The Dragon Reborn by Robert Jordan
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 reins. He thought he remembered the fellow. Yes. Ramey.
“It has been a long time, Ramey.” Mat tossed him a silver mark. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Can’t say as I . . .” Ramey 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 man 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 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 sweet 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 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 tabac 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 am 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 no more than that.”
“Aes Sedai not in such good odor 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 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 worse.”
“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. “Times change. People change. Too much change for me. I suppose I am growing old.”
“You seem to mean us both to grow old before you place a stone,” Thom muttered. The cat stretched and slinked across the table for him to stroke her back. “Talking all day will not let you find a good move. Why don’t you just admit defeat, Basel?”
“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 they’re 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 mustaches. “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???
“Are you married to Coline?” 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 mustaches. 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 a 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 into the common room and lose a few coppers? You look to me like a fellow who might like a little gamble. I will see 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 made to look 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 had the curving street to himself for the 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 his boots ripped holes in the banks of red and white blossoms. The rough stone of the wall gave plenty of finger-holds, and 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 and Perrin, to a journey they had made beyond the Sand Hills, into the edge of the Mountains of Mist. When they returned to Emond’s Field, they had all caught the fury from everyone who could lay hands on them—him worst of all; everyone 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 while 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 of 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 all 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 below 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 birds, 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 an 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 wavy-petaled 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 ag
“—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 man bloody 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 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.”