Mat asked around after a tall man with a white streak in his close-cut black beard and three women. He won a few coins at dice, but he learned nothing, and neither did Thom. He was just glad the gleeman seemed to be taking just a few sips of wine at each in; Thom had been close to abstemious on the boat, but Mat had not been certain he would not dive back into the wine once they reached Tear.

By the time they had visited two dozen common rooms, Mat felt as if his eyelids had weights. The rain had lessened a bit, but it still fell steadily in big drops, and as the rain had fell off the wind had freshened. The sky had the dark gray look of coming dawn.

"Boy," Tom muttered, "if we don’t go back to the White Crescent, I am going to go to sleep here in the rain." He stopped to cough. "Do you realize you’ve walked right past three inns? Light, I’m so tired I can’t think. Do you have a scheme of where to go that you have not told me?"

Mat stared blearily up the street at a tall man in a cloak hurrying around a corner. Light, I am tired. Rand is five hundred leagues from here, playing at being the bloody Dragon. "What? Three inns?" They were standing almost in front of another, The Golden Cup according to the sign creaking in the wind. It looked nothing like a dice cup, but he decided to give it a try anyway. "One more, Thom. If we don’t find them here, we’ll go back and go to bed." Bed sounded better than a dice game with a hundred gold marks riding on the toss, but he made himself go in.

Two steps into the common room Mat saw him. The big man wore a green coat with blue strips down puffy sleeves, but it was Comar, close-cut black beard with a white streak over his chin and all. He sat in one of the strange lows-backed chairs, at a table on the far side of the room, rattling a leather dice cup and smiling at the man across from him. That fellow wore a long coat and baggy breeches, and he was not smiling. He stared at the coins on the table as if wishing he had them back in his purse. Another dice cup sat at Comar’s elbow.

Comar upended the leather cup in his hand, and began laughing almost before the dice stopped spinning. "Who is next?" he called loudly, pulling the wager to his side of the table. There was already a considerable pile of silver in front of him. He scooped the dice into the cup and rattled them. "Surely someone else wants to try his luck?" It seemed that no one did, but he kept rattling the cup and laughing.

The innkeeper was easy to pick out, thought they did not seem to wear aprons in Tear. His coat was the same shade of deep blue as that of every other innkeeper Mat had spoken to. A plump man, though little more than half the size of Lopar and with half that fellow’s number of chins, he was sitting at a tabled by himself, polishing a pewter mug furiously and glaring across the room toward Comar, though not when Comar was looking. Some of the other men gave the bearded man sidelong frowns, too. But not when he was looking.

Mat suppressed his first urge, which was to rush over toward Comar, drub him over the head with his quarterstaff, and demand to know where Egwene and the others were. Something was wrong here. Comar was the first man he had seen wearing a sword, but the way the men looked at him was more than was more than fear of a swordsman. Even the serving women who brought Comar a fresh cup of wine-and was pinched for her trouble-had a nervous laugh for him.

Look at it from every side, Mat thought wearily. Half of the trouble I get into if for not doing that. I have to think. Tiredness seemed to have stuffed his head with wool. The motioned to Thom, and they strode over to the innkeeper’s table, who eyed them suspiciously when they sat down. "Who is the man with the stripe in his beard?" Mat asked.

"Not from the city, are you?" the innkeeper said. He is a foreigner, too. I’ve never seen him before tonight, but I know who he is. Some outlander who has come here to trade and make his fortune in trade. A merchant rich enough to wear a sword. That is no reason for him to treat us like this."

"If you have never seen him before," Mat said, "how do you know he is a merchant?"

The innkeeper looked at him as if he were stupid. "His coat, man, and his sword. He cannot be a lord or a soldier if he’s from off, so he has to be a rich merchant." He shook his head for the stupidity of foreigners. "They come to out places, to look down their noses at us, and fondle the girls under our very eyes, but he has no call to do this. If I go to the Maule, I don’t gamble for some fisherman’s coins. If I go to the Tavar, I do not dice with the farmers come to sell their crops." His polishing gained in ferocity. "Such luck, the man has. It must be how he made his fortune."

"He wins, does he?" Yawning, Mat wondered how he would do dicing with another man who had luck.

"Sometimes he loses," the innkeeper muttered, "when the stakes is a few silver pennies. Sometimes. But let it reach a silver mark…. No less than a dozen times tonight, I have seen him win at Crowns with three crowns and two roses. And half again as often, at Top, it has been with three sixes and two fives. He tosses nothing but sixes at Threes, and three sixes and a five every throw at Compass. If he has such luck, I say the Light shine on him, and well to him, but let him use it with other merchants, as is proper. How can a man have such luck?"

"Weighted dice," Thom said, then coughed. "When he wants to be sure of winning. He uses dice that always show the same face. He is smart enough not to have made it the highest toss-folk become suspicious if you always throw the king"-he raised an eyebrow at Mat-"just one that’s all but impossible to beat, but he cannot change that they always show the same face."

"I have heard of such," the innkeeper said slowly. "Illianers use them, I hear." Then he shook his head. "But both men use the same cup and dice. It cannot be."

"Bring me two cups," Thom said, "and two sets of dice. Crowns or spots, it makes no difference, so long as they are the same."

The innkeeper frowned at him, but left-prudently taking the pewter cup with him-and came back with two leather cups. Thom rolled the five bone cubes from one onto the table in front of Mat. Whether with spots or symbols, every set of dice Mat had ever seen had been either bone or wood. These had spots. He picked them up, frowning at Thom. "Am I supposed to see something?"

Thom dumped the dice from the other cup into his hand, then, almost too quickly to follow, dropped them back in and twisted the cup over to rest upside down on the table before the dice could fall out. He kept his hand on the top of the cup. "Put a mark on each of them, boy. Something small, but something you’ll know for your mark."

Mat found himself exchanging puzzled glances with the innkeeper. Then they both looked at the cup upside down under Thom’s hand. He thew Thom was up to something tricky-gleemen were always doing things that were impossible, like eating fire and pulling silk out of the air-but he did not see how Thom could do anything with him watching close. He unsheathed his belt knife and made a small scratch on each die, right across the circle of six spots.

"All right," he said, setting them back on the table. "Show me your trick."

Thom reached over and picked up the dice, then set them down again a foot away. "Look for your marks, boy."

Mat frowned. Thom’s hand was still on the upended leather cup; the gleeman had not moved it or taken Mat’s dice anywhere near it. He picked up the dice…and blinked. There was not a scratch on them. The innkeeper gasped.

Thom turned his free hand over, revealing five dice. "Your marks are on these. That is what Comar is doing. It’s a child’s trick, simple, though I’d never have thought he had the fingers for it."

"I do not think I want to play dice with you after all," Mat said slowly. The innkeeper was staring at the dice, but not as if he saw any solution. "Call the Watch, or whatever you call it here," Mat told him. "Have him arrested." He’ll kill nobody in a prison cell. Yet what if they are already dead? He tried not to listen, but the thought persisted. Then I’ll see him dead, and Gaebril, whatever it takes! But they aren’t, burn me! They can’t be!

The innkeeper was shaking his head. "Me? Me, denounce a merchant to the Defenders? They would not even look at his dice. He could say one word, and I would be in chains working the channeldredges in the Fingers of the Dragon. He could cut me down where I stood, and the Defenders would say I had earned it. Perhaps he will go away after a while."

Mat gave him a wry grimace. "If I expose him, will that be good enough? Will you call the Watch, or the Defenders or whatever, then?"

"You do not understand. You are a foreigner. Even if he is from off, he is a wealthy man, important."

"Wait here," Mat told Thom. "I do not mean him to reach Egwene and the others, whatever it takes." He yawned as he scrapped back his chair.

"Wait, boy," Thom called after him, soft yet urgent. The gleeman pushed himself up out of his chair. "Burn you, you don’t know what you’re putting your foot into!"

Mat waved for him to stay there and walked over to Comar. No one else had taken up the bearded man’s challenge, and he eyed Mat with interest as Mat leaned his quarterstaff against the table and sat down.

Comar studied Mat’s coat and grinned nastily. "You want to wager coppers, farmer? I do not waste my time with-" He cut off as Mat set an Andoran gold crown on the table and yawned at him, making no effort to cover his mouth. "You say little, farmer, though you manners could use improving, but gold has a voice of its own and no need of manners." He shook the leather cup in his hand and spilled the dice out. He was chuckling before they came to rest, showing three crowns and two roses. You’ll not beat that, farmer. Perhaps you have more gold hidden in those rags that you want to lose? What did you do? Rob your master?"

He reached for the dice, but Mat scooped them up ahead of him. Comar glared, but let him have the cup. If both rosses were the same, they would throw again until one man won. Mat smiled as he rattled the dice. He did not mean to give Comar a chance to change them. If they threw the same toss three of four times in a row-exactly the same, every time-even these Defenders would listen. The whole common room would see; they would have to back his word.

He spilled the dice onto the tabletop. They bounced oddly. He felt-something-shifting. It was as if his luck ad gone wild. The room seemed to be writhing around him, tugging at the dice with threads. For some reason he wanted to look at the door, but he kept his eyes on the dice. They came to rest. Five crowns. Comar’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.

"You lose," Mat said softly. If his luck was in to this extent, perhaps it was time to push it. A voice in his head told him to think, but he was too tired to listen. "I think your luck s about used up, Comar. If you’ve harmed those girls, it’s all gone."

"I have not even found…" Comar began, still staring at the dice, then jerked his head up. His face had gone white. "How do you know my name?"

He had not found them, yet. Luck, sweet luck, stay with me. "Go back to Caemlyn, Comar. Tell Gaebril you could not find them. Tell him they are dead. Tell him anything, but leave Tear tonight. If I see you again, I’ll kill you."

"Who are you?" the big man said unsteadily. "Who-?" The next instant his sword was out and he was on his feet.

The big man lay with his hips and legs sprawled across the top of the table, the rest of him hanging down with his head on the floor. The men who had been sitting at he table were on their feet a safe distance away, wringing their hands and eyeing each other nervously. A low, worried buzz filled the common room, not the noise Mat had expected.

Comar’s sword lay within easy reach of his hand. But he did not move. He stared at Mat, though, as Mat kicked the sword away and went to one knee beside him. Light! I think his back is broken! "I told you you should have gone, Comar. Your luck is all used up."

"Fool," the big man breathed. "Do you…think I…was the only…one hunting them? They won’t…live till…." His eyes stared at Mat, and his mouth was open, but he said no more. Nor ever would again.

Mat met the glazing stare, trying to will more words out of the dead man. Who else, burn you? Who? Where are they? My luck. Burn me, what happened to my luck? He became aware of the innkeeper pulling frantically at his arm.

"You must go. You must. Before the Defenders come. I will show them the dice. I will tell them it was an outlander, but a tall man. With red-colored hair, and gray eyes. No one will suffer. A man I dreamed of last night. No one real. No one will contradict me. Ho took coin from everyone with his dice. But you must go. You must!" Everyone else in the room was studiously looking another way.

Mat let himself be hauled away from the dead man and pushed outside. Thom was already waiting in the rain. He seized Mat’s arm and limped down the street hurriedly, pulling Mat stumbling behind him. Mat’s hood hung down his back; the rain soaked his hair and poured down his face, down his neck, but he did not notice. The gleeman kept looking over his shoulder, searching the street behind Mat.

"Are you asleep, boy? You did not look asleep back there. Come on, boy. The Defenders will arrest any outlander within two streets, no matter what description that innkeeper gives."

"It’s the luck," Mat mumbled. "I’ve figured it out. The dice. My luck works best when things are…random. Like dice. Not much good for cards. No good at stones. Too much pattern. It has to be random. Even finding Comar. I’d stopped visiting every inn. I walked into that one by chance. Thom, if I am going to find Egwene and the others in time, I have to look without any pattern."

"What are you talking about? The man is dead. If he already killed them…. Well, you’ve avenged them. If he hasn’t, you saved them. Now will you bloody walk faster? The Defenders won’t be long coming, and they are not so gentle as the Queen’s Guards."

Mat shook his arm free and picked up his pace unsteadily, dragging the quarterstaff. "He let it slip that he hadn’t located them, yet. But he said he was not the only one. Thom, I believe him. I was looking him in the eye, and he was telling the truth. I still have to find them, Thom. And now I don’t even know who is after them. I have to find them."

Stifling a huge yawn with his fist, Thom pulled Mat’s hood up against the rain. "Not tonight, boy. I need sleep, and so do you."

Wet. Wet. My hair’s dripping in my face. His head seemed fuzzy. With a need for sleep, he realized after a moment. And he realized how tired he was, if he had to think just to know it. "All right, Thom. But I am going to look again as soon as it’s light." Thom nodded and coughed, and they made their way back to the White Crescent through the rain.

Dawn was not long in coming, but Mat rousted himself out of bed, and he and Thom set off trying to search every inn inside the walls of Tear. Mat let himself wander wherever the mood and the next tuening took him, not looking for inns at all, and tossing a coin to decide whether to go in. For three days and night he did this, and for three days and nights it rained without stopping, sometimes thundering, sometimes quiet, but always pouring down.

Thom’s cough grew worse, so he had to stop playing the flute and telling stories, and he would not carry his harp out in that weather; he insisted on going along, however, and men still talked to a gleeman. Mat’s luck with the dice seemed even better since he had begun this random wander, though he never stayed in one inn or tavern long enough to win more than a few coins. Neither of them heard anything useful. Rumors of war with Illian. Rumors of invading Mayene. Rumors of invasion from Andor, of the Sea Folk shutting off trade, of Artur Hawkwing’s armies returning from the dead. Rumors the Dragon was coming. The men Mat gambled with were as gloomy about one rumor as the next; they seemed to him to hunt for the darkest rumors they could find and half believe them all. But he heard not a whisper that might lead him to Egwene and the others. Not one innkeeper had seen women matching their descriptions.

He began to have bad dreams, no doubt from all his worrying. Egwene and Nynaeve and Elayane, and some fellow with close-cropped white hair, wearing a coat with puffy, striped sleeves like Comar’s, laughing and weaving a net around them. Only sometimes it was Moiraine he was weavong the net for, and sometimes he held a crystal sword instead, a sword that blazed like the sun as soon as he touched it. Sometimes it was Rand who held the sword. For some reason, he dreamed of Rand a good deal.

Mat was sure it was all because he was not getting enough sleep, not eating enough except when he happened to remember, but he would not stop. He had a wager to win, he told himself, and he meant to win this one if it killed him.

Chapter 52

In Search of a Remedy

Slumped on the stool in the gleeman’s room, Mat grimaced as Thom coughed again. How are we going to keep looking if he’s so bloody sick he can’t walk? He was ashamed as soon as he thought it. Thom had been as assiduous in searching as he had, pushing himself day and night, when he had to know he was coming down sick. Mat had been so absorbed in his hunt that he had paid too little attention to Thom’s coughing. The change from constant rain to steamy heat had not helped it.

"Come on, Thom," he said. "Lopar says there’s a Wise Woman not far. That is what they call a Wisdom here-a Wise Woman. Wouldn’t Nynaeve like that!"

"I do not need…any foul tasting…concoction…poured down my throat, boy." Thom stuffed a fist through his moustaches in a vain attempt to stop his hacking. "You go ahead looking. Just give me…a few hours…on my bed…and I’ll join you." The wracking wheezes doubled him over till his head was almost on his knees.

"So I am supposed to do all the work while you take your ease?" Mat said lightly. "How can I find anything without you? You learn most of what we hear." That was not exactly true; men talked as freely over dice as they did while buying a gleeman a cup of wine. More freely than they did with a gleeman hacking so hard they feared congestion. But he was beginning to think that Thom’s cough was not going to go away by itself. If the old goat dies on me, who will I play stones with? He told himself roughly. "Anyway, your bloody coughing keeps me awake even in the next room."

Ignoring the white-haired man’s protests, he pulled Thom to his feet. He was shocked at how much of the gleeman’s weight he had to support. Despite the damp heat, Thom insisted on his patch-covered cloak. Mat had his own cloak unbuttoned completely and all three ties of his shirt undone, but he let the old goat have his way. No one in the common room even looked up as he half carried Thom out into the muggy afternoon.

The innkeeper had given simple directions, but when they reached the gate, and faced the mud of the Maule, Mat almost turned back to ask after another Wise Woman. There had to be more than one in a city this size. Thom’s wheezing decided him. With a grimace Mat stepped off into the mud, half carrying the gleeman.

He had thought from the directions that they had must have passed the Wise Woman’s house on their way up from the dock that first night, and when he saw the long, narrow house with bunches of herbs hanging in the windows, right next to a potter’s shop, he remembered it. Lopar had said something about going to the back door, but he had had enough of mud.

And the stink of fish, he thought, frowning at the barefoot men squelching by with their baskets on their backs. There were tracks of horses in the street, too, just beginning to be obliterated by feet and ox-carts. Horses pulling a wagon, or maybe a carriage. He had seen nothing but oxen drawing carts or wagons either on in Tear-the nobles and merchants were proud of their fine stock, and never let one be put to anything like work-but he had not seen any carriages since leaving the walled city, either.

Dismissing horses and wheel tracks from his mind, he took Thom to the front door and knocked. After a time he knocked again. The again.

He was on the point of giving up and returning to the White Crescent despite Thom’s coughing on his shoulder when he heard shuffling footsteps inside.

The door opened barely more than a crack, and a stout, gray-haired woman peered out. "What do you want?" she asked in a tired voice.

Mat put on his best grin. Light, but I am getting sick myself at all these peopple who sound like there’s no bloody hope. "Mother Guenna? My name is Mat Cauthon. Cavan Lopar told me that you might do something for my friend’s cough. I can pay well."

She studied them a moment, seemed to listed to Thom’s wheezes, then sighed. "I suppose I can still do that, at least. You might as well come in." She swung the door open and was already plodding toward the back of the house before Mat moved.

He accent sounded so much like the Amyrlin’s that he shivered, but he followed, all but carrying Thom.

"I don’t…need this," the gleeman wheezed. "Bloody mixtures…always taste like…dung!"

"Shut up, Thom."

Leading them all the way to the kitchen, the stout woman rummaged in one of the cupboards, taking out small stone pots and packets of herbs while muttering to herself.

Mat sat Thom down in one of the high-backed chairs, and glanced through the nearest window. There were three good horses tied out back; he was surprised the Wise Woman had more than one, or any for that matter. He had not seen anyone in Tear riding except nobles and the wealthy, and these animals looked as if they had cost more than a little silver. Horses again. I don’t care about bloody horses now!

Mother Guenna brewed some sort of strong tea with a rank smell and forced it down Thom’s throat, holding his nose when he tried to complain. Mat decided she had less fat on her than he had thought, from the way she held the gleeman’s head steadily in the crook of one arm while she poured the black liquid into him no matter how hard he tried to stop her.

When she took the cup away, Thom coughed and scrubbed at his mouth with equal vigor. "Gaaah! Woman…I don’t know…whether you…mean to drown me…or kill me…with the taste! You ought…to be a bloody…blacksmith!"

"You will take the same twice a day till the hacking is gone," she said firmly. "And I have a salve that you will rub on your chest every night." Some of the weariness left her voice as she confronted the gleeman, fists on her broad hips. "That salve stinks as bad as this tea tastes, but you will rub it on—thoroughly!-or I’ll drag you upstairs like a scrawny carp in a net and tie you to a bed with that cloak of yours! I never had a gleeman come to me before, and I’ll not let the first one that does cough himself to death."

Thom glowered and blew out his moustaches with a cough, but he seemed to take her threat seriously. At least, he did not say anything, but he looked as if he meant to throw her tea and her salve right back at her.

The more this Mother Guenna talked, the more she sounded like the Amyrlin to Mat. From the sour look on Thom’s face, and the steady stare on hers, he decided he had better smooth matters over a little before the gleeman refused to take her medicines. And she decided to make him. "I knew a woman once who talked like you," he said. "All fish and nets and things. Sounded like you, too. The same accent, I mean. I suppose she’s Tairen."

:Perhaps." The gray-haired woman suddenly sounded tired again, and she kept staring at the floor. "I knew some girls with the sound of your speech on their tongues, too. Two of them had it, anyway." She sighed heavily.

Mat felt his scalp prickle. My luck can’t be this good. But he would not bet a copper on two other women with Two Rivers accent just happening to be in Tear. "Three girls? Young Women? Named Egwene, and Nynaeve, and Elayne? That one has hair like the sun, and blue eyes."

She frowned at him. "Those are not the names they gave," she said slowly, "yet I suppose they did not give me their true names. But they had their reasons, I thought. One of them was a pretty girl with bright blue eyes and red-gold hair to her shoulders." She described Nynaeve with he braid to her waist and Egwene with her big, dark eyes and ready smile, too. Three pretty women as different from one another as they could be. "I see they are the ones you know," she finished. "I am sorry, boy."

"Why are you sorry? I have been trying to find them for days!" Light, I walked right past this place the first night! Right past them! I wanted random. What could be more random the where a ship docks on a rainy night, and where you happen to look in a bloody lightning flash? Burn me! Burn me! "Tell me where they are, Mother Guenna."

The gray-haired woman stared wearily at the stove where her spouted kettle was steaming. Her mouth worked, but she said nothing.

"Where are they?" Mat demanded. "It is important! They are in danger if I don’t find them."

"You do not understand," she said softly. "You are an outlander. The High Lords…."

"I do not care about any-" Mat blinked, and looked at Thom. The gleeman seemed to be frowning, but he was coughing so hard, Mat could not be sure. "What do the High Lords have to do with my friends?"

"You just do not-"

"Don’t tell me I do not understand! I will pay for the informattion!"

Mother Guenna glared at him. "I do not take money for…!" She grimaced fiercely. "You ask me to tell you things I had been told not to speak of. Do you know what will happen to me if I do and you breathe my name? I will lose my tongue, to begin. Then I will lose other parts before the High Lords have what is left of me hung up to scream its last hours as a reminder to others to obey. And it will do those young women no good, not my telling or my dying!"

"I promise I will never mention your name to anyone. I swear it." And I’ll keep that oath, old woman, if you only tell me where they bloody are! "Please? They are in danger."

She studied him for a long time; before she was done he had the feeling that she knew every detail of him. "On that oath, I will tell you. I…liked them. But you can do nothing. You are too late, Matrim Cauthon. Too late by nearly three hours. They have been taken to the Stone. The High Lord Samon sent for them." She shook her head in worried puzzlement. "He sent…women who…could channel. I hold nothing against Aes Sedai myself, but that is against the law. The law the High Lords made. If they break every other law, they would not break that one. Why would a High Lord send Aes Sedai on his errands? Why would he want those girls at all?"

Mat almost burst ou laughing. Aes Sedai? Mother Guenna, you had my heart in my throat, and maybe my liver, too. If Aes Sedai came for them, there is nothing to worry about. All three of them are going to be Aes Sedai themselves. Not that I like it much, but that’s what they-" His grind faded at the heavy way she shook her head.

"Boy, those girls fought like lionfish in a net. Whether they mean to be Aes Sedai or not, those who took them treated them like bilge pumpings. Friends do not give bruises like that."

He felt his face twisting. Aes Sedai hurt them? What in the Light? The bloody Stone. It makes the Palace in Caemlyn look like walking into a barnyard! Burn me! I stood right there in the rain and stared at this house! Burn me for a Light blinged fool!

"If you break your hand," Moth Guenna said, "I will splint and poultice it, but if you damage my wall, I will strip your hide like a redfish!"

He blinked, then looked at his fist, at scraped knuckles. He did not even remember punching the wall.

The broad woman took his hand in a strong grip, but the fingers she used to probe were surprisingly gentle. "Nothing broken," she grunted after a while. Her eyes were just as gentle as she studied his face. It seems you care for them. One of them, at least, I suppose it is. I am sorry, Mat Cauthon."

"Don’t be," he told her. "At least I know where they are, now. All I have to do is get them out." He fished out his last two Andoran gold crowns and pressed them into her hands. "For Thom’s medicines, and for letting me know about the girls." On impulse, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and a grin. "And that’s for me."

Startled, she touched her cheek, not seeming to know whether to look at the coins or at him. "Get them out, you say. Just like that. Out of the Stone." Abruptly she stabbed him in the ribs with as hard as a tree stub. "You remind me of my husband, Mat Cauthon. He was a headstrong fool who would sail into the teeth of a gale and laugh, too. I could almost think you’ll manage it." Suddenly she saw his muddy foots, apparently for the first time. "It took me six months to teach him not to track mud into my house. If you do get those girls out, whichever of them you have your eye on will have a hard time training you to make you fit to be let inside."

"You are the only woman who could do that," he said with a grin that broadened at her glare. Get them out. That’s all I have to do. Bring them right out of the Stone of bloody Tear. Thom coughed again. He isn’t going into the Stone like that. Only, how do I stop him? "Mother Guenna, can I leave my friend here? I think he is too sick to go back to the inn."

"What?" Thom barked. He tried to push himself out of the chair, coughing so he could hardly speak. "I am no…such thing, boy! You think…walking into the Stone…will be…like walking into your mother’s kitchen? You think you…would make it…as far as the gates…without me?" He hung on the back of the chair, his wheezing and hacking keeping him from rising more than halfway to his feet.

Mother Guenna put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down as easily as a child. The gleeman gave her a startled look. "I will take care of him, Mat Cauthon," she said.

"No!" Thom shouted. "You cannot…do this to me! You can’t…leave me…with this old…." Only her hand on his shoulder kept him from doubling over.

Mat grinned at the white-haired man. "I have enjoyed knowing you, Thom."

As he hurried out into the street, he found himself wondering why he had said that. He isn’t going to bloody die. That woman will keep him alive if she has to drag him out kicking and screaming out of his grave by his moustaches. Yes, but who is going to keep me alive?

Ahead of him, the Stone of Tear loomed over the city, impregnable, a fortress besieged a hundred times, a stone on which a hundred armies had broken their teeth. And he had to get inside, somehow. And bring out three women. Somehow.

With a laugh that made even the sullen folk in the street look at him, he headed back for the White Crescent, uncaring of mud or the damp heat. He could feel the dice tumbling inside his head.

Chapter 54

Into The Stone

The rooftops of Tear were no place for a sensible man to be in the night, Mat decided as he peered into the moon shadows. A little more than fifty paces of broad street, or perhaps narrow plaza, separated the Stone from his tiled roof, itself three stories above the paving stones. But when was I ever sensible? The only people I ever met who were sensible all the time that watching them could put you to sleep. Whether the thing was a street or a plaza, he had followed it all the way around the Stone since nightfall; the only place it did not go was on the river side, Where the Erinin ran right along the foot of the fortress, and nothing interrupted it except the city wall. That wall was only two houses to his right. So far, the top of the wall seemed the best path to the Stone, but not one he would be overjoyed to take.

Picking up his quarterstaff and a small, wire-handled tin box, he moved carefully to a brick chimney a little nearer the wall. The roll of fireworks-what had been the roll of fireworks before he worked on it back in his room-shifted on his back. It was more, now, all jammed together as tight as he could make it, but still too big for carrying around rooftops in the dark. Earlier, a slip of his foot because of the thing had sent a roof tile skittering over the edge, and roused the man sleeping in a room below to bellow "thief!" and sent him running. He hitched the bundle back into position without thinking about it, and crouched in the shadows of the chimney. After a moment he set the tin box down; the wire handle was beginning to grow uncomfortably warm.

It felt a little safer, studying the Stone from the shadows, but not much more encouraging. The city wall was not nearly as thick as those he had seen in other places, in Caemlyn or Tar Valon, no more than a pace wide, supported by great stone buttresses cloaked in darkness, now. A pace was more than sufficient width for walking, of course, except that the fall to either side was nearly ten spans. Through the dark, to hard pavement. But some of those bloody houses back right up against it, I can make it to the top easily enough, and it bloody runs straight to the bloody Stone!

It did that, but that was no particular comfort. The sides of the Stone looked like cliffs. Eyeing the height again, he told himself he should be able to climb it. Of course, I can. Just like those cliffs in the Mountains of Mist. Over a hundred paces straight up before there was a battlement. There must be arrowslits lower down, but he could not make them out in the night. And he could not squeeze through an arrowslit. A hundred bloody paces. Maybe a hundred and twenty. Burn me, even Rand would not try to climb that. But it was the one way in he had found. Every gate he had seen had been shut tight and looked strong enough to stop a herd of bulls, ot to mention the dozen or so soldiers guarding very nearly every last one, in helmets and breastplates, and swords at their belts.

Suddenly he blinked, and squinted at the side of the Stone. There was some fool climbing it, just visible as the moving shadows in the moonlight, and over halfway up already, with a drop of seventy paces to the pavement under his feet. Fool, is he? Well, I’m as bug of one, because I am going up, too. Burn me, he’ll probably raise an alarm in there and get me caught. He could not see the climber anymore. Who in the Light is he? What does it matter who it is? Burn me, but this is a bloody way to win a wager. I’m going to want a kiss from all three of them, even Nynaeve!

He shifted to peer toward the wall, trying to choose his spot to climb, and suddenly there was steel across his throat. Without thinking, he knocked it away and swept the man’s feet out from under him with his staff. Someone else kicked his own feet away and he fell almost on top of the man he had knocked down. He rolled off onto the roof tiles, loosing the bundle of fireworks-If that falls into the street, I’ll break their necks!-staff whirling; he felt it strike flesh, and a second time, he heard grunts. Then there were two blades at his throat.

He froze, arms outflung. The points of short spears, dull so they hardly caught the faint light of the moon at all, pressed into his flesh just short of bringing blood. His eyes followed them up to the faces of whoever was holding them, but their heads were shrouded, their faces veiled in black except for their eyes, staring at him. Burn me, I have to run into real thieves! What happened to my luck?

He put on a grin, with plenty of teeth so they could see it in the moonlight. "I do not mean to trouble you in your work, so if you let me go my way, I’ll let you go yours and say nothing." The veiled man did not move, and neither did their spears. "I want no more outcry than you. I’ll not betray you." They stood like statues, staring down at him. Burn me, I do not have time for this. Time to toss the dice. For a chilling moment he thought the words in his head had been strange. He tightened his grip on the quarterstaff, lying out to one side of him-and almost cried out when someone stepped hard on his wrist.

He rolled his eyes to see who. Burn me for a fool, I forgot the one I fell on. But he saw another shape moving behind the one standing on his wrist, and decided maybe it was as well he had not managed to bring the staff into use after all.

It was a soft boot, laced to the knee, that rested on his arm. It tugged at his memory. Something about a man met in mountains. He eyed the night-cloaked shape the rest of the way up, trying to make out the cut and color of his clothes-they seemed all shadow, colors that blended with darkness too well to see them clearly-past a long-bladed knife at the fellow’s waist, right up to the dark veil across his face. A black-veiled face. Black-veiled.

Aiel! Burn me, what are bloody Aiel doing here! He had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered hearing that Aiel veiled themselves when they killed.

"Yes," said a man’s voice, "we are Aiel." Mat gave a start; he had not realized he had spoken aloud.

"You dance well for one caught by surprise," a young woman’s voice said. He thought she was the one standing on his wrist. "Perhaps another day I will have time to dance with you properly."

He started to smile-If she wants to dance, they can’t be going to kill me, at least!-then frowned instead. He seemed to remember Aiel sometimes meant different when they said that.

The spears were pulled back, and hands hauled him to his feet. He shook them away and brushed himself off as if he were standing in a common room instead of on a night-cloaked rooftop with four Aiel. It always paid to let the othe man know you had a steady nerve. The Aiel had quivers at their waist as well as knives, and more of those short spears on their backs with cased bows, the long spear points sticking up above their shoulders. He heard himself humming "I’m Down at the Bottom of the Well," and stopped it.

"What do you do here?" the man’s voice asked. With the veils, Mat was not entirely sure which had spoken; the voice sounded older, confident, used to command. He though he could pick out the woman, at least; she was the only one shorter than he, and that not by much. The others all stood a head taller than he or more. Bloody Aiel, he thought. "We have watched you for some little time," the older man went on, "watched you watch the Stone. You have studied it from every side. Why?"

"I could ask the same of all of you," another voice said. Mat was the only one who gave a start as a man in baggy breeches stepped out of the shadows. The fellow appeared to be shoeless, for better footing on the tiles. "I expected to find thieves, not Aiel," the man went on, "but do not think your numbers frighten me." A slim staff no taller than his head made a blur and a hum as he whirled it. "My name is Julin Sandar, and I am a thief-catcher, and I would know why you are on the rooftops, staring at the Stone."

Mat shook his head. How many bloody people are on the bloody roofs tonight? All that was needed was for Thom to appear and play his harp, or someone to come looking for an inn. A bloody thief-taker! He wondered why the Aiel were just standing there.

"You stalk well, for a city man," the older man’s voice said. "But why do you follow us? We have stolen nothing. Why have you looked so often at the Stone tonight yourself?"

Even in the moonlight this Sandar’s surprise was evident. He gave a start, opened his mouth-and closed it again as four more Aiel rose out of the dimness behind him. With a sigh, he leaned on his slender staff. "It seems I am caught myself," he muttered. "It seems I must answer your questions." He peered toward the Stone, then shook his head. "I … did a thing today that … troubles me." He sounded almost as though he were talking to himself, trying to puzzle it out. Part of me says it was right, what I did, that I must obey. Surely it seemed right when I did it. But a small voice tells me I … betrayed something. I am certain this voice is wrong, and it is very small, but it will not stop." He stopped then himself, shaking his head again.

One of the Aiel nodded, and spoke with the older man’s voice. "I am Rhuarc, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel, and once I was Aethan Dor, a Red Shield. Sometimes the Red Shields do as your thief-catchers do. I say this so you will understand that I know what it is you do, and the kind of man you must be. I mean no harm to you, Julin Sandar of the thief-catchers, nor to the people of your city, but you will not be suffered to raise the armcry. If you will keep silence, you will live; if not, not."

"You mean no harm to the city," Sandar said slowly. "Why are you here, then?"

"The Stone." Rhuarc’s tone made it plain that was all he meant to say.

After a moment Sandar nodded, and muttered, "I could almost wish you had the power to harm the Stone, Rhuarc. I will hold my tongue."

Rhuarc turned his veiled face to Mat. "And you, nameless youngling? Will you tell me now why you watch the Stone so closely?"

"I just wanted a walk in the moonlight," Mat said lightly. The young woman put her spearpoint to his throat again; he tried not to swallow. Well, maybe I can tell them something of it. He must not let them know he was shaken; if you let the other fellow know that, you lose whatever edge you might have. Very carefully, with two fingers, he moved her steel away from him. It seemed to him that she laughed softly. "Some friends of mine are inside the Stone," he said, trying to sound casual. "Prisoners. I mean to bring them out."

"Alone, nameless one?" Rhuarc said.

"Well, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else," Mat said dryly. "Unless you care to help? Unless you care to help? You seem interested in the Stone yourself. If you mean to go into it, perhaps we could go together. It is a tight roll of the dice any way you look at it, but my luck runs good. So far, anyway. I’ve run into black-veiled Aiel and they have not cut my throat; luck cannot get much better than that. Burn me, it would not be bad to have a few Aiel along with me in there. "You could do worse than betting on my luck."

"We are not here for prisoners, gambler," Rhuarc said.

"It is time, Rhuarc." Mat could not tell from which of the Aiel that came, but Rhuarc nodded.

"Yes, Gaul." He looked from Mat to Sandar and back. "Do not give the armcry." He turned away, and in two steps he had blended into the night.

Mat gave a start. The other Aiel were gone, too, leaving him alone with the thief-taker. Unless they left somebody to watch us. Burn me, how could I tell if they did? "I hope you don’t mean to try stopping me, either," he told Sandar as he slung the bundle of fireworks again and picked up his quarterstaff. "I mean to go inside, by you or through you, one way or the other." He went over to the chimney to pick up the tin box; the wire handle was more than warm, now.

"These friends of yours," Sandar said. "They are three women?"

Mat frowned at him, wishing there was enough light to show the man’s face clearly. The fellow’s voice sounded odd. "What do you know of them?"

"I know they are inside the Stone. And I know a small gate near the river where a thief-catcher can gain entrance with a prisoner, to take him to the cells. The cells where they must be. If you will trust me, gambler, I can take us that far. What happens after that is up to chance. Perhaps your luck will bring us out again alive."

"I have always been lucky," Mat said slowly. Do I feel lucky enough to trust him? He did not much like the idea of pretending to be a prisoner; it seemed to easy for the pretense to become reality. But it seemed no bigger risk than trying to climb three hundred feet or more strait up in the dark.

He glanced toward the city wall, and stared. Shadows flowed along it; dim shapes trotting. Aiel, he was sure. There must have been over a hundred. They vanished, but now he could make out shadows moving on the cliff face that was the sheer side of the Stone of Tear. So much for going up that way. That one fellow earlier might have made it inside without raising an alarm-Rhuarc’s armcry-but a hundred or more Aiel would have to be like sounding bells. They might make a diversion, though. If they caused a commotion somewhere up there, inside the Stone, then whoever was guarding the cells might not pay as much attention to a thief-taker bringing a thief.

I might as well add a little to the confusion. I worked hard enough on it. "Very well, thief-taker. Just don’t decide I am a real prisoner at the last minute. We can start for your gate as soon as I stir the anthill a bit." He though Sandar frowned, but he did not mean to tell the man more than he had to.

Sandar followed him across the rooftops, climbing to higher levels as easily as he did. The last roof was only a little lower than the top of the wall and ran tight up to it, a matter of pulling himself up rather than climbing.

"What are you doing?" Sandar whispered.

"Wait here for me."

With the tin box dangling from one hand by its wire handle and his quarterstaff held horizontally in front of him, Mat took a deep breath and started toward the Stone. He tried not to think of how far it was to the pavement below. Light, the bloody thing is three feet wide! I could walk it with a bloody blindfold, in my sleep! Three feet wide, in the dark, and better than fifty feet to the pavement. He tried not to think about Sandar not being there when he came back, wither. He was all but committed to this fool notion of pretending to be a thief caught by the man, but it was all too probable that he would return to the roof to find Sandar gone, maybe bringing more men to make him a prisoner in truth. Don’t think about it. Just do the job at hand. At least I’ll finally see what it is like.

As he had suspected, there was an arrowslit in the wall of the Stone right at the end of the wall, a deep wedge cut into the rock holding a tall, narrow opening for an archer to shoot through. If the Stone were attacked, the soldiers inside would want some way to stop ant from trying to follow this path. The slit was dark, now. There did not appear to be anyone watching. That was something he had tried not to think about, too.

Quickly he set the tin box down at his feet, balancing his quarterstaff across the wall right against the Stone, and unslung the bundle from his back. Hurriedly he wedged it into the slit, forcing it in as far as he could; he wanted as much of the noise to be inside as he could manage. Pulling aside a corner of the oiled cloth cover revealed knotted fuses. After a little thinking, back in his room, he had cut the longer fuses to match the shorter, using the pieces to help tie all the fuses together. It seemed they should all go off at once, and a bang-and-flash like that should be enough to pull everyone who was not completely deaf.

The lid of the tin box was hot enough that he had to blow on his fingers twice before he could pry it off-he wished he had whatever Aludra’s trick had been, lighting that lantern so easily-to expose the dark bit of charcoal inside, lying on a bed of sand. The wire handles came off to make tongs, and a little blowing had the coal glowing red again. He touched the hot coal to the knotted fuses, let tongs and coal fall over the side of the wall as the fuses hissed into flame, snatched up his quarterstaff and darted back along the wall.

This is crazy, he though as he ran. I don’t care how big a bang it makes. I could break my fool neck doing thi-!

The roar behind him was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life; a monstrous fist punched him in the back, knocking all the wind out of him even before he landed, sprawled on his belly on the wall top, barely holding on to his staff as it swung over the edge. For a moment he lay there, trying to make his lungs work again, trying not to think how he must have used up all his luck this time by not falling off the wall. His ears rang like the bells in Tar Valon.

Pushing himself up carefully, he looked back toward the Stone. A cloud of smoke hung around the arrowslit. Behind the smoke, the shadowed shape of the arrowslit itself seemed different. Larger. He did not understand how or why, but it did seem larger.

He only thought for a moment. At one end of the wall Sandar might be waiting, might be intending to take him into the Stone as a pretend prisoner-or might be hurrying back with soldiers. At the other end of the wall, there might be a way inside without any chance of Sandar betraying him. He darted back the way he had just come, no longer worrying about the darkness or the drop to either side.

The arrowslit was larger, most of the thinner stone at the middle simply gone, leaving a rough hole as if someone had hammer at it with a sledge for hours. A hole just big enough for a man. How in the Light? There was no time for wondering.

He pushed through the jagged opening, coughing at the acrid smoke, jumped to the floor inside, and had run a dozen steps before Defenders of the Stone appeared, at least ten of them, all shouting in confusion. Most wore only their shirts, and none had helmet or breastplate. Some carried lanterns. Some held bared swords.

Fool! He shouted inside his head. This is why you set the bloody things off in the first place! Light-blinded fool!

He had no time to make it back out onto the wall. Quarterstaff spinning, he threw himself at the soldiers before they had the chance to do more than see he was there, hurled himself into them, smashing at heads, swords, knees, whatever he could reach, knowing they were too many for him to handle alone, knowing that his fool toss of the dice had cost Egwene and the others whatever chance they might have had.

Suddenly Sandar was there beside him, in the light of the lanterns dropped by men clawing for their swords, his slender staff whirling even faster than Mat’s quarterstaff. Caught between two staffmen, taken by surprise, the soldiers went down like pins in a game of bowels.

Sandar stared at the fallen men, shaking his head. "Defenders of the Stone. I have attacked Defenders! They will have my head for-! What was it that you did, gambler? That flash of light, and thunder, breaking stone. Did you call lightning?" His voice fell to a whisper. "Have I joined myself to a man who can channel?"

"Fireworks," Mat said curtly. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear more boots coming, running boots thudding on stone. "The cells, man! Show me the way to the cells before any more get here!"

Sandar shook himself. "This way!" He dashed down a side hall, away from the oncoming boots. "We must hurry! They will kill us if they find us!" Somewhere above, gongs began to sound an alarm, and more thundered echoes through the Stone.

I’m coming, Mat thought as he ran after the thief-taker. I’ll get you out or die! I promise it!

Alarm gongs somewhere above sent sonorous clangs down the corridor, not quite drowning out the ring of metal on metal and the shouts of fighting men rather closer. The Aiel and the Defenders, Mat suspected. Tall, golden lamp stands, each with four golden lamps, lined the hall where Mat was, and silk draperies of battle scenes hung on the polished stone walls. There were even silk carpets on the floor, dark red on dark blue, woven in the Tairen maze. For once, Mat was too busy to put a price on anything.

This bloody fellow is good, he thought as he managed to sweep a sword thrust away from him, but the blow he aimed at the man’s head with the other end of the staff had to turn into another block of that darting blade. I wonder if he is one of these bloody High Lords? He almost managed a solid blow at a knee, but his opponent sprang back, his straight blade raised on guard.

The blue-eyed man certainly wore the puffy-sleeved coat, yellow with thread-of-gold stripes, but it was all undone, his shirt only half tucked into his breeches, and his feet bare. His short-cropped, dark hair was tousled, like that of a man roused hastily from sleep, but he did not fight like it. Five minutes ago he had come darting out from one of the tall, carved doors that lined this hall, a scabbardless sword in his hands, and Mat was only grateful the fellow had appeared in front of them and not behind. He was not the first man dressed so that Mat had faced already, but he was surely the best.

"Can you make it past me, thief-catcher?" Mat called, careful not to take his eyes off the man waiting for him with the blade poised to strike. Sandar had insisted irritably on "thief-catcher", not "thief-taker," though Mat could not see any difference.

"I cannot," Sandar called from behind him. "If you move to let me by, you will lose room to swing that oar you call a staff, and he will spit you like a grunt."

Like a what? "Well, think of something, Tairen. This ragamuffin is grating my nerves."

The man in the gold-striped coat sneered. "You will be honored to die on the blade of the High Lord Darlin, peasent, if I allow it so." It was the first time he had deigned to speak. "Instead, I think I will have the pair of you hung by the heels, and watch while the skin is stripped from your bodies-"

"I do not think I’d like that," Mat said.

The High Lord’s face reddened with indignation at being interrupted, but Mat gave him no time for any outraged comment. Quarterstaff whirling in a tight double-loop weave, so quick the staff blurred at the ends, he leapt forward. It was all a snarling Darlin could do to keep staff from him. For the moment. Mat knew he could not keep this up very long, and if he was lucky then, it would all go back to the strike and counterstrike. If he was lucky. But he had o intention of counting on luck this time. As soon as the High Lord had a moment to set himself in a pattern of defense, Mat altered his attack in midwhirl. The end of the staff Darlin had been expecting at his head dipped instead to swing his legs out from under him. The other end did strike at his head then, as he fell, a sharp crack that rolled his eyes back up in his head.

Panting, Mat leaned on his staff over the unconscious High Lord. Burn me, if I have to fight one or two more like this, I’ll bloody well fall over from exhaustion! The stories do not tell you being a hero is such hard work! Nynaeve always did find a way to make me work.

Sandar cam to stand beside him, frowning at the crumpled High Lord. "He does not look so mighty lying there," he said wonderingly. "He does not look so much greater than me."

Mat gave a start and peered down the hall, where a man had just gone trotting across along a joining corridor. Burn me, if I did not know it was crazy, I would swear that was Rand!

"Sandar, you find that-" he began, swinging his staff up onto his shoulder, and cut off when it thudded into something.

Spinning, he found himself facing another half-dressed High Lord, this one with his sword on the floor, his knes buckling, and both hands to his head where Mat had split his scalp. Hastily, Mat poked him hard in the stomach with the butt of the staff to bring his hands down, then gave him another thump on the head to put him down in a heap on top of his sword.

"Luck, Sandar," he muttered. "You cannot beat bloody luck. Now, why don’t you find this bloody way the High Lords take down to the cells?" Sandar had insisted there was such a stairway, and using it would avoid having to run through most of the Stone. Mat did not think he liked men so eager to watch people put to the question that they wanted a quick route to the prisoners from their apartments.

"Just be glad you were so lucky," Sandar said unsteadily, "or this one would have killed us both before we saw him. I know the door is here somewhere. Are you coming? Or do you mean to wait for another High Lord to appear?"

"Lead on," Mat stepped over the unconscious High Lord. "I am no bloody hero."

Trotting, he followed the thief-catcher, who peered at the tall doors they passed, muttering that he knew it was here somewhere.

Chapter 55

What Is Written In Prophesy

…

The wide door of iron bars stood open, and the room beyond seemed empty of life, but Mat entered cautiously. Sandar was still out in the hall, trying to peer both ways at once, certain that a High Lord, or maybe a hundred Defenders or so, would appear at any moment.

There were no men in the room now-and by the half-eaten meals along the tables, they had left hurriedly; no doubt because of the fighting above-and from the looks of the things on the walls, he was just as glad he did not have to meet any of them. Whips in different sizes and lengths, different thicknesses, with different numbers of tails. Pinchers, and tongs, and clamps, and irons. Things that looked like metal boots, and gauntlets, and helmets, with great screws all over them as if to tighten them down. Things he could not even begin to guess the use of. If he had met the men who used these things, he thought he would surely have checked that they were dead before walking away.

"Sandar!" he hissed. "Are you going to stand out there all bloody night!" He hurried to the inner door-barred like the outer, but smaller-without waiting for an answer, and went through.

The hall beyond was lined by rough wooden doors, and lit by the same rush torches as the room he had just left. No more than twenty paces from him, a woman sat on a bench beside one of the doors, leaning back against the wall in a curiously stiff fashion. She turned her head slowly toward him at the sound of his boots grating at the stone. A pretty young woman. He wondered why she did not move more than her head, and why even that moved as if she were half-asleep.

Was she a prisoner? Out in the hall? But nobody with a face like that could be one of the people who uses the things on those walls. She did look almost asleep, with her eyes only partly open. And the suffering on that lovely face surely made her one of the tortured, not a torturer.

"Stop!" Sandar shouted behind him. "She is Aes Sedai! She is one of those who took the women you seek!"

Mat froze in the middle of a step, staring at the woman. He remembered Moiraine hurling balls of fire. He wondered if he could deflect a ball of fire with his quarterstaff. He wondered if his luck extended to outrunning Aes Sedai.

"Help me," she said faintly. Her eyes still looked nearly asleep, but the pleading in her voice was fully awake. "Help me. Please!"

Mat blinked. She still had not moved a muscle below her neck. Cautiously, he stepped closer, waving to Sandar to stop his groaning about her being Aes Sedai. She moved her head to follow him. No more than that.

A large iron key hung at her belt. For a moment he hesitated. Aes Sedai, Sandar said. Why doesn’t she move? Swallowing, he eased the key free as carefully as if he were trying to take a piece of meat from a wolf’s jaws. She rolled her eyes to the door beside her and made a sound like a cat that had just seen a huge dog come snarling into the room and knew there was no way out.

He did not understand it, but as long as she did not try to stop him opening that door, he did not care why she just sat there like a stuffed scarecrow. On the other hand, he wondered if there was something on the other side worth being afraid of. If she is one of those that took Egwene and the others, it stands to reason she’s guarding them. Tears leaked from the woman’s eyes. Only she looks like it’s a bloody Halfman in there. But there was only one way to find out. Propping his staff against the wall, he turned the key in the lock and flung open the door, ready to run if need be.

Nynaeve and Elayne were kneeling on the floor with Egwene apparently asleep between them. He gasped at the sight of Egwene’s swollen face, and changed his mind about her sleeping. The other two women turned toward him as he opened the door-they were almost as battered as Egwene; Burn me! Burn me! -looked at him, and gasped.

"Matrim Cauthon," Nynaeve said, sounding shocked, "what under the Light are you doing here?"

"I came to bloody rescue you," he said. "Burn me if I expected to be greeted as if I had come to steal a pie. You can tell me why you look as if you’d been fighting bears lately, if you want. If Egwene cannot walk, I’ll carry her on my back. There are Aiel all over the Stone, or near enough, and either they are killing the bloody Defenders or the bloody Defenders are killing them, but whichever way it is, we had better get out of here while we bloody well can. If we can!"

"Mind your language," Nynaeve told him, and Elayne gave him one of those disapproving stares women were so good at. Neither one of them seemed to have her full attention in it, though. They began shaking Egwene as if she were not covered with more bruises than he had ever seen in his life.

Egwene’s eyelids fluttered open, and she groaned. Why did you wake me? I must understand it. If I lose the bonds on her, she will wake and I will never catch her again. But if I do not, she cannot go all the way to sleep, and-" Her eyes fell on him and widened. "Matrim Cauthon, what under the Light are you doing here?"

"You tell her," he told Nynaeve. "I am too busy trying to rescue you to watch my langu-" They were all staring beyond him, glaring as if they wished they had knives in their hands.

He spun, but all he saw was Julin Sandar, looking as if he had swallowed a rotten plum whole.

"They have cause," he told Mat. "I…. I betrayed them. But I had to." That was addressed past Mat to the women. "The one with many honey-colored braids spoke to me, and I…. I had to do it." For a long moment the three continued to stare.

"Liandrin has vile tricks, Master Sandar," Nynaeve said finally. Perhaps you are not entirely to blame. We can apportion guilt later."

"If that is all cleared up," Mat said, "could we go now?" it was as clear as mud to him, but he was more interested in leaving right then.

The three women limped after him into the hall, but they stopped around the woman on the bench, she rolled her eyes at them and whimpered. "Please. I will come back to the Light. I will swear to obey you. With the Oath Rod in my hands I will swear. Please do not-"

Mat jumped as Nynaeve suddenly reared back and swung a fist, knocking the woman completely off the bench. Se lay there, her eyes closed all the way finally, but even lying on her side she was still in exactly the same position she had been in on the bench.

"It is gone," Elayne said excitedly.

Egwene bent to rummage in the unconscious woman’s pouch, transferring something Mat could not make out to her own. "Yes. It feels wonderful. Something changed about her when you hit her, Nynaeve. I do not know what, but I felt it."

Elayne nodded. "I felt it, too."

"I would like to change every last thing about her," Nynaeve said grimly. She took Egwene’s head in her hands; Egwene rose onto her toes, gasping. When Nynaeve took her hands away to put them on Elayne, Egwene’s bruises were gone. Elayne’s vanished as quickly.

"Blood and bloody ashes!" Mat growled. "What do you mean hitting a woman who was just sitting there? I don’t think she could even move!" They all three turned to look at him, and he made a strangled sound as the air seemed to turn to thick jelly around him. He lifted into the air, until his boots dangled a good pace above the floor. Oh, burn me, the Power! Here I was afraid that Aes Sedai would use the bloody Power on me, and now the bloody women I’m rescuing do it! Burn me!

"You do not understand anything, Matrim Cauthon," Egwene said in a tight voice.

"Until you do understand," Nynaeve said in an even tighter, "I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself."

Elayne contented herself with a glare that made him think of his mother going out to cut a switch.

For some reason he found himself giving them the grin that had so often sent his mother after that switch. Burn me, if they can do this, I don’t se how anybody locked them in that cell in the first place! "What I understand is that I got you out of something you couldn’t get yourselves out of, and you all have as much gratitude as a bloody Taren Ferry man with a toothache!"

"You are right," Nynaeve said, and his boots suddenly hit the floor so hard his teeth jarred. But he could move again. "As much as it pains me to say it, Mat, you are right."

He was tempted to answer something sarcastic, but there was barely enough of an apology in her voice as it was. "Now can we go? With the fighting going on, Sandar think he and I can take you out by a small gate near the river.

"I am not leaving just yet, Mat," Nynaeve said.

I mean to find Liandrin and skin her," Egwene said, sounding almost as if she meant it literally.

"All I want to do," Elayne said, "is pound Joiya Byir till she squeals, but I will settle for any of them."

"Are you all deaf?" he growled. "There is a battle going on out there! I came here to rescue you, and I mean to rescue you." Egwene patted his cheek as she walked by him, and so did Elayne. Nynaeve merely sniffed. He stared after them with his mouth hanging open. "Why didn’t you say something?" he growled at the thief-catcher.

"I say what speaking earned you," Sandar said simply. "I am no fool."

"Well, I am not staying in the middle of a battle!" he shouted at the women. They were just disappearing through the small, barred door. "I am leaving, do you hear?" They did not even look back. Probably get themselves killed out there! Somebody will stick a sword in them while they’re looking the other way! With a snarl, he put his quarterstaff across his shoulders and started after. "Are you going to stand there?" he called to the thief-catcher. "I did not come this far to let them die now!"

Sandar caught up to him in the room with the whips. The three women were already gone, but Mat had a feeling they would not be too hard to find. Just find the men bloody hanging in midair! Bloody women! He quickened his pace to a trot.

Chapter 56

People of The Dragon

Throughout the city of Tear people woke with the dawn, speaking of the dreams they had had, dreams of the Dragon battling Ba’alzamon in the Heart of the Stone, and when their eyes rose to the great fortress of the Stone, they beheld a banner waving from its greatest height. Across a field of white flowed a sinuous form like a great serpent scaled in scarlet and gold, but with a golden lion’s mane and four legs, each tipped with five golden claws. Men came, stunned and frightened, from the Stone to speak in hushed tones to speak of what had happened in the night, and men and women thronged the streets, weeping as they shouted the fulfillment of Prophesy.

"The Dragon!" they shouted. "Al’Thor! The Dragon! Tl’Thor!"

Peering through an arrowslit high on the side of the Stone, Mat shook his head as he listened to the chorus rising out of the city in waves. Well, maybe he is. He was still having a hard enough time coming to grips with Rand really being here.

Everyone in the Stone seemed to agree with the people below, or if they did not, they were not letting on. He had seen Rand just once since the night before, striding along a hall with Callandor in his hand, surrounded by a dozen of veiled Aiel and trailing a cloud of Tairens, a knot of Defenders of the Stone and most of the few surviving High Lords. The High Lords, at least, seemed to think Rand would need them to help him rule the world; the Aiel kept everyone back with sharp looks, though, and spears if need be. They surely believed Rand was the Dragon, though they called him He Who Comes With the Dawn. There were nearly two hundred Aiel in the Stone. They had lost a third of their number in the fight, but they had killed or captured ten times as many Defenders.

As he turned from the arrowslit, his eyes brushed across Rhuarc. There was a tall stand at one end of the room, carved and polished upright wheels of some pale, dark-striped wood with shelves slung between them so all of the shelves would stay flat as the wheels were revolved. Each shelf held a large book, bound in gold, covers set with sparkling gems. The Aiel had one of the books open and was reading. Some sort of essays, Mat thought. Who would have thought an Aiel would read books? Who’d have thought an Aiel could bloody read?

Rhuarc glanced in his direction, all cold blue eyes and level stare. Mat looked away hastily, before the Aiel could read his thoughts on his face. At least he is not veiled, thank the Light! Burn me, that Aviendha nearly took my head off when I asked her if she could do any dances without spears. Bain and Chiad presented another problem. They were certainly pretty and more than friendly, but he could not manage to talk to one without the other. The male Aiel seemed to think his efforts to get one of them alone were funny, and for that matter, so did Bain and Chiad. Women are odd, but Aiel woman make odd seem normal!

The great table in the middle of the room, ornately carved and gilded on edges and thick legs, had been meant for gathering of High Lords. Moiraine sat in one of the throne-like chairs, with the Crescent Banner of Tear worked into its towering back in gilt and polished carnelian and pearlshell. Egwene, Nynaeve, and Elayne sat close by her.

"I still cannot believe Perrin is here in Tear," Nynaeve was saying. "Are you sure he is all right?"

Mat shook his head. He would have expected Perrin to have been up in the Stone last night; the blacksmith had always been braver than anyone with good sense.

"He was well when I left him." Moiraine’s voice was serene. "Whether he still is, I do not know. His … companion is in some considerable danger, and he may have put himself into it, also."

"His companion?" Egwene said sharply. "Wha-. Who is Perrin’s companion?"

"What sort of danger?" Nynaeve demanded.

"Nothing that need concern you," the Aes Sedai said calmly. "I will go and see to her as I may, shortly. I have delayed only to show you this, which I found among the ter-angreal and other things of the Power the High Lords collected over the years." She took something from her pouch and laid it across the table before her. It was a disc the size of a man’s hand, seemingly made of two teardrops fitted together, one black as pitch, the other white as snow.

Mat seemed to remember seeing others like it. Ancient, like this one, but broken, where this was whole. Three of them, he had seen; not all together, but all in pieces. But that could not be; he remembered that they were made of cuendillar, unbreakable by any power, even the One Power.

"One of the seven seals Lews Therin Kinslayer and Hundred Companions put on the Dark One’s prison when they resealed it," Elayne said, nodding as if confirming her own memory.

"More precisely," Moiraine told her, "a focus point for one of the seals. But in essence, you are correct. During the Breaking of the World they were scattered and hidden for safety; since the Trolloc Wars they have been lost in truth." She sniffed. "I begin to sound like Verin."

Egwene shook her head. "I suppose I should have expected to find that here. Twice before Rand faced Ba’alzamon, and both times at least one of the seals was present."

"And this time unbroken," Nynaeve said. "For the first time, the seal is unbroken. As if that mattered, now."

"You think it does not?" Moiraine’s voice was dangerous in its quiet, and the other woman frowned at her.

Mat rolled his eyes. They kept talking about unimportant things. He did not much like standing not twenty feet from that disc now that he knew what it was, no matter the value of cuendillar, but…. "Your pardon?" he said.

They all turned to stare at him like he were interrupting something important. Burn me! Break them out of a prison cell, save their lives half a dozen times between them before the night is done, and they glower as hard as the bloody Aes Sedai! Well, they did not thank me then, either, did they? You’d have thought I was sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted then, too, instead of keeping some bloody Defender from putting a sword through one of them. Aloud, he said mildly, "You do not mind if I ask a question, do you? You have all been talking this Aes Sedai…uh…business, and no one has bothered to tell me anything."

"Mat?" Nynaeve said warningly, tugging her braid, but Moiraine said, in a calm only just touched with impatience, "What is it that you wish to know?"

"I want to know how all this can be." He meant to keep his tone soft, but despite himself he picked up intensity as he went along. "The Stone of Tear has fallen! The Prophesies said that would never happen till the People of the Dragon came. Does that mean we are the bloody People of the Dragon? You, me, Lan, and a few hundred bloody Aiel?" He had seen the warder during the night; there had not seemed to be much edge between Lan and the Aiel as to who was the more deadly. As Rhuarc straightened to stare at him, he hastily added, "Uh, sorry, Rhuarc. Slip of the tongue."

"Perhaps," Moiraine said slowly. "I came to stop Be’lal from killing Rand. I did not expect to see the Stone of Tear fall. Perhaps we are. Prophecies are fulfilled the way they are meant to be, not as we think they should be."

Be’lal. Mat shivered. He had heard that name last night, and he did not like it any more in daylight. If he had known one of the Forsaken was loose-and inside the Stone-he would never have gone near the place.He glanced at Egwene, and Nynaeve, and Elayne. Well, Id have come in like a bloody mouse, anyway, not thumping people left and right! Sandar had gone scurrying out of the Stone at daybreak; to take the news to Mother Guenna, he claimed, but Mat thought it ws just to escape those stares from the three women, who looked as if they had not yet quite decided what to do about him.

Rhuarc cleared his throat. "When a man wishes to become a clan chief, he must go to Rhuidean, in the lands of the Jenn Aiel, the clan that is not." He spoke slowly and frowned often at the red-fringed silk carpet under his soft boots, a man trying to explain what he did not want to explain at all. Women who also wish to become Wise Ones also make this journey, but their marking, if they are marked, is kept secret among themselves. The men who are chosen at Rhuidean, those who survive, return marked on their left arm. So."

He pushed back the sleeves of his coat and shirt together to reveal his left forearm, the skin much paler than that of his hands and face. Etched into the skin, as if part of it, wrapped twice around, marched the same gold-and-scarlet form as rippled on the banner above the Stone.

The Aiel let his sleeve fall with a sigh. "It is a name not spoken except among clan chiefs and Wise Ones. We are…." He cleared his throat again, unable to say it here.

"The Aiel are the People of the Dragon." Moiraine spoke quietly, but she sounded as close to startlement as Mat could ever remember hearing her. "That I did not know."

"The it really is all don," Mat said, "just as the Prophesies said. We can all go on our way with no more worries." The Amyrlin won’t need me to blow that bloody horn now!

"How can you say that?" Egwene demanded. "Don’t you understand the Forsaken are loose?"

"Not to mention the Black Ajah," Nynaeve added grimly. "We took only Amico and Joyya here. Eleven escaped-and I would like to know how!-and the Light alone knows how many others there are we do not know."

"Yes," Elayne said in a tone just as hard. "I may not be up to facing one of the Forsaken, but I mean to take pieces out of Liandrin’s hide!"

"Of course," Mat said smoothly. "Of course." Are they crazy? They want to chase after the Black Ajah and the Forsaken? "I only meant the hardest part is done. The Stone has fallen to the People of the Dragon, Rand has Callandor, and Shai’tan is dead." Moiraine’s stare was so hard that he thought the Stone shook for a moment.

"Be quiet, you fool!" the Aes Sedai said in a voice like a knife. "Don you want to call his attention to you, naming the Dark One?"

"But he’s dead!" Mat protested. "Rand killed him. I saw the body!" And a fine stink that was, too. I never thought anybody could rot that fast.

"You saw ‘the body,’" Moiraine said with a twist to her mouth. "A man’s body. Not the Dark One, Mat."

He looked at Egwene and the other two women; they appeared as confused as he. Rhuarc looked to be thinking of a battle he had though was won and now learned had not even been fought. "Then who was it?" Mat demanded. "Moiraine, my memory has holes big enough for a wagon and team, but I remember Ba’alzamon being in my dreams. I remember! Burn me, I do not see how I can ever forget! And I recognized what was left of that face."

You recognized Ba’alzamon," Moiraine said. "Or rather, the man who called himself Ba’alzamon. The Dark One yet lives, imprisoned at Shayol Ghul, and the shadow lies yet across the Pattern."

"The Light illumine and protect us," Elayne murmured in a faint voice. "I thought…. I thought the Forsaken were the worst we had to worry about, now."

"Are you sure, Moiraine?" Nynaeve said. "Rand was certain-is certain-that he killed the Dark One. You seem to be saying Ba’alzamon was not the Dark One at all. I don’t understand! How can you be so sure? And if he was not the Dark One, who was he?"

"I can be sure for the simplest reasons, Nynaeve. However fast decay took it, that was a man’s body. Can you believe that if the Dark One were killed he would leave a human body? The man Rand killed was a man. Perhaps he was the first of the Forsaken freed, or perhaps he was never entirely bound. We may never know which."

I…may know who he was." Egwene paused with an uncertain frown. "At least, I may have a clue. Verin showed me a page from an old book that mentioned Ba’alzamon and Ishamael together. It was almost High Chant and very nearly incomprehensible, but I remember something about a name hidden behind a name. Maybe Ba’alzamon was Ishamael."

"Perhaps," Moiraine said. "Perhaps it was Ishamael. But if it was, at least nine of the thirteen still live. Lanfear, and Sammael, and Ravhin, and…. Paah! Even knowing that some of those nine at least are free is not the most important thing." She laid a hand atop the black-and-white disc on the table. "Three of the seals are broken. Only four still hold. Only those four seals stand between the Dark One and the world, and it may be that even with those whole he can touch the world after a fashion. Whatever battle we won here-battle or skirmish-it is far from the last."

Mat watched their faces firm-Egwene’s and Nynaeve’s and Elayne’s; slowly, reluctantly, but determinedly, too-and shook his head. Bloody women! They’re all ready to go on with this, go on chasing the Black Ajah, trying to fight the Fosaken and the bloody Dark One. Well, they needn’t think I am going to come pull them out of the soup pot again. They just needn’t think it, that’s all!

One of the tall, paired doors pushed open while he was trying to think of something to say, and a tall young woman of regal bearing entered the room, wearing a coronet with a golden hawk in flight above her brows. Her black hair swept to pale shoulders, and her dress of the finest red silk left those shoulders bare, along with a considerable expanse of what Mat noted as an admirable bosom. For a moment she studied Rhuarc interestedly with large, dark eyes; then she turned them on the women at the table, coolly, imperious. Mat she appeared to ignore completely.

"I am not used to being given messages to carry," she announced, flourishing a folded parchment in one slim hand.

"And who are you, child?" Moiraine asked.

The young woman drew herself up even more, which Mat would have though was impossible. "I am Berelain, First of Mayene." She tossed the parchment down on the table in front of Moiraine with a haughty gesture and turned back to the door.

"A moment, child," Moiraine said, unfolding the parchment. "Who gave this to you? And why did you bring it, if you are so unused to carrying messages?"

"I…do not know." Berelain stood facing the door; she sounded puzzled. "She was…impressive." She gave herself a shake and seemed to recover her opinion of herself. For a moment she studied Rhuarc with a small smile. "You are the leader of these Aielmen? Your fighting disturbed my sleep. Perhaps I will ask you to dine with me. One day quite soon." She looked over her shoulder at Moiraine. "I am told the Dragon Reborn has taken the Stone. Inform the Lord Dragon that that the First of Mayene will dine with him tonight." And she marched out of the room; Mat could think of no other way to describe that stately, one-woman procession.

"I would like to have her in the Tower as a novice." Egwene and Elayne said it almost like echoes, then shared a tight smile.

"Listen to this," Moiraine said. "‘Lews Therin was mine, he is mine, and he will be mine, forever. I give him into your charge, to keep for me until I come.’ It is signed ‘Lanfear.’" The Aes Sedai turned that cool gaze on Mat. "And you thought it was done? You are ta’veren, Mat, a thread more crucial to the Pattern than most, and the sounder of the Horn of Valere. Nothing is done for you, yet."

They were all looking at him. Nynaeve sadly, Egwene as though she had never seen him before, Elayne as if she expected him to change into someone else. Rhuarc had a certain respect in his eyes, though Mat would just as soon have done without it, all things considered.

"Well, of course," he told them. Burn me! "I understand." I wonder how soon Thom will be fit to travel? Time to run. Maybe Perrin will come with us. "You can count on me."

From outside, the cries still rose, unceasing. "The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon!"

Teeth clamped on a long-stemmed pipe, Mat opened his coat a bit more and tried to concentrate on the cards laying facedown in front of him, and on the coins spilled in the middle of the table. He had had the bright red coat made to an Andoran pattern, of the best wool, with golden embroidery scrolling around the cuffs and long collar, but day by day he was reminded how much farther south Tear lay than Andor. Sweat ran down his face, and plastered the shirt to his back.

None of his companions around the table appeared to notice the heat at all, despite coats that looked even heavier than his, with fat, swollen sleeves, all padded silks and brocades and satin stripes. Two men in red-and-gold livery kept the gamblers’ silver cups full of wine and proffered shining silver trays of olives and cheeses and nuts. The heat did not seem do affect the servants, either, though now and again one of them yawned behind his hand when he though no one was looking. The night was not young.

Mat refrained from lifting his cards to check them again. They would not have changed. Three rulers, the highest cards in three of the five suits, were already good enough to win most hands.

He would have been more comfortable dicing, there was seldom a deck of cards to be found in the places he usually gambled, where silver changed hands in fifty different dice games, but these young Tairen lordlings would rather wear rags than play at dice. Peasants tossed dice, though they were careful not to say so in his hearing. It was not his temper they feared, but who they thought his friends were. This game called chop was what they played, hour after hour, night after night, using cards hand-painted and lacquered by a man in the city who had been made well-to-do by these fellows and others like them. Only women or horses could draw them away, but neither for long.

Still, he had picked up the game quickly enough, and if his luck was not as good as it was with dice, it would do. A fat purse lay beside his cards, and another even fatter rested in his pocket. A fortune, he would have thought once, back in Emond’s Field, enough to live the rest of his life in luxury. His ideas of luxury had changed since leaving the Two Rivers. The young lords kept their coins in careless, shining piles, but some habits he had no intention of changing. In the taverns and inns it was something necessary to depart quickly. Especially if his luck was really with him.

When he had enough to keep himself as he wanted, he would leave the Stone just as quickly. Before Moiraine knew what he was thinking. He would have been days gone by now, if he had his way. It was just that there was gold to be had here. One night at this table would could earn him more than a week dicing in taverns. If only his luck would catch.

He put on a small frown and puffed worriedly at his pipe, to look unsure whether his cards were good enough to go with. Two of the young lords had pipes in their teeth, too, but silver-worked, with amber bibs. In the hot, still air, their perfumed tobac smelled like a fire in a lady’s dressing chamber. Not that Mat had ever been in a lady’s dressing chamber. An illness that nearly killed him had left his memory as full of holes as the best lace, yet he was sure he would have remembered that. Not even the Dark One would be mean enough to make me forget that.

"Sea Folk ship docked today," Reimon muttered around his pipe. The broad-shouldered young lord’s beard was oiled and trimmed to a neat point. That was the latest fashion among the younger lords, and Reimon chased the latest fashions as assiduously as he chased women. Which was only a little less diligently than he gambled. He tossed a silver crown onto the pile in the middle of the table for another card. "A raker. Fastest ships there are, rakers, so they say. Outrun the wind, they say. I would like to see that. Burn me soul, but I would." He did not bother to look at the cards he was dealt; he never did until he had a full five.

The plump, pink-faced men between Reimon and Mat gave an amused chuckle. "You want to see the ship, Reimon? You mean the girls, don you not? The women. Exotic Sea Folk beauties, with their rings and baubles and swaying walks, eh?" He put in a crown and took his card, grimacing when he peeked at it. That meant nothing; going by his face, Edorian’s cards were always low and mismatched. He won more than he lost, though. "Well, perhaps my luck will be better with the Sea Folk girls."

The dealer, tall and slender on Mat’s other side, with a pointed beard even more luxuriant than Reimon’s, laid a finger alongside his nose. "You think to be lucky with those, Edorian? The way they keep to themselves, you’ll be lucky to catch a whiff of their perfume." He made a wafting gesture, inhaling deeply with a sigh, and the other lordlings laughed, even Edorian.

A plain-faced youth named Estean laughed loudest of all, scrubbing a hand through lank hair that kept falling over his forehead. Replace his fine yellow coat with drab wool, an he could have passed for a farmer, instead of the son of a High Lord with the richest estates in Tear and in his own right the wealthiest man at the table. He had also drunk much more wine than any of the others.

Swaying across the man next to him, a foppish fellow named Baran who always seemed to be looking down his sharp nose, Estean poked the dealer with a none too steady finger. Baran leaned back, twisting his mouth around his pipestem as if he feared Estean might throw up.

"That’s good, Carlomin," Estean gurgled. "You think so too, don’t you, Baran? Edorian won’t get a sniff. If he wants to try his luck…take a gamble…he ought to go after the Aiel wenches, like Mat, here. All those spears and knives. Burn my soul. Like asking a lion to dance." Dead silence dropped around the table. Estean laughed on alone, then blinked and scrubbed fingers through his hair again. "What’s the matter? Did I say something? Oh! Oh, yes. Them."

Mat barely stopped a scowl. The fool had to bring up the Aiel. The only worse subject would have been Aes Sedai; they would almost rather have Aiel walking the corridors, staring down any Tairen who got in their way, than even one Aes Sedai, and these men thought they had four, at least. He fingered a silver Andoran crown from his purse on the table and pushed it into the pot. Carlomin dealt out the card slowly.

Mat lifted it carefully with a thumbnail, and did not let himself so much as blink. The Ruler of Cups, a High Lord of Tear. The rulers in a deck varied according to the land where the cards were made, with the nation’s own ruler always as Ruler of Cups, the highest suit. These cards were old. He had already seen new decks with Rand’s face or something like it on the Ruler of Cups, complete with the Dragon Banner. Rand the Ruler of Tear; that still seemed ludicrous enough to want to pinch himself. Rand was a shepherd, a good fellow to have fun with when he was not going all over-serious and responsible. Rand the Dragon Reborn, now; that he was a stone fool to be sitting there, where Moiraine could put her hand on him whenever she wanted, waiting to see what Rand would do next. Maybe Thom Merrilin would go with him. Or Perrin. Only, Thom seemed to be settling into the Stone as if he never meant to leave, and Perrin was not going anywhere unless Faile crooked a finger. Well, Mat was ready to travel alone, if need be.

Yet there was silver in the middle of the table and gold in front of the lordlings, and if he was dealt the fifth ruler, there was no hand in chop could beat him. Not that he really needed it. Suddenly he could feel his luck tickling his mind. Not tingling as it did with the dice, of course, but he was already certain no one was going to beat four rulers. The Tairens had been betting wildly all night, the price of ten farms crossing the table on the quickest hands.

But Carlomin was staring at the deck of cards in his hand instead of buying his fourth, and Baran was puffing his pipe furiously and stacking the coins in front of him as if ready to stuff them into his pockets. Reimon wore a scowl behind his beard, and Edorion was frowning at his nails. Only Estean appeared unaffected; he grinned uncertainly around the table, perhaps already forgetting what he had said. They usually managed to put some sort of good face on the situation if the Aeil came up, but the hour was late, and the wine had flowed freely.

Mat scoured his mind for a way to keep them and their gold from walking away from his cards. One glance at their faces was enough to tell him that simply changing the subject would not be enough. But there was another way. If he made them laugh at the Aiel…. Is it worth making them laugh at me, too? Chewing his pipestem, he tried to think of something else.

Baran picked up a stack of gold in each hand and moved to stick them in his pockets.

"I might just try these Sea Folk women," Mat said quickly, taking his pipe to gesture with. "Odd things happen when you chase Aiel girls. Very odd. Like the game they call Maidens’ Kiss." He had their attention, but Baran had not put down the coins, and Calomin still showed no sign of buying a card.

Estean gave a drunk guffaw. "Kiss you with steel in your ribs, I suppose. Maiden’s of the Spear, you see. Steel. Spear in your ribs. Burn my soul." No one else laughed. But they were listening.

"Not quite," Mat managed a grin. Burn me, I’ve told this much. I might as well tell the rest. "Rhuarc said if I wanted to get along with the Maidens, I should ask them how to play Maidens’ Kiss. He said that was the best way to get to know them." It still sounded like one of the kissing games back home, like Kiss the Daisies. He had never considered the the Aiel clan chief a man to play tricks. He would be warier next time. He made an effort to improve the grin. "So I went along to Bain and…" Reimon frowned impatiently. None of them knew any Aiel’s name but Rhuarc, and none of them wanted to. Mat dropped the names and hurried on "…went along dumb as a bull-goosed fool, and asked them to show me." He should have suspected something from the wide smiles that had bloomed on their faces. Like cats who had been asked to dance by a mouse. "Before I knew what was happening, I has a fistful of spears around my neck like a collar. I could have shaved myself with one sneeze."

The others around the table exploded in laughter, from Reimon’s wheezing to Estean’s wine-soaked bray.

Mat left them to it. He could almost feel the spearpoints again, pricking if he so much as twitched a finger. Bain, laughing all the while, had told him she had never heard of a man actually asking to play Maidens’ Kiss.

Carlomin stroked his beard and spoke into Mat’s hesitation. "You cannot stop there. Go on. When was this? Two nights ago, I’ll wager. When you didn’t come for the game, and no one knew where you were."

"I was playing stones with Thom Merilin that night," Mat said quickly. "This was days ago." He was glad he could lie with a straight face. "They each took a kiss. That’s all. If she thought it was a good kiss, they eased up with the spears. If not, they pushed a little harder; to encourage, you might say. That was all. I’ll tell you this; I got nicked less than I do shaving."

He stuck his pipe back between his teeth. If they wanted to know more, they could go ask to play the game themselves. He almost wished some of them were fool enough. Bloody Aiel women and their bloody spears. He had not made it to his own bed until daybreak.

"It would be more than enough for me," Carlomin said dryly. "The Light burn my if it would not." He tossed a silver crown into the center of the table and dealt himself another card. "Maidens’ Kiss." He shook with mirth, and another ripple of laughter ran around the table.

Baran bought his fifth card, and Estean fumbled a coin from the heap scattered in front of him, peering at it to see what it was. They would not stop now.

"Savages," Baran muttered around his pipe. "Ignorant savages. That is all they are, burn my soul. Live in caves, out in the Waste. In caves! No one but a savage could live in the Waste."

Reimon nodded. "At least they serve the Lord Dragon. I would take a hundred Defenders and clean out the Stone, if not for that." Baran and Carlomin growled fierce agreement.

It was no effort for Mat to keep his face straight. He had heard much the same before. Boasting was easy when no one expected you to carry through. A hundred Defenders? Even if Rand stood aside for some reason, the few hundred Aiel holding the Stone could probably keep it against any army Tear could raise. Not that they seemed to want the Stone, really. Mat suspected they were only there because Rand was. He did not think any of these lordlings had figured that out-they trie to ignore the Aiel as much as possible-but he doubted it would make them feel any better.

"Mat," Estean fanned his cards out in one hand, rearranging them as if he could not decide what order they were meant to go in. "Mat, you will speak to the Lord Dragon, won’t you?"

"About what?" Mat asked cautiously. Too many of these Tairens knew he and Rand had grown up together to suit him, and they seemed to think he was arm in arm with Rand whenever he was out of their sight. None of them would have gone near his own brother if he could channel. He did not know why they thought him a bigger fool.

"Didn’t I say?" The plain-faced man squinted at his cards and scratched his head, then brightened. "Oh, yes. His proclamation, Mat. The Lord Dragon’s. His last one. Where he said commoners had the right to call lords before a magistrate. Who ever heard of a lord being summoned to a magistrate? And for peasants?"

Mat’s hand tightened on his purse until the coins inside grated together. "It would be a shame," he said quietly, "if you were tried and judged for having your way with a fisherman’s daughter whenever she wanted, or for having some farmer beaten for splashing mud on your cloak."

The others shifted uneasily, catching his mood, but Estean nodded, head bobbing so it seemed about to fall off. "Exactly. Though it wouldn’t come to that, of course. A lord being tried before a magistrate? Of course not. Not really." He laughed drunkenly at his cards. "No fisherman’s daughter. Smells of fish, you see, however you have them washed. A plump farm girl is best."

Mat told himself he was there to gamble. He told himself to ignore the fool’s blather, reminded himself of how much gold he could take out of Estean’s purse. His tongue did not listen, though. "Who knows what it might come to? Hangings, maybe."

Edorion gave him a sidelong look, guarded and uneasy. "Do we have to talk about…about commoners, Estean? What about old Astoril’s daughter? Have you decided which you’ll marry yet?"

"What? Oh. Oh, I’ll flip a coin, I suppose." Estean frowned at his cards, shifting one, and frowned again. "Medore has two or three pretty maids. Perhaps Medore."

Mat took a long drink from his silver winecup to keep from hitting the man in his farmer’s face. He was still on his first cup; the two servants had given up trying to add more. If he hit Estean, none of them would lift a hand to stop him. Not even Estean. Because he was the Lord Dragon’s friend. He wished he was in a tavern somewhere out in the city, where some dockman might question his luck and only a quick tongue, or quick feet, of quick hands would see him leave with a whole skin. Now that was a fool thought.

Edorion glanced at Mat again, measuring his mood. "I heard a rumor today. I hear the Lord Dragon is taking us to war with Illian."

Mat gagged on his wine. "War?" he spluttered.

"War," Reimon agreed happily around his pipestem.

"Are you certain?" Carlomin said, and Baran added, "I’ve heard no rumors."

"I heard it just today, from three or four tongues." Edorion seemed to be absorbed in his cards. "Who can say how true it is?"

"It must be true," Reimon said. "With the Lord Dragon to lead us, holding Callandor, we’ll not even have to fight. He will scatter their armies, and we will march straight into Illian. Too bad, in a way. Burn my soul if it isn’t. I would like a chance to match swords with the Illianers."

"You’ll get no chance with the Lord Dragon leading," Baran said. "They will fall on their knees as soon as they see the Dragon Banner."

"And if they do not," Carlomin added with a laugh, "the Lord Dragon will blast them with lightning where they stand."

"Illian first," Reimon said. "And then…. Then we’ll conquer the world for the Lord Dragon. You tell him I said so, Mat. The whole world."

Mat shook his head. A month gone, they would have been horrified of even the idea of a man who could channel, a man doomed to go mad and die horribly. Now they were ready to follow Rand into battle, and trust his power to win for them. Trust the Power, though it was not likely the would put it in that way. Yet he supposed they had to find something to hang on to. The invincible Stone was in the hands of the Aiel. The Dragon Reborn was in his chambers a hundred feet above their heads, and Callandor was with him. Three thousand years of Tairen belief and history lay in ruins, and the world had been turned on its head. He wondered if he had handled it any better; his own world had gone askew in little more than a year. He rolled a gold Tairen crown across the back of his fingers. However well he had done, he would not go back.

"When will we march, Mat?" Baran asked.

"I don’t know," he said slowly. "I don’t think Rand would start a war. Unless he had gone mad already." That hardly bore thinking about.

The others looked as if he had assured them the sun would not come up tomorrow.

"We are all loyal to the Lord Dragon, of course." Edorion frowned at his cards. "Out in the countryside, though…. I hear that some of the High Lords, a few, have been trying to raise an army to take back the Stone." Suddenly no one was looking at Mat, though Estean still seemed to be trying to make out his cards. "When the Lord Dragon takes us to war, of course, it will all melt away. In any case, we are loyal, here in the Stone. The High Lords, too, I am certain. It is only a few out in the countryside."

Their loyalty would not outlast their fears of the Dragon Reborn. For a moment Mat felt as though he were planning to abandon Rand in a pit of vipers. Then he remembered what Rand was. It was more like abandoning a weasel in a henyard. Rand had been a friend. The Dragon Reborn, though…. Who could be a friend to the Dragon Reborn? I’m not abandoning anybody. He could probably pull the Stone down on their heads, if he wanted to. On my head, too. He told himself again that it was time to be gone.

"No fishermen’s daughters," Estean mumbled. "You will speak to the Lord Dragon?"

"It’s your turn, Mat," Carlomin said anxiously. He looked half afraid, though what he feared-that Estean would anger Mat again, or that the talk might go back to loyalty-was impossible to say. "Will you buy the fifth card, or stack?"

Mat realized he had not been paying attention. Everyone but himself and Carlomin had five cards, though Reimon had neatly stacked his facedown beside the pot to show that he was out. Mat hesitated, pretending to think, then sighed and tossed another coin toward the pile.

As the silver crown bounced end over end, he suddenly felt luck grow from trickles to a flood. Every ping of silver against wooden tabletop rang clear in his head; he could have called face or sigil and known how the coin would land on any bounce. Just as he knew what his next card would be before Carlomin laid it in front of him.

Sliding his cards together on the table, he fanned them in one hand. The Ruler of Flames stared at him alongside the other four, the Amyrlin Seat balancing a flame on her palm, though she looked nothing like Siuan Sanche. However the Tairens felt about Aes Sedai, they acknowledged the power of Tar Valon, even if Flames was the lowest suit.

What were the odds of being dealt all five? His luck was best with random things, like dice, but perhaps a little more was beginning to rub off on cards. "The Light burn my bones to ash if it is not so," he muttered. Or that was what he meant to say.

"There," Estean all but shouted. "You cannot deny it this time. That was the Old Tongue. Something about burning, and bones." He grinned around the table. "My tutor would be proud. I ought to send him a gift. If I can find out where he went."

Nobles were supposed to be able to speak the Old Tongue, though in reality few knew more than Estean seemed to. The young lords set to arguing over exactly what Mat had said. They seemed to think it had been a comment on the heat.

Goose bumps pebbled Mat’s skin as he tried to recall the words that had just come out of his mouth. A string of gibberish, yet it almost seemed he should understand. Burn Moiraine! If she’d left me alone, I wouldn’t have holes in my memory big enough for a wagon and team, and I wouldn’t be spouting…whatever it bloody is! He would also be milking his father’s cows instead of walking the world with a pocketful of gold, but he managed to ignore that part of it.

"Are you here to gamble," he said harshly, "or babble like old women over their knitting!"

"To gamble," Baran said curtly. "Three crowns, gold!" He tossed the coins onto the pot.

"And three more besides." Esteaned hiccoughed and added six golden coins to the pile.

Suppressing a grin, Mat forgot about the Old Tongue. It was easy enough; he did not want to think about it. Besides, if they were starting this strongly, he might win enough on this hand to leave in the morning. And if he’s crazy enough to start a war, I’ll leave if I have to walk.

Outside in the darkness, a cock crowed. Mat shivered uneasily and told himself not to be foolish. No one was going to die.

His eyes dropped to his cards-and blinked. The Amyrlin’s flame had been replaced by a knife. While he was telling himself he was tired and seeing things, she plunged the tiny blade into the back of his hand.

With a horse yell, he flung the cards away and hurled himself backward, overturning his chair, kicking the table with both feet as he fell. The sir seemed to thicken like honey. Everything moved as if time had slowed, but at the same time everything seemed to happen at once. Other cries echoed his, hollow shouts reverberating inside a cavern. He and his chair drifted back and down; the table floated upward.

The Ruler of Flames hung in the air, growing larger, staring at him with a cruel smile. Now close to life-sized, she started to creep out of the card; she was still a painted shape, with no depth, but she reached for him with her blade, red with his blood as if it had already been driven into his heart. Beside her the Ruler of Cups began to grow, the Tairen High Lord drawing his sword.

Mat floated, yet somehow he managed to reach the dagger in his left sleeve and hurl it in the same motion, straight for the Amyrlin’s heart. If this thing had a heart. The second knife came into his left hand smoothly and left more smoothly. The two blades drifted through the air like thistledown. He wanted to scream, but that first yell of shock and outrage still filled his mouth. The Ruler of Rods was expanding beside the first two cards, the Queen of Andor gripping thee rod like a bludgeon, her red-gold hair framing a madwoman’s snarl.

He was still falling, still yelling that drawn-out yell. The Amyrlin was free of her card, the High Lord striding out with his sword. The flat shapes moved almost as slowly as he. Almost. He had proof the steel in their hands could cut, and no doubt the rod could crack a skull. His skull.

His thrown daggers moved as if sinking in jelly. He was sure the cock had crowed for him. Whatever his father said, the omen had been real. But he would not give up and die. Somehow he had two more daggers out from under his coat, one in either hand. Struggling to twist in midair, to get his feet under him, he threw one knife at the golden-haired figure with the bludgeon. The other he held on to as if he tried to turn himself, to land ready to face….

The world lurched back into normal motion, and he landed awkwardly on his side, hard enough to drive the wind out of him. Desperately he struggled to his feet, drawing another knife from under his coat. You could not carry too many, Thom claimed. Neither was needed.

For a moment he thought cards and figures had vanished. Or maybe he had imagined it all. Maybe he was the one going mad. Then he saw the cards, back to ordinary size, pinned to one of the dark wood panels by his still quivering knives. He took a deep, ragged breath.

The table lay on its side, coins still spinning across the floor where lordlings and servants crouched among scattered cards. They gasped at Mat and his knives, those in his hands and those in the wall, with equally wide eyes. Estean snatched a silver pitcher that had somehow escaped being overturned and began pouring wine down his throat, the excess spilling over his chin and down his chest.

"Just because you do not have the cards to win," Edorion said hoarsely, "there is no need to-" He cut off with a shudder.

"You saw it, too." Mat slipped the knives back into their sheathes. A thin trickle of blood ran down the back of his hand from the tiny wound. "Don’t pretend you went blind!"

"I saw nothing," Reimon said woodenly. "Nothing!" He began crawling across the floor, gathering up gold and silver, concentrating on the coins as if they were most important thing in the world. The others were doing the same, except Estean, who scrambled about checking the fallen pitchers for any that still held wine. One of the servants had his face hidden in his hands; the other, eyes closed, was apparently praying in a low, breathless wine.

With a muttered oath, Mat strode to where his knives pinned the three cards to the panel. They were only playing cards again, just stiff paper with the clear lacquer cracked. But the figure of the Amyrlin still held a dagger instead of a flame. He tasted blood and realized he was sucking the cut in the back of his hand.

Hastily he wrenched his knives free, tearing each card in half before tucking the blade away. After a moment, he hunted through the cards littering the floor until he found the rulers of Coins and Winds, and tore them across, too. He felt a little foolish-it was over and done with; the cards were just cards again-but he could not help it.

None of the young lords crawling about on hands and knees tried to stop him. They scrambled out of his way, not even glancing at him. There would be no more gambling tonight, and maybe for some nights to come. At least, not with him. Whatever had happened, it had been aimed at him, clearly. Even more clearly, it had to have been done with the One Power. They wanted no part of that.

"Burn you, Rand!" he muttered under his breath. "If you have to go mad, leave me out of it!" His pipe lay in two pieces, the stem bitten through cleanly. Angrily he grabbed his purse from the floor and stalked out of the room.

Chapter 4

Thom Merrilin sprinkled sand across what he had written to blot the ink, then carefully poured the sand back into its jar and flipped the lid shut. Riffling through the papers scattered in rough piles across the table-six tallow candles made fire a real danger, but he needed the light-he selected a crumpled sheet marred by an inkblot. Carefully he compared it with what he had written, then stroked a long white moustache with a thumb in satisfaction and permitted himself a leathery-faced smile. The High Lord Carleon himself would have thought it was his own hand.

Only those words, and no signature. Now if he could arrange for the High Lord Tedosian to find it where his wife, the Lady Alteima, might carelessly have left it….

A knock sounded at the door, and he jumped. No one came to see him at this time of night.

"A moment," he called, hastily stuffing pens and inkpots and selected papers into a battered writing chest. "A moment while I put on a shirt."

Locking the chest, he shoved it under the table where it might escape casual notice and ran an eye over his small, windowless room to see if he had left anything out that should not be seen. Hoops and balls for juggling littered his narrow, unmade bed, and lay among his shaving things on a single shelf with fire wands and small items for sleight of hand. His gleeman’s cloak, covered with loose patches in a hundred colors, hung from a peg on the wall along with his spare clothes and the hard leather cases holding his harp and flute. A woman’s diaphanous red silk scarf was tied around the strap of the harp case, but it could have belonged to anyone.

He was not sure he remembered who had tied it there; he tried to pay no more attention to one woman than any other, and all of it lighthearted and laughing. Make them laugh, even make them sigh, but avoid entanglements, that was his motto; he had not time for those. That was what he told himself.

"I’m coming." He limped to the door irritably. Once he had drawn oohs and ahhs from people who could hardly believe, even while they watched, that a rawboned, white-haired old man could do backsprings and handstands and flips, limber and quick as a boy. The limp had put an end to that, and he hated it. The leg ached worse when he was tired. He jerked open the door, and blinked in surprise. "Well. Come in, Mat. I thought you would be hard at work lightening lordlings’ purses."

"They didn’t want to gamble anymore tonight," Mat said sourly, dropping onto the three-legged stool that served as a second chair. His coat was undone and his hair disheveled. His brown eyes darted around, never resting on one spot long, but their usual twinkle, suggesting that the lad saw something funny where no one else did, was missing tonight.

Thom frowned at him, considering. Mat never stepped across this threshold without a quip about the shabby room. He accepted Thom’s explanation that his sleeping beside the servants’ quarters would help people forget that he arrived in the shadow of Aes Sedai, but Mat seldom let a chance for a joke pass. If he realized that the room also assured that no one could think of Thom having any connection to the Dragon Reborn, Mat, being Mat, probably thought that a reasonable wish. It had taken Thom all of two sentences, delivered in haste during a rare moment when no one was looking, to make Rand see the real point. Everyone listened to a gleeman, everyone watched him, but no one really saw him or remembered who he talked to, as long as he was only a gleeman, with his hedgerow entertainments fit for country folk and servants, and perhaps to amuse the ladies. That was how Tairens saw it. It was not as if he were a bard, after all.

What was bothering the boy to bring him down here at this hour? Probably one or another of the young women, and some old enough to know better, who had let themselves be caught by Mat’s mischievous grin. Still, he would pretend it was one of Mat’s usual visits until the lad said otherwise.

"I’ll get the stones board. It is late, but we have time for one game." He could not resist adding, "Would you care for a wager on it?" He would not have tossed dice with Mat for a copper, but stones was another matter, he thought there was too much order and pattern in stones for Mat’s strange luck.

"What? Oh. No. It’s too late for games. Thom, did…? Did anything…happen down here?"

Leaning the stones board against a table leg, Thom dug his tobac pouch and long-stemmed pipe out of the litter remaining on the table. "Such as what?" he asked, thumbing the bowl full. He had time to stick a twist of paper in a flame of one of the candles, puff the pipe alight and blow out the spill before Mat answered.

"Such as Rand gong insane, that’s what. No, you’d not have to had ask if it had."

A prickling made Thom shift his shoulders, but he blew a blue-gray streamer of smoke as calmly as he could and took his chair, stretching his gimpy leg out in front of him. "What happened?"

Mat took a deep breath, then let everything out in a rush. "The playing cards tried to kill me. The Amyrlin, and the High Lord, and… I didn’t dream it, Thom. That’s why those puffed-up jackdaws don’t want to gamble anymore. They’re afraid it will happen again. Thom, I’m thinking of leaving Tear."

The prickling felt as if he had blackwasp nettles stuffed down his back. Why had he not left Tear himself long since? Much the wisest thing. Hundreds of villages lay out there, waiting for a gleeman to entertain and amaze them. And each with an inn or two full of wine to drown memories. But if he did, Rand would have no one except Moiraine to keep the High Lords from maneuvering him into corners, and maybe cutting his throat. She could do it, of course. Using different methods than his. He thought she could. She was Cairhienin, which meant she had probably taken in the Game of Houses with her mother’s milk. And she would tie another string to Rand for the White Tower while she was about it. Mesh him in an Aes Sedai net so strong he would never escape. But if the boy was going mad already….

Fool. Thom called himself. A pure fool would stay mixed in this because of something fifteen years in the past. Staying would not change that; what was done was done. He had to see Rand face-to-face, no matter what he had told him about keeping clear. Perhaps no one would think it too odd if a gleeman asked to perform a song for the Lord Dragon, a song especially composed. He knew a deservedly obscure Kandori tune, praising some unnamed lord for his greatness and courage in grandiose terms that never quite managed to name deeds or places. It had probably been bought by some lord who had no deeds worth naming. Well, it would serve him now. Unless Moiraine decided it was strange. That would be as bad as the High Lords taking notice. I am a fool! I should be out of here tonight!

He was roiling inside, his stomach turning acid, but he had spent long years learning to keep his face straight before ever he put on a gleeman’s cloak. He puffed three smoke rings, one inside the other, and said, "You have been thinking of leaving Tear since the day you walked into the Stone."

Perched on the edge of the stool, Mat shot him an angry look. "And I mean to. I do. Why not come with me, Thom? There are towns where they think the Dragon Reborn hasn’t drawn a breath yet, where nobody’s given a thought to the bloody Prophesies of the bloody Dragon in years, if ever. Placees where they think the Dark One is a grandmother’s tale, and Trollocs are traveler’s wild stories, and Myrddraal ride shadows to scare children. You could play your harp and tell your stories, and I could find a game of dice. We could live like lords, traveling as we want, staying where we want, with no one trying to kill us.

That hit too close for comfort. Well, he was a fool and there it was; he just had to make the best of it. "If you really mean to go, why haven’t you?"

"Moiraine watches me," Mat said bitterly. "And when she isn’t, she has somebody else doing it."

"I know. Aes Sedai don’t like to let someone go once they lay hands on them." It was more than that, he was sure, more than what was openly known, certainly, but Mat denied any such thing, and no one else who knew was talking either, if anyone besides Moiraine did know. It hardly mattered. He liked Mat-he even owed him, in a fashion-but Mat and his troubles were a street-corner raree compared to Rand. "But I cannot believe she really has someone watching you all the time."

"As good as. She’s always asking people where I am, what I’m doing. It gets back to me. Do you know anybody who won’t tell an Aes Sedai what she wants to know? I don’t. As good as being watched."

"You could avoid eyes if you put your mind to it. I’ve never seen anyone as good at sneaking about as you. I mean that as a compliment."

Something always comes up," Mat muttered. "There’s so much gold to be had here. And there’s a big-eyed girl in the kitchen who likes a little kiss and tickle, and one of the maids has hair like silk, to her waist, and the roundest…." He trailed off as if he had suddenly realized how foolish he sounded.

"Have you considered that maybe it’s because-"

"If you mention ta’veren, Thom, I’m leaving."

Thom changed what he had been going to say. "-that maybe it’s because Rand is your friend and you don’t want to desert him?"

"Desert him!" The boy jumped up, kicking over the stool. "Thom, he is the bloody Dragon Reborn! At least, that’s what he and Moiraine say. Maybe he is. He can channel, and he has that bloody sword that looks like glass. Prophesies! I don’t know. But I know I would have to be as crazy as these Tairens to stay." He paused. "You don’t think…. You don’t think Moiraine is keeping me here, do you? With the Power?"

"I do not believe she can," Thom said slowly. He knew a good bit about Aes Sedai, enough to have some idea how much he did not know, and he thought he was right on this.

Mat raked his fingers through his hair. "Thom, I think about leaving all the time, but…. I get these strange feelings. Almost as if something was going to happen. Something…. Momentous; that’s the word. It’s like knowing there’ll be fireworks for Sunday, only I don’t know what it is I’m expecting. Whenever I think too much about leaving, it happens. And suddenly I’ve found some reason to stay another day. Always just one more bloody day. Doesn’t that sound like Aes Sedai work to you?"

Thom swallowed the word ta’veren and took his pipe from between his teeth to peer into the smoldering tobac. He did not know much about ta’veren, but then no one did except the Aes Sedai, or maybe some of the Ogier. "I was never much good at helping people with their problems." And worse with my own, he thought. "Whit an Aes Sedai close to hand, I’d advise most people to ask her for help." Advise I’d not take myself.

"Ask Moiraine!"

I suppose that is out of the question in this case. But Nynaeve was your Widom back in Emond;s Field. Village Wisdoms are used too answering people’s questions, helping with their problems."

Mat gave a raucous snort of laughter. "And put up with one of her lectures about drinking and gambling and…? Thom, she acts like I’m ten years old. Sometimes I think she believes I’ll marry a nice girl and settle down on my father’s farm."

"Some men would not find it an objectionable life," Thom said quietly.

"Well, I would. I want more than cows and sheep and tobac for the rest of my life. I want-" Mat shook his head. "All these holes in my memory. Sometimes I think if I could just fill them in, I’d know…. Burn me, I don’t know what I’d know, but I know I want to know it. That’s a twisty riddle isn’t it?"

"I’m not certain even an Aes Sedai can help with that. A gleeman surely can’t."

"I said no Aes Sedai!"

Thom sighed. "Calm yourself, boy. I was not suggesting it."

"I am leaving. As soon as I can fetch my things and find a horse. Not a minute longer."

"In the middle of the night? The morning will do." He refrained from adding, If you really do leave. "Sit down. Relax. We’ll play a game of stones. I have a jar of wine here somewhere."

Mat hesitated, glancing at the door. Finally he jerked his coat straight. "The morning will do." He sounded uncertain, but he picked up the overturned stool and set it beside the table. "But no wine for me," he added as he sat down. "Strange enough things happen when my head is clear. I want to know the difference."

Thom was thoughtful as he put the board and the bags of stones on the table. Just that easily the lad was diverted. Pulled along by an even stronger ta’veren named Rand al’Thor, was how Thom saw it. It occurred too his to wonder if he was caught in the same way. His life had certainly not been headed toward the Stone of Tear and this room when he first met Rand, but since then it had been twitched about like kite string. If he decided to leave, say if Rand really had gone mad, would he find reasons to keep putting it off?

"What is this, Thom?" Mat’s boot had encountered the writing case under the table. "Is it alright if I move it out of my way?"

"Of course. Go right ahead." He winced inside as Mat shoved the case aside roughly with his foot. He hoped he had corked all the ink bottles tightly. "Choose," he said, holding out his fists.

Mat tapped the left, and Thom opened it to reveal a smooth black stone, flat and round. The boy chortled at having the first go and placed the stone on the crosshatched board. No one seeing the eagerness in his eyes would have suspected only moments before he had been twice as eager to go. A greatness he refused to recognize clinging to his back, and an Aes Sedai intent on keeping him for one of her pets. The lad was well and truly caught.

If he was caught, too, Thom decided, it would be worth it to help one man, at least, keep free of Aes Sedai. Worth it, to make a payment on that fifteen-year-old debt.

Suddenly and strangely content, he set a white stone. "Did I ever tell you," he said around his pipestem, "about the wager I once made with a Domani woman? She had eyes that could drink a man’s soul, and an odd-looking red bird she had bought off a Sea Folk ship. She claimed it could tell the future. This bird had a fat yellow beak nearly as long as its body, and it…."

Chapter 8

Hard Heads

…

Egwene was considering Joiya and Amico when Mat fell in beside her, just walking down the hallway as if he merely happened to be going the same way. He was frowning to himself, and his hair needed brushing, as if he had been scrubbing his fingers through it. Once or twice he glanced at her but did not speak. The servants they passed bowed or curtsied, and so did the occasional High Lords and Ladies, if with markedly less enthusiasm. Mat’s lip-curling stares at the nobles would have brought trouble if she had not been there, friend of the Lord Dragon or not.

This silence was not like him, not like the Mat she knew. Except for his fine red coat-wrinkled as if he had slept in it-he seemed no different than the old Mat, yet they were surely all different now. His quiet was unsettling. "Is last night troubling you?" she asked at last.

He missed a step. "You know about that? Well, you would, wouldn’t you. Doesn’t bother me. Wasn’t much to it. Over and done with now, anyway."

She pretended to believe him. "Nynaeve and I do not see much of you." That was a rank understatement.

"I have been busy," he muttered with an uncomfortable shrug, looking everywhere but at her again.

"Dicing?" she asked dismissively.

"Cards." A plump maid, curtsying with her arms full of folded towels, glancing at Egwene and, apparently thinking she was not looking, winked at Mat. He grinned at her. "I’ve been busy playing cards."

Egwene’s eyebrows rose sharply. That woman had to be ten years older than Nynaeve. "I see. It must use up a great deal of time. Playing cards. Too much to spare a few moments for old friends."

"The last time I spared you a moment, you and Nynaeve tied me up with the Power like a pig for market so you could rummage through my room. Friends don’t steal from friends." He grimaced. "Besides you’re always with that Elayne, with her nose in the air. Or Moiraine. I do not like-" Clearing his throat, he shot her a sideways glance. "I don’t like taking up your time. You are busy, from what I hear, Questioning Darkfriends. Doing all sorts of important things, I should imagine. You know these Tairens think you are Aes Sedai, don’t you?"

She shook her head ruefully. It was Aes Sedai he did not like. However much of the world Mat saw, nothing would ever change him. "It is not stealing to take back what is supposed to be a loan," she told him.

"I don’t remember you saying anything about a loan. Aaah, what use do I have for a letter from the Amyrlin? Just get me in trouble. You could have asked, though."

She refrained from pointing out that they had asked. She wanted either an argument or a sulky departure. He would not call it that, of course. This time she would let him get away with his version. "Well, I am glad that you are still willing to talk to me. Was there a special reason for it today?"

He shoved his fingers through his hair and muttered to himself. What he needed was his mother to haul him off by his ear for a long talking to. Egwene counseled herself to patience. She could be patient when she wanted to. She would not say a word before he did, if she burst for it.

The corridor opened into a railed colonnade of white marble, looking down on one of the Stone’s few gardens. Large white blossoms covered a few small, waxy-leafed trees and gave a scent even sweeter than the banks of red and yellow roses. A sullen breeze failed to stir the hangings on the inner wall, but it did cut the morning’s growing damp warmth. Mat took a seat on the wide balustrade with his back against a column and one foot up in front of him. Peering down into the garden, he finally said, "I…need some advice."

He wanted advice from her? She goggled at him. "Whatever I can do to help," she said faintly. He turned his head to her, and she did her best to assume something like Aes Sedai calm. "What do you want advice about?"

"I don’t know."

It was a ten pace drop to the garden. Besides, there were men down there weeding among the roses. If she pushed him over, he might land on one. A gardener, not a rosebush. "How am I suppose to advise you, then?" she asked in a thin voice.

"I am…trying to decide what to do." He looked embarrassed; he had a right to, in her opinion.

"I hope you are not thinking of trying to leave. You know how important you are. You cannot run away from it, Mat."

"You think I don’t know that? I don’t think I could if Moiraine told me I could. Believe me, Egwene, I am not going anywhere. I just want to know what’s going to happen." He gave a rough shake of his head, and his voice grew tighter. "What comes next? What’s in these holes in my memory? There are chunks of my life that aren’t even there; they don’t exist, as if they never happened! Why do I find myself spouting gibberish? People say it’s the Old Tongue, but it’s goose gabble to me. I want to know, Egwene. I have to know, before I go as crazy as Rand."

"Rand is not crazy," she said automatically. So Mat was not trying to run away. That was a pleasant surprise; he had not seemed to believe in responsibility. But there was pain and worry in his voice. Mat never worried, or never let anyone see it if he did. "I do not know the answers, Mat," she said gently. "Perhaps Moiraine-"

"No!" He was on his feet in a bound. "No Aes Sedai! I mean…. You’re different. I know you, and you aren’t…. Didn’t they teach you anything in the Tower, some trick or, other something that would serve?"

"Oh, Mat, I am sorry. I am so sorry."

His laugh reminded her of their childhood. Just so he laughed when his grandest expectations went astray. "Ah, well, I guess it does not matter. It’d still be the Tower, if at second hand. No offense to you." Just so he had moaned over a splinter in his finger and treated a broken leg as if it were nothing at all.

"There might be a way," she said slowly. "If Moiraine says it is all right. She might."

"Moiraine! Haven’t you heard a word I said? The last thing I want is Moiraine meddling. What way?"

Mat had always been rash. But he wanted no more than she did, to know. If only he showed a little sense and caution for once. A passing Tairen noblewoman with dark braids coiled about her head, shoulders bare above yellow linen, bent her knees slightly, looking at them with no expression; she walked on quickly, with a stiff back. Egwene watched her until she was well beyond earshot, and they were alone. Unless the gardeners, thirty feet below, counted. Mat was staring at he expectantly.

In the end, she told him of the ter-angreal, the twisted doorway that held answers on its other side. It was the dangers she emphasized, the consequences of foolish questions, or those touching the Shadow, the dangers Aes Sedai might not know. She was more than flattered that he had come to her, but he had to show a little sense. "You must remember this, Mat. Frivolous questions can get you killed, so if you do use it, you will have to be serious for a change. And you mustn’t ask questions that touch the Shadow."

He had listened with greater and greater incredulity. When she was done, he exclaimed, "Three questions? You go in like Bili, I suppose, spend a night and come out ten years later with a purse that’s always full of gold and a-"

"For once in your life, Matrim Cauthon," she snapped, "do not talk like a fool. You know very well ter-angreal are not stories. It’s the dangers you have to be aware of. Maybe the answers you seek are inside this one, but you must not try it before Moiraine says you can. You must promise me that, or I promise you I will take you to her like a trout on a string. You know I can."

He gave a loud snort. "I’d be a fool if I did try it, no matter what Moiraine says. Walk into a bloody ter-angreal? It’s less I want to do with the bloody Power, not more. You can blot it right out of your mind."

"It is the only chance I know, Mat."

"Not foe me, it isn’t," he said firmly. "No chance at all is better than that."

Despite his tone, she wanted to put an arm around him. Only he would likely make some joke at her expense, and try to goose her. He had been incorrigible from the day he was born. But he had come to her for help. "I’m sorry, Mat. What will you do?"

"Oh, play cards, I suppose. If anyone will play with me. Play stones with Thom. Dice in the taverns. I can still go as far as the city, at least." His gaze strayed toward a passing maidservant, a slender, dark-eyed girl, near his own age. "I’ll find something to take up time."

He hand itched to slap him, but instead she said cautiously, "Mat, you really aren’t thinking of leaving, are you?"

"Would you tell Moiraine, if I was?" He put up his hands to forestall her. "Well, there’s no need. I told you I wouldn’t. I’ll not pretend I’d not like to, but I won’t. Is that good enough for you?" A pensive frown crept onto his face. "Egwene, do you ever wish you were back home? That none of this had ever happened?"

It was a startling question, coming from him, but she knew her answer. "No. Even with everything, no. Do you?"

"I would be a fool then, wouldn’t I?" he laughed. "It’s cities I like, and this one will do for now. This one will do. Egwene, you won’t tell Moiraine about this, will you? About me asking for advise and all?"

"Why shouldn’t I?" she asked suspiciously. He was Mat, after all.

He gave an embarrassed hitch of his shoulders. "I’ve been keeping wider of her than I have of…. Anyway, I’ve been staying clear, especially when she wants to root around in my head. She might think I’m weakening. You won’t tell her, will you?"

"I won’t," she said, "if you promise me you will not go near that ter-angreal without asking her permission. I shouldn’t even have told you about it."

"I promise." He grinned. "I won’t go near that thing unless my life depends on it. I swear." He finished with mock solemnity.

Egwene shook her head. However much everything else changed, Mat just never would.

Chapter 9

Decisions

Three days passed with heat and damp that seemed to sap even the Tairens’ strength. The city slowed to a lethargic walk, the Stone to a crawl. Sevants worked nearly in their sleep; the majhere tore her coiled braids in frustration but even she could not find the energy to rap knuckles or flick ears with a hard finger. Defenders of the Stone slumped at their posts like ha;f-melted candles, and the officers showed more interest in chilled wine than in making their rounds. The High Lords kept kept mainly to their apartments, sleeping through the hottest part of the day and a few left the Stone entirely for the relative cool of estates far to the east, on the slopes of the Spine of the World. Oddly, only the outlanders, who felt the heat worst of all, pushed on with their lives as hard as ever, if not harder. For them, the heavy heat did not weigh nearly as much as did the hours rushing by.

Mat quickly discovered that he had been right about the young lords who saw the playing cards try to kill him. Not only did they avoid him, they spread the word among their friends, often garbled; no one in the Stone who had two pieces of silver in hand would say more than hasty excuses while backing away. The rumors spread beyond the lordlings. More than one serving woman who had enjoyed a cuddle now declined, too, and two said uneasily that they had heard it was dangerous to be alone with him. Perrin appeared all wrapped up in his own worries, and Thom seemed to vanish by sleight of hand; Mat had no idea what occupied the gleeman, but he was seldom to be found, day or night. Moiraine, the one person Mat wished would ignore him, instead seemed to be there whenever he turned around; she was just passing by or crossing the corridor in the distance, but her eyes met his every last time, looking as if she knew what he was thinking and what he wanted, knew how she was going to make him do exactly as she wanted instead. None of it made any difference inn one respect; he still managed to find excuses to put off leaving for another day. As he saw it, he had not promised Egwene he would stay. But he did.

Once, he carried a lamp down into the belly of the Stone, to see the so-called Great Holding, as far as the dry-rotted door at the end of the hallway. A few minutes of peering into the shadowy interior at dim shapes covered with dusty canvas, roughly stacked crates and barrels, their flat ends used as shelves for jumbles of figurines and carvings and peculiar things of crystal and glass and metal-a few minutes of that, and he hurried away, muttering, "I’d have to be the biggest bloody fool in the whole bloody world!"

Nothing kept him from going into the city, though, and there was no chance at all of meeting Moiraine in the dockside taverns of the Maule, the port district, or the inns in the Chalm, where the warehouses were, dimly lit, cramped, often dirty places of cheap wine, bad ale, occasional fights and unending dice games. The stakes in the dice games were small, compared to what he had grown used to, but that was not why he always found himself back in the Stone after a few hours. He tried not to think about what always drew him back, near to Rand.

Perrin sometimes saw Mat in the waterfront taverns, drinking too much cheap wine, dicing as if he did not care whether he won or lost, once flashing a knife when a burly shipman pressed him on how often he did win. It was not like Mat to be so irritable, but Perrin avoided him instead of trying to find out what was troubling him. Perring was not there for wine of dice, and the men who fought of fighting changed their mind after a good look at his shoulders-and his eyes. He bought bad ale, though, for sailors in wide leather trousers and for undermerchants with thin silver chains across their coat fronts, from any man who looked to be from a distant land. It was rumor he hunted, word of something that might draw Faile away from Tear. Away from him.

He was sure if he found an adventure for her, something that smacked of a chance of putting her name in the stories, she would go. She pretended to understand why he had to stay, but still she hinted that she wanted to leave and hoped he would go with her. He was certain the right bait would pull her, without him.

Most of the rumors she would know for outdated twistings of the truth, just as he did. The war that burned along the Aryth Ocean was said to be the work of a people no one had ever heard of before called the Sawchin, or something like it-he heard many variations from many tellers-a strange folk who might be Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back after a thousand years. One fellow, a Taraboner in a round, red hat and a moustache as thick as a bull’s horns, solemnly informed him that Hawkwing himself led these people, his legendary sword Justice in hand. There were rumors that the fabled Horn of Valere, meant to call dead heroes from the grave to fight in the Last Battle, had been found. In Ghealdan, riots had broken out all over the country; Illian was suffering from mass madness; in Cairhien, famine was slowing the killing; someplace in the Borderlands, Trolloc raids were on the increase. Perrin could not send Faile into any of that, not even to get her away from Tear.

Reports of trouble in Saldaea seemed promising-her own home must be attractive to her, and he had heard that Mazrim Taim, the false Dragon, was safely in Aes Sedai hands-but no one knew what sort of trouble. Making something up would do no good; whatever he found, she would surely ask her own questions before chasing after it. Besides, any turmoil in Saldaea might easily be as bad as the other things he heard.

He could not tell her where he was spending his time, either, because she would inevitably ask why. She knew he was not Mat, to enjoy lolling about taverns. He had never been good at lying, so he put her off as best he could, and she began to give him long, silent, slanted looks. All he could do was redouble his efforts to find a tale to lure her away. He had to send her away from him before he got her killed. He had to.

Egwene and Nynaeve spent more hours with Joiya and Amico, to no avail. Their stories never wavered. Over Nynaeve’s protest, Egwene even tried telling each of them what the other had said, to see if anything joggled loose. Amico stared at them whining that she had never heard such plan. But it might be true, she added. It might. She sweated with eagerness to please. Joiya coolly told them to go to Tanchico if they wished. "It is an uncomfortable city now, I hear." She said smoothly. Raven eyes glittering. "The king holds little more than the city itself, and I understand the Panarch has ceased keeping civil order. Stong arms and quick knives rule Tanchico. But go, if it pleases you."

No word came from Tar Valon, nothing to say if the Amyrlin was dealing with the possible threat to free Mazrim Taim. There had been plenty of time for a message to come, by quick riverboat or a man changing horses, since Moiraine had sent the pigeons-provided she had sent them. Egwene and Nynaeve argued about that. Nynaeve admitted the Aes Sedai could not lie, but she tried to find some twist in Moiraine’s words. Moiraine did not seem to fret over lack of response from the Amyrlin, though it was hard to tell through her crystal calm.

Egwene did fret over it, and whether Tanchico was a false trail, or a real one, or a trap. The Stone’s library held books about Tarabon and Tanchico, but though she read until her eyes ached she found no clue to anything dangerous to Rand. Heat and worry did nothing for her temper; she was sometimes as snappish as Nynaeve.

Some things were going well, of course. Mat was still in the Stone; obviously he really was growing up and learned about responsibility. She regretted failing him, but she was not certain any woman in the Tower could have done more. She understood his thirsty to know, because she thirsted, too, although for other knowledge, for the thing she could only learn in the Tower, the things she might discover that no one else had known how to do before, the lost things she might relearn.

Aviendha began to visit with Egwene, apparently of her own choice. If the woman was weary at first, well, she was Aiel, after all, and she did think Egwene was full Aes Sedai. Still, her company was enjoyable, although Egwene sometimes thought she saw unasked questions in her eyes. If Aviendha kept her reserve, it soon became apparent that she had a quick wit, and a sense of humor akin to Egwene’s; they sometimes ended up giggling together like girls. Aiel ways were nothing Egwene was used to, though, such as Aviendha’s discomfort at sitting in a chair, and her shock at finding Egwene in her bath, a silver-plated tub the majhere had had brought up. Not shock at walking in on her naked-in fact, when she saw that Egwene was uncomfortable, she peeled off her own clothes and sat down on the floor to talk-but at seeing Egwene sitting chest-deep in water. It was dirtying so much water that made her eyes pop. For another thing, Aviendha refused to understand why she and Elayne had not done something drastic to Berelain, since they wanted her out of the way. It was all but forbidden for a worrior to kill a woman not wed to the spear, but since neither Elayne nor Berelain were maidens of the Spear, it was aperently quite all right in Aviendha’s view for Elayne to challenge the First of Mayene to fight with knives, or failing that with fists and feet. Knives were best, as she saw it. Berelain looked the sort of woman who could be beat several times without giving up. Best simply to challenge and kill her. Or Egwene could do it for her, as friend and near-sister.

Chapter 13

Rumors

The tavern’s business rocked along like anything in the Maule, a wagonload of geese and crockery careering downhill through the night. The babble of voices fought with the musicians’ offerings on three assorted drums, two hammered dulcimers, and a bulbous semseer that produced whining trills. The serving maids in dark, ankle-length dresses with necks up to the chins and short white aprons hustled between crowded tables, holding clusters of pottery mugs overhead so they could squeeze through, Barefoot leather-vested dockmen mixed with fellows in coats tight to the waist and bare-chested men with broad, colorful sashes to hold up their baggy breeches. So close to the docks, vestments of outlanders were everywhere among the crowd; high collars from the north and long collars from the west, silver chains on coats and bells on vests, knee-high boots and thigh-high boots, necklaces or earrings on men, lace on coats or shirts. One man with wide shoulders and a big belly had a forked yellow beard, and another had smeared something on his mustaches to make them glisten in the lamplight and curl up on either side of his narrow face. Dice rolled and tumbled in three corners of the room and on a number of tabletops, silver changed hands briskly to shouts and laughter.

Mat sat alone with his back to the wall where he could see all the doors, though mostly he peered into a still untouched wine of dark wine. He did not go near the dice games, and he never glanced at the serving girls’ ankles. With the tavern so crowded, men occasionally thought to share his table, but a good look at his face made them sheer away and crowd on a bench elsewhere.

Dipping a finger in his wine, he sketched aimlessly on the tabletop. These fools had no idea what happened in the Stone tonight. He had heard a few Tariens mention some kind of trouble, quick words that trailed off into nervous laughter. They did not know and did not want to. He almost wished he did not know himself. No, he wished he had a better idea of what had happened. The images kept flashing in his head, flashing through the holes in his memory, making no real sense.

The din of fighting somewhere in the distance echoed down the corridor, dulled by the wall hangings. He retrieved his knife from the Gray Man’s corpse with a shaking hand. A Gray Man, and hunting him. It had to have been after him. Gray Men did not wander about killing at random; they had targets as surely as an arrow. He turned to run, and there was a Myddraal striding toward him like a black snake on legs, its pasty face, eyeless stare sending shivers into his bones. At thirty paces he hurled the knife straight at where an eye should have been; at that distance he could hit a knothole no larger than an eye four times in five.

Away from him. Mat shivered. Trollocs to the rescue. What had Rand gotten him into now? He saw what he hard drawn with the wine-on open door-and scrubbed it out angrily. He had to get away from here. He had to. And he could also feel hat urge in the back of his head, that it was time to go back to the Stone. He pushed it away angrily, but it kept buzzing at him.

He caught a snatch of talk from the table to his right, where the lean-faced fellow with the curling mustaches was holding forth in a heavy Lugarder accent. "Now this Dragon of yours is a great man no doubt, I’ll not be denying it, but he’s not a patch on Logain. Why, Logain had all of Ghealdan at war, and half of Amadicia and Altara, as well. He made the earth swallow whole towns that resisted him, he did. Buildings, people and all entire. And the one up in Saldaea, Maseem? Why they say he made the sun stand still till he defeated the Lord of Basere’s army. ‘Tis a fact, the do say."

Mat shook his head. The Stone fallen and Callandor in Rand’s hand, and this idiot still thought he was another false Dragon. He had sketched that doorway again. Rubbing a hand through it, he grabbed up the mug of wine, then stopped with it halfway to his mouth. Through the commotion his ear had picked out a familiar name spoken at a nearby table. Scraping back his bench, he made his way to that table, mug in hand.

The people around it were the sort of odd mixture made in taverns in the Maule. Two barefoot soldiers wearing oiled coats over bare chests, one with a thick gold chain close around his neck. A once fat man with sagging jowls, in a dark Cairhienin coat with slashes of red and gold and green across his chest which might have indicated he was a noble, though one sleeve was torn at the shoulder; a good many Cairhienin refugees had come down far in the world. A gray-haired woman all in subdued dark blue, with a hard face and a sharp eye and heavy gold rings on her fingers. And the speaker, the fork-bearded fellow, with a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg in his ear. The three silver chains looped across the straining chest of his dark, reddish coat named him a Kandori master merchant. They had a guild for merchants in Kandor.

The talk ceased and all eyes swung to Mat when he stopped at their table. "I heard you mention the Two Rivers."

Forkbeard ran a quick eye over him, the unbrushed hair, the tight expression on his face and the wine in his fist, the gleaming black boots, the green coat with its gold scrollwork, open to the waist to reveal a snowy linen shirt, but both coat and shirt heavily wrinkled. In short, the very image of a young noble sporting himself among the commoners. "I did, my Lord," he said heartily. "I was saying there’ll be no tobac out of there this year, I’ll wager. I have twenty casks of the finest Two Rivers leaf, though, than which there is none finer. Fetch an excellent price later in the year. If my Lord wishes a cask for his own stock…" He tugged one point of his yellow beard and laid a finger alongside his nose. "…I am certain I could manage to-"

"You’ll wager that, will you?" Mat said softly, cutting him short. "Why would there be no tobac out of the Two Rivers?"

"Why the Whitecloaks, my Lord. The Children of the Light."

"What about Whitecloaks?"

The master merchant peered around the table for help; there was a dangerous note in that quiet tone. The sailors looked as if they would leave if they dared. The Cairhienin was glaring at Mat, sitting up too straight and smoothing his worn coat as he swayed; the empty mug in front of him was obviously not his first. The gray-haired woman had her mug to her mouth, her sharp eyes watching Mat over the rim in a calculating way.

Managing a seated bow, the merchant put on an ingratiating tone. "The rumor is, my Lord, that the Whitecloaks have gone into the Two Rivers. Hunting the Dragon Reborn, it’s said. Though of course, that cannot be, since the Lord Dragon is here in Tear." He eyed Mat to see how that had been taken; Mat’s face did not change. "These rumors can run very wild, my Lord. Perhaps it’s only wind in a bucket. The same rumor claims the Whitecloaks are after some Darkfriend with yellow eyes, too. Did you ever hear of a man with yellow eyes, my Lord? No more have I. Wind in a bucket."

Mat set his mug on the table and leaned closer to the man. "What else are they hunting? According to this rumor. The Dragon Reborn. A man with yellow eyes. Who else?"

Beads of sweat formed on the merchant’s face. "No one, my Lord. No one that I heard. Only rumor, my Lord. Straws in the wind; no more. A puff of smoke, soon vanished. If I may have the honor of presenting my Lord a cask of Two Rivers tobac? A gesture of appreciation…the honor of…to express my…."

Mat tossed an Andoran gold crown onto the table. "Buy your drink on me till that runs out."

As he turned away he heard mutters from the table. "I thought he’d cut my throat. You know these lordlings when they’re full of wine." That from the fork-bearded merchant. "An odd young man," the woman said. "Dangerous. Do not try your ploys on that kind, Paetram." "I do not think he is a lord at all," another man said petulantly. The Cairhienin, Mat supposed. His lip curled. A lord? He would not be a lord if it was offered to him. Whitecloaks in the Two Rivers. Light! Light help us!

Plowing his way to the door, he pulled a pair of wooden clogs from the pile against the wall. He had no idea whether they were the ones he had worn in-they all looked alike-and did not care. They fit his boots.

It had started raining outside, a light fall that made the darkness that much deeper. Turning up his collar, he splashed along the muddy streets of the Maule in an awkward trot, past blaring taverns and well lit inns and dark-windowed houses. When mud gave way to paving stones at the wall marking the inner city, he kicked the clogs off and left them lying as he ran on. The Defenders guarding the nearest gate into the Stone let him pass without a word; they knew who he was. He ran all the way to Perrin’s room and flung open the door, barely noticing the splintered split in the wood. Perrin’s saddlebags lay on the bed, and Perrin was stuffing shirts and stockings into them. There was only one candle lit, but he did not seem to notice the gloom.

"You’ve heard, then," Mat said.

Perrin went on with what he was doing. "About home? Yes. I went down to sniff out a rumor for Faile. After tonight, more than ever, I have to get her…." The growl, deep in his throat, made Mat’s hackles rise; it sounded like an angry wolf. "No matter. I heard. Maybe this will do as well."

As well as what? Mat wondered. "You believe it?"

For a moment Perrin looked up; his eyes gathered the light of the candle, shining a burnished golden yellow. "There doesn’t seem to be much doubt, to me. It’s all too close to the truth."

Mat shifted uncomfortably. "Does Rand know?" Perrin only nodded and went back to his packing. "Well, what does he say?"

Perrin paused, staring at the folded cloak in his hands. "He started muttering something to himself. ‘He said he’d do it. He said he would. I should have believed him.’ Like that. It made no sense. Then he grabbed me by the collar and said he had to do what they don’t expect.’ He wanted me to understand, but I’m not certain he does himself. He didn’t seem to care whether I leave or stay. No, I take that back. I think he was relieved I’m leaving."

"Boil it down, and he’s not going to do anything," Mat said. "Light, with Callandor he could blast a thousand Whitcloaks! You saw what he did to those bloody Trollocs. You’re going, aren’t you? Back to the Two Rivers? Alone?"

"Unless you are coming, too." Perrin stuffed the cloak into the saddlebags. "Are you?"

Instead of answering, Mat paced back and forth, his face in half-light and shadow by turns. His mother and father were in Emond’s Field, and his sisters. Whitecloaks had no reason to hurt them. If he went home, he had the feeling he would never leave again, that his mother would marry him off before he could sit down. But if he did not go, if the Whitecloaks harmed them…. All it took was rumor, for Whitecloaks, so he had heard. But why should there be any rumor about them? Even the Coplins, liars and troublemakers to a man, liked his father. Everyone liked Abell Cauthon.

"You don’t have to," Perrin said quietly. "Nothing I heard mentioned you. Only Rand, and me."

"Burn me, I will g-" He could not say it. Thinking of going was easy enough, but saying he would? His throat tightened up to strangle the words. "Is it easy for you, Perrin? Going, I mean? Don’t you…feel anything? Trying to hold you back? Telling you reasons you shouldn’t go?"

"A hundred of them, Mat, but I know it comes down to Rand, and ta’veren. You won’t admit that, will you? A hundred reasons to stay, but the one reason to go outweighs them. The Whitecloaks are in the Two Rivers, and they’ll hurt people trying to find me. I can stop it, if I go."

"Why should the Whitecloak want you enough to hurt anybody? Light, if they go asking for someone with yellow eyes, nobody in Emond’s Field will know who they’re talking about! And how can you stop anything? One more pair of hands won’t do much good. Aaah! The Whitecloaks you have bitten a mouthful of leather if they think they can push Two Rivers folk around."

"They know my name," Perrin said softly. His gaze swung to where his axe hung on the wall, the belt tied around the haft and the wall hook. Or maybe it was his hammer he was staring at, standing propped against the wall beneath the axe; Mat could not be sure. "They can find my family. As for why, they have their reasons, Mat. Just as I have mine. Who can say who has the better?"

"Burn me, Perrin. Burn me! I want to g-g- See? I can’t even say it, now. Like my head knows I’ll do it if I say it. I can’t even get it out of my mind!"

"Different paths. We’ve been sent down different paths before."

"Different paths be bloodied," Mat grunted. "I’ve had all I want of Rand, and Aes Sedai, shoving me down their bloody paths. I want to go where I want for a change, do what I want!" He turned for the door, but Perrin’s voice halted him.

"I hope your path is a happy one, Mat. The Light send you pretty girls and fools who want to gamble."

"Oh, burn me, Perrin. The Light send you what you want, too."

"I expect it will." He did not sound happy at the prospect.

"Will you tell my da I’m all right? And my mother? She always did worry. And look after my sisters. They used to spy on me and tell Mother everything, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to them."

"I promise, Mat."

Closing the door behind him, Mat wandered down the hall aimlessly. His sisters. Eldrin and Bodewin had always been ready to run shouting, "Mama, Mat’s in trouble again, Mat’s doing what he shouldn’t, Mama." Especially Bode. They would be sixteen and seventeen, now. Probably thinking of marriage before too much longer, already with some dull farmer picked out whether the fellow knew it or not. Had he really been gone so long? It did not seem so, sometimes. Sometimes he felt as though he had left Emond’s Field just a week or two past. Other times it seemed years gone, only dimly remembered at all. He could remember Eldrin and Bode smirking when he had been switched, but their faces were no longer sharp. His own sisters’ faces. These bloody holes in his memory, like holes in his life.

He saw Berelain coming toward him and grinned in spite of himself. For all her airs, she was a fine figure of a woman. That clinging white silk was thin enough for a handkerchief, not to mention being scooped low enough at the top to expose a considerable amount of excellent pale bosom.

He swept her his best bow, elegant and formal. "A good evening to you my Lady." She started to sweep by without a glance, and he straightened angrily. "Are you deaf as well as blind, woman? I’m not a carpet to walk over, and I distinctly heard myself speak. If I pinch your bottom, you can slap my face, but until I do, I expect a civil word for a civil word!"

The First stopped dead, eyeing him in that way women had. She could have sewn him a shirt and told his weight, not to mention when he had his last bath, from that look. Then she turned away, murmuring something to herself. All he caught was, "too much like me."

He stared after her in amazement. Not a word to him! That face, that walk, and her nose so far in the air it was a wonder her feet touched the ground. That was what he got, speaking to the likes of Berelain and Elayne. Nobles who thought you were a palace and bloodlines back to Artur Hawkwing. Well, he knew a plump cook’s helper-just plump enough-who did not think he was dirt. Dara had a way of nibbling his ears that….

His thoughts stopped dead in their tracts. He had been considering seeing whether Dara was awake and up for a cuddle. He had even considered flirting with Berelain. Berelain! And the last words he had said to Perrin. Look after my sisters. As if he had already decided, already knew what to do. Only he had not. He would not, not so easily, just sliding into it. There was a way, perhaps.

Digging a gold coin from his pocket, he flipped it into the air and snatched it onto the back of his other hand. A Tar Valon mark, he saw for the first time, and he was staring at the Flame of Tar Valon, stylized like a teardrop. "Burn all Aes Sedai!" he announced loudly. "And burn Rand al’Thor for getting me into this!"

A black-and-gold liveried servant stopped in midstride, staring at him worriedly. The man’s silver tray was piled high with rolled bandages and jars of ointment. As soon as he realized Mat had seen him, he gave a jump.

Mat tossed the gold mark onto the man’s tray. "From the biggest fool in the wold. Mind you spend it well, on women and wine."

T-thank you, my Lord," the man stammered as if stunned.

Mat left him standing there. The biggest fool in the world. Aren’t I just!

Chapter 15

Into the Doorway

Holding the glass-mantled lamp high, Mat peered down the narrow corridor, deep in the belly of the Stone. Not unless my life depended on it. That’s what I promised. Well, burn me if it doesn’t!

Before doubt could seize him again, he hurried on, past doors dry-rotted and hanging aslant, past others only shreds of wood clinging to rusted hinges. The floor had been swept recently, but the air still smelled of old dust and mold. Something skittered in the darkness, and he had a knife out before he realized it was just a rat, running from him, no doubt running toward an escape hole it knew.

"Show me the way out," he whispered after it, "and I’ll come with you." Why am I whispering? There’s nobody down here to hear me. It seemed a place for quiet, though. He could feel the whole weight of the Stone over his head, pressing down.

The last door, she had said. That one hung askew, too. He kicked it open, and it fell apart. The room was littered with dim shapes, with crates and barrels and things stacked high against the walls and out into the floor. Dust, too. The Great Hold! It looks like the basement of an abandoned farmhouse, only worse. He was surprised that Egwene and Nynaeve had not dusted and tidied while they were down here. Women were always dusting and straightening, even things that did not need it. Footprints crisscrossed the floor, some of them from boots, but no doubt they had had men to shift the heavier items about for them. Nynaeve liked finding ways to make a man work; likely she had deliberately hunted out some fellows enjoying themselves.

What he sought stood out among the jumble. A tall redstone doorframe, looming oddly in the shadows cast by his lamp. When he came closer, it still looked odd. Twisted, somehow. His eye did not want to follow it around; the corners did not join right. The tall hollow rectangle seemed likely to fall over at a breath, but when he gave it an experimental push, it stood steady. He pushed a bit harder, not sure he did not want to heave the thing over, and that side of it scraped through the dust. Goose bumps ran down his arms. There might as well have been a wire fastened to the top, suspending it from the ceiling. He held the lamp up to see. There was no wire. At least it won’t topple while I’m inside. Light, I am going inside, aren’t I?

A clutter of figurines and small things wrapped in rotting cloth occupied the top of a tall, upended barrel near him. He pushed the jumble to one side so he could set the lamp there, and studied the doorway. The ter-angreal. If Egwene knew what she was talking about. She probably did; no doubt she had learned all sorts of strange things in the Tower, however much she denied. She would deny things, wouldn’t she now. Learning to be Aes Sedai. She didn’t deny this though, now did she? If he squinted, it just looked like a doorframe, dully polished and the duller for dust. Just a plain doorframe. Well, not entirely plain. Three sinuous lines carved deep in the stone ran down from each upright from top to bottom. He had seen fancier on a farmhouse. He would probably step through to find himself still in this dusty room.

Won’t know till I try it, will I? Luck! Taking a deep breath-and coughing from the dust- he put his foot through.

He seemed to be stepping through a sheet of brilliant white light, infinitely bright, infinitely thick. For a moment that lasted forever, he was blind; a roaring filled his ears, all the sounds of the world gathered at once. For just the length of one measureless step.

Stumbling another pace, he stared around in amazement. The ter-angreal was still there, but this was certainly not where he ad started. The twisted stone doorframe stood in the center of a round hall with a ceiling so high it was lost in shadows, surrounded by strange spiraled yellow columns snaking up into the gloom, like huge vines twining ‘round poles that had been taken away. A soft light came from glowing spheres atop atop coiled stands of some white metal. Not silver; the shine was too dull for that. And no hint of what made the glow; it did not look like flame; the spheres simply shone. The floor tiles spiraled out in white and yellow stripes from the ter-angreal. There was a heavy scent in the air, sharp and dry and not particularly pleasant. He almost turned around and went back on the spot.

"A long time."

He jumped, a knife coming into his hand, and peered among the columns for the source of the breathy voice that pronounced those words so harshly.

"A long time, yet the seekers come again for answers. The questions come once more." A shape move, back among the columns; a man, Mat though. "Good. You have brought no lamps, no torches, as the agreement was, and is, and ever will be. You have no iron? No instruments of music?"

The figure stepped out, tall, barefoot, arms and body and wound about in layers of yellow cloth, and Mat was suddenly not so sure if it was a man. Or human. It looked human, at first glance, though perhaps too graceful, but it seemed far too thin for its height, with a narrow, elongated face. Its skin, and even its straight black hair, caught the pale light that reminded him of a snakes’ scales. And those eyes, the pupils just black, vertical slits. No, not human.

"Iron. Instruments of music. You have none?"

Mat wondered what it thought the knife was; it certainly did not seemed concerned over it. Well, the blade was good steel, not iron. "No. No iron, and no instruments of-Why-?" He cut off sharply. Three questions, Egwene had said. He was not about to waste one on "iron" or instruments of music." Why should he care if I have a dozen musicians in my pocket and a smithy on my back? "I have come her for true answers. If you are not the one to give them, take me to who can."

The man-it was male at least, Mat decided-smiled slightly. He did not show any teeth. "According to the agreement. Come." He beckoned with one long-fingered hand. "Follow."

Mat made the knife disappear up his sleeve. "Lead, and I will follow." Just you keep ahead of me and in plain sight. This place makes my skin crawl.

There was not a straight line to be seen anywhere except on the floor itself, as he trailed the strange man. Even the ceiling was always arched, and the walls bowed out. The halls were continuously curved, the doorways rounded, the windows perfect circles. Tilework made spirals and sinuous lines, and what seemed to be bronze metalwork set in the ceiling at intervals was all complicated scrolls. There were no pictures of anything, no wall hangings or paintings. Only patterns, and always curves.

He saw no one except his silent guide; he could have believed the place empty except for the two of them. From somewhere he had a dim memory of walking halls that had not known a human foot in hundreds of years, and this felt the same. Yet sometimes he caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. Only, however quickly he turned, there was never anyone there. He pretended to rub his forearms, checking the knives up his coatsleeves for reassurance.

What he saw through those round windows was even worse. Tall wispy trees with only a drooping umbrella of branches at the top, and others of huge fans of lacy leaves, a tangle of growth equal to the heart of any briar-choked thicket, all under a dim, overcast light, though there did not seem to be a cloud in the sky. There were always windows, always along one side of the curving corridor, but sometimes the side changed, and what surely should have been looking into courtyard or rooms instead gave out into that forest. He never caught as much as a glimpse of any other part of this palace, or whatever it was, through those windows, or any other building, except….

Through one circular window he saw three tall silvery spires, curving in toward each other so their points all aimed at the same spot. They were not visible from the next window, three paces away, but a few minutes later, after he and his guide had rounded enough curves that he had to be looking in another direction, he saw them again. He tried telling himself these were three different spires, but between them and him was one of those fan-shaped trees with a dangling broken branch, a tree that had been in the same spot the first time. After his third sight of the spires and the strange tree with the broken branch, this time ten paces father on but on the other side of the hallway, he tried to stop looking at what lay outside at all.

The walk seemed interminable.

"When-? Are-?" Mat ground his teeth. Three questions. "I hope you are taking me to those who can answer my questions. Burn my bones, I do. For my sake and yours, the Light know it true."

"Here," the peculiar, yellow-wrapped fellow said, gesturing with one of those thin hands to a rounded doorway twice as large as any Mat had seen before. His strange eyes studied Mat intently. His mouth gaped open, any he inhaled, long and slow. Mat frowned at him, and the stranger gave a writhing hitch of his shoulders. "Here your answers may be found. Enter. Enter and ask."

Mat drew a deep breath of his own, then grimaced and scrubbed at his nose. That sharp, heavy smell was a rank nuisance. He took a hesitant step toward the tall doorway, and looked around for his guide again. The fellow was gone. Light! I don’t know why anything in this place surprises me now. Well, I will be burned if I’ll turn back now. Trying not to think whether he could find the ter-angreal again on his own, he went in.

It was another round room, with spiraled floor tiles in red and white under a domed ceiling. It had no columns, or furnishings of any kind, except for three thick, coiled pedestals around the heart of the floor’s spirals. Mat could see no way to reach the top of them except by climbing the twists, yet a man like his guide sat cross-legged atop each, only wrapped in layers of red. Not all men, he decided at a second look; two of those long faces with the odd eyes had a definite feminine cast. They stared at him, intense penetrating stares, and breathed deeply, almost panting. He wondered if he had made them nervous in some way. Not much bloody chance of that. But they’re certainly getting under my coat.

"It has been long," the woman on the right said.

""Very long," the woman on the left added.

The man nodded. "Yet they come again."

All three had the breathy voice of the guide-almost indistinguishable from it, in fact-and the harsh way of pronouncing words. They spoke in unison, and the words might as well have come from one mouth. "Enter and ask, according to the agreement of old."

If Mat had thought his skin crawled before, now he was sure it was writhing. He made himself go closer. Carefully-careful to say nothing that even sounded like a question-he laid the situation before them. The Whitecloaks, certainly in his home village, surely hunting friends of his, maybe hunting him. One of his friends going to face the Whitecloaks, another not. His family, not likely in danger, but with the bloody Children of the bloody Light around…. A ta’veren pulling at him so he could hardly move. He saw no reason to give names, or mention that Rand was the Dragon Reborn. His first question-and the other two, for that matter-he had worked out before going down to the Great Hold. "Should I go home to help my people?" he asked finally.

Three sets of slitted eyes lifted from him-reluctantly, it seemed-and studied the air above his head. Finally the woman on the left said, "You must go to Rhuidean."

As soon as she spoke their eyes all dropped to him again, and they leaned forward, breathing deeply again, but atthat moment a bell tolled, a sonorous brazen sound that rolled through the room. They swayed upright, staring at one another, then at the air over Mat’s head again.

"He is another," the woman on the left whispered. "The strain. The strain."

"The savor," the man said. "It has been long."

"There is yet time," the other woman told them. She sounded calm-they all did-but there was a sharpness to her voice when she turned back to Mat. "Ask. Ask."

Mat glared at them furiously. Rhuidean? Light! That was somewhere out in the Waste, the Light and the Aiel knew where. That was about as much as he knew. In the Waste! Anger drove questions about how to get away from Aes Sedai and how to recover the lost parts of his memory right out of his head. "Rhuidean!" he barked. "The Light burn my bones to ash if I want to go to Rhuidean! And my blood on the ground if I will! Why should I? You are not answering my questions. You are supposed to answer, not hand me riddles!"

"If you do not go to Rhuidean," the woman on the right said, "you will die."

The bell tolled again, louder this time; Mat felt its tremor through his boots. The looks the three shared were plainly anxious. He opened his mouth, but they were only concerned with each other.

"The strain," one of the women said hurriedly. "It is too great."

"The savor of him," the other woman said on her heels. "It has been so very long."

Before she was done the man spoke. "The strain is too great. Too great. Ask. Ask!"

"Burn your soul for a craven heart," Mat growled, "I will that! Why will I die if I do not go to Rhuidean? I very likely will die if I try. It makes no-"

The man cut him off and spoke hurriedly. "You will have sidestepped the thread of fate, left your fate to drift on the winds of time, and you will be killed by those who do not want that fate fulfilled. Now, go. You must go! Quickly!"

The yellow-clad guide was suddenly there at Mat’s side, tugging at his sleeve with those too-long hands.

Mat shook him off. "No! I will not go! You have led me from the questions I wanted to ask and given me senseless answers. You will not leave it there. What fate are you talking about? I will have one clear answer out of you, at least!"

A third time the bell sounded mournfully, and the entire room trembled.

"Go!" the man shouted. "You have had your answers. You must go before it is too late!"

Abruptly a dozen of the yellow-clad men were around Mat, seeming to appear out of the air, trying to pull him toward the door. He fought with fists, elbows, knees. "What fate? Burn your hearts, what fate?" It was the room itself that pealed, the walls and floor quivering, nearly taking Mat and his attackers off their feet. "What fate?"

The three were on their feet atop the pedestals, and he could not tell which shrieked which answer.

"To marry the Daughter of the Nine Moons!"

"To die and live again, and live once more a part of what was!"

"To give up half the light of the world to save the world!"

Together they howled like steam escaping under pressure. "Go to Rhuidean, son of battles! Go to Rhuidean, trickster! Go, gambler! Go!"

Mat’s assailants snatched him into the air by his arms and legs and ran, holding him over their heads. "Unhand me, you white-livered sons of goats!" he shouted, struggling. "Burn your eyes! The Shadow take you souls, loose me! I will have your guts for a saddle girth!" But writhe and curse as he would, those long fingers gripped like iron.

Twice more the bell tolled, or the palace did. Everything shook as in an earthquake; the walls rang with deafening vibrations, each louder than the last. Mat’s captors stumbled on, nearly falling but never stopping their pell-mell race. He did not even see where they were taking him until they suddenly stopped short, heaving him into the air. Then he saw the twisted doorway, the ter-angreal, as he flew toward it.

White light blinded him; the roar filled his head till it drove thought away.

He fell heavily onto a dusty floor in dim light and rolled up against the barrel holding his lamp in the Great Hold. The barrel rocked, packets and figurines toppling to the floor in a crash of breaking stone and ivory and porcelain. Bounding to his feet, he threw himself back at the stone doorframe. "Burn you, you can’t throw me-!"

He hurled through-and stumbled against the crates and barrels on the other side. Without a pause, he turned and leaped at it again. With the same result. This time he caught himself he caught himself on the barrel holding his lamp, which nearly fell onto the already shattered things littering the floor under his boots. He grabbed it in time, burning his hand, and fumbled it back to a steadier perch.

Burn me if I want to be down here in the dark, he thought, sucking his fingers. Light, the way my luck is running, it probably would have started a fire and I’d have burned to death!

He glared at the ter-angreal. Why was it not working? Maybe the folk on the other side had shut it off somehow. He understood practically nothing of what had happened. That bell, and their panic. You would have thought they were afraid the roof would come down on their heads. Come to think of it, it very nearly had. And Rhuidean, and all the rest of it. The Waste was bad enough, but they said he was fated to marry somebody called the Daughter of the Nine Moons. Marry! And to a noblewoman, by the sound of it. He would sooner marry a pig than a noblewoman. And that business about dying and living again. Nice of them to add the last bit! If some black-veiled Aielman killed him on the way to Rhuidean, he would find out how true it was. It was all nonsense, and he did not believe a word of it. Only…. The bloody doorway had taken him somewhere, and they had only wanted to answer three questions, just the way Egwene had said.

"I won’t marry any bloody noblewoman!" he told the ter-angreal. I’ll marry when I’m too old to have any fun, that’s what! Rhuidean my bloody-!"

A boot appeared, backing out of the twisted stone doorway, followed by the rest of Rand, with that fiery sword in his hands. The blade vanished as he stepped clear, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Even in the dim light, Mat could see he was troubled, though. He gave a start when he saw Mat. "Just poking around, Mat? Or did you go through, too?"

Mat eyed him wearily for a moment. At least that sword was gone. He did not seem to be channeling-though how was anybody to tell?-and he did not look particularly like a madman. In fact, he looked very much as Mat remembered. He had to remind himself that they were not back home any longer, and Rand was not what he remembered. "Oh, I went through, all right. A bunch of bloody liars, if you ask me! What are they? Made me think of snakes."

"Not liars, I think." Rand sounded as if they were. "No, not that. They were afraid of me, right from the first. And when that tolling started…. The sword kept them back; they wouldn’t even look at it. Shied away. Hid their eyes. Did you get your answers?"

"Nothing that makes sense," Mat muttered. "What about you?"

Suddenly Moiraine appeared from the ter-angreal, seeming to step gracefully out of thin air, flowing out. She would be a fine one to dance with if she were not Aes Sedai. Her mouth tightened at the sight of them.

"The last I saw of Perrin," Mat said, "he was getting ready to go to bed." Maybe Perrin would give him the lie by being the next step out of the thing, but he might as well deflect the Aes Sedai’s anger if he could. No need for Perrin to face it, too. Maybe he’ll make it clear of her, at least, if he gets away before she knows what he’s doing. Bloody woman! I’ll wager she was noble born.

That Moiraine was angry there was no doubt. The blood had drained out of her cheeks, and her eyes were dark augers boring into Rand. "At least you escaped with your lives. Who told you of this? Which one of them? I will make her wish I had peeled off her hide like a glove."

"A book told me," Rand said calmly. He sat down back on the edge of the crate that creaked alarmingly under his weight and crossed his arms. All very cool; Mat wished he could emulate it. "A pair of books, in fact. Treasures of the Stone and Dealings with the territory of Mayene. Surprising what you can dig out of books if you read long enough, isn’t it?"

"And you?" She shifted that drilling gaze to Mat. Did you read it in a book, too? You?"

"I do read sometimes," he said dryly. He would not have been averse to a little hide-peeling for Egwene and Nynaeve after what they had done to make him tell where he had hidden the Amyrlin’s letter-tying him up with the power was bad enough, but the rest!-yet it was more fun to tweak Moiraine’s nose. "Treasures. Dealings. Lots of things in books." Luckily, she did not insist he repeat the titles; he had not paid attention once Rand brought up books.

Instead she swung back to Rand. "And your answers?"

"Are mine," Rand replied, then frowned. "It wasn’t easy, though. They brought a…woman…to interpret, but she talked like an old book. I could hardly understand some of the words. I never considered they might speak another language."

"The Old Tongue," Moiraine told him. "They use the Old Tongue-a rather harsh dialect of it-for their dealings with men. And you, Mat? Was your interpreter easily understood?"

He had to work moisture back into his mouth. "The Old Tongue? Is that what it was? They didn’t give me one. In fact, I never got to ask any questions. That bell started shaking the walls down, and they hustled me out like I was tracing cow manure on the rugs." She was staring, her eyes still digging into his head. She knew about the Old Tongue slipping out of him, sometimes. "I…almost understood a word here and there, but not to know it. You and Rand got answers. What do they get out of it? The snakes with legs. We aren’t going upstairs to find ten years gone, are we, like Bili in the story?"

"Sensations," Moiraine replied with a grimace. "Sensations, emotions, experiences. They rummage through them; you can feel them doing it, making your skin crawl. Perhaps they feed on them in some manner. The Aes Sedai who studied this ter-angreal when it was in Mayene wrote of a strong desire to bathe afterwards. I certainly intend to."

"But their answers are true?" Rand said as she started to turn away. "You are sure of it? The books implied as much, but can they really give true answers about the future?"

"The answers are true," Moiraine said slowly, "so long as they are in regard to your own future. That much is certain." She watched Rand, and himself, weighing the effect of her words. "As to how, though, there is only speculation. That world is…folded…in strange ways. I cannot be clearer. It may be that that allows them to read the thread of a human life, read the various ways it may yet be woven into the Pattern. Or perhaps it is a talent of the people. The answers are often obscure, however. If you need help working out what yours mean, I offer my services." Her eyes flickered from one of them to the other, and Mat nearly swore. She did not believe him about no answers. Unless it was simply general Aes Sedai suspicion.

Rand gave her a slow smile. "And will you tell me what you asked, and what they answered?"

For answer, she returned a level, searching look, then started for the door. A small ball of light, ass bright as a lantern, was suddenly floating ahead of her, illuminating her way.

Mat knew he should leave it alone, now. Just let her go and hope she forgot he had ever been down here. But a knot of anger still burned inside him. All those ridiculous things they had said. Well, maybe they were true, if Moiraine said so, but he wanted to grab those fellows by the collar, or whatever passed for a collar in those wrappings, and make them explain a few things.

"Why can’t you go there twice, Moiraine?" he called after her. "Why not?" He very nearly asked why they worried about iron and musical instruments, too, and bit his tongue. He could not know about those things if he had not understood what they were saying.

She paused at the door to the hall, and it was impossible to say if she was looking at the ter-angreal or at Rand. "If I knew everything, Matrim, I would not need to ask questions." She peered into the room a moment longer-she was staring at Rand-then glided away without another word.

For a time Mat and Rand looked at each other in silence.

"Did you find out what you wanted?" Rand asked finally.

"Did you?"

A bright flame leaped into existence, balanced above Rand’s palm. Not the smooth glowing sphere of the Aes Sedai, but a rough blaze like a torch. As Rand moved to leave, Mat added another questions. "Are you really going to just let the Whitecloaks do whatever they want back home? You know they’re heading for Emond’s Field. If they are not there already. Yellow Eyes, the bloody Dragon Reborn. It’s too much, otherwise."

"Perrin will do…what he has to do to save Emond’s Field," Rand replied in a pained voice. "And I must do what I have to, or more than Emond’s Field will fall, and to worse than Whitecloaks."

Mat stood watching the light of that flame fade away down the hall, until he remembered where he was. Then he snatched up his lamp and hurried out. Rhuidean! Light, what am I going to do?

Chapter 22

Out of the Stone

It was a strange procession Rand led out of the Stone and eastward, and white cloud