The Gathering Storm

  “Now, you’ll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you’ll look up at her, then down at the dice again. ‘But there aren’t any pips on these dice,’ you’ll say.

  “ ‘Yes there are,’ she’ll say. ‘And both dice rolled a one.’

  “ ‘That’s exactly the number you need to win,’ you’ll say.

  “ ‘What a coincidence,’ she’ll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you’ll sit there, trying to wrap your head ’bout what just happened. And you’ll realize something. A pair of ones isn’t the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly, you’ll explain what you’ve discovered. Only then, do you know what she’ll do?”

  “No idea, Mat,” Talmanes replied, chewing on his pipe, a thin wisp of smoke curling out of the bowl.

  “Then she’ll reach over,” Mat said, “and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she’ll say, ‘I’m sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you can see that they actually came up as twos!’ And she’ll believe it. She’ll bloody believe it!”

  “Incredible,” Talmanes said.

  “Only that’s not the end of it!”

  “I had presumed that it wouldn’t be, Mat.”

  “She scoops up all of your coins,” Mat said, gesturing with one hand, the other steadying his ashandarei across his saddle. “And then every other woman in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more of those bloody women will join the argument. You’ll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! Even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth—since your woman’s granny stole the other woman’s granny’s honeycake recipe when they were both maids—that woman will side against you.”

  “They are nefarious creatures indeed,” Talmanes said, voice flat and even. Talmanes rarely smiled.

  “By the time they’re done,” Mat continued, almost more to himself, “you’ll be left with no coin, several lists’ worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You’ll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn’t read twos after all. If only to preserve what’s left of your sanity. That’s what it’s like to reason with a woman, I tell you.”

  “And you did so. At length.”

  “You aren’t making sport of me, are you?”

  “Why, Mat!” the Cairhienin said. “You know I’d never do such a thing.”

  “Too bad,” Mat muttered, glancing at him suspiciously. “I could use a laugh.” He looked over his shoulder. “Vanin! Where on the Dark One’s blistered backside are we?”

  The fat former horsethief looked up. He rode a short distance behind Mat, and he carried a map of the area unrolled and folded across a board so he could read it in the saddle. He’d been poring over the bloody thing the better half of the morning. Mat had asked him to get them through Murandy quietly, not get them lost in the mountains for months!

  “That’s Blinder’s Peak,” Vanin said, gesturing with a pudgy finger toward a flat-topped mountain just barely visible over the tips of the pines. “At least, I think it is. It might be Mount Sardlen.”

  The squat hill didn’t look like much of a mountain; it barely had any snow atop it. Of course, few “mountains” in this area were impressive, not compared to the Mountains of Mist, back near the Two Rivers. Here, northeast of the Damona range, the landscape fell into a grouping of low foothills. It was difficult terrain, but navigable, if one were determined. And Mat was determined. Determined not to be pinned in by the Seanchan again, determined not to be seen by any who didn’t have to know he was there. He’d paid the butcher too much so far. He wanted out of this hangman’s noose of a country.

  “Well,” Mat said, reining Pips back to ride beside Vanin, “which of those mountains is it? Maybe we should go ask Master Roidelle again.”

  The map belonged to the master mapmaker; it was only because of his presence that they’d been able to find this roadway in the first place. But Vanin insisted on being the one to guide the troop—a mapmaker wasn’t the same thing as a scout. You didn’t have a dusty cartographer ride out and lead the way for you, Vanin insisted.

  In truth, Master Roidelle didn’t have a lot of experience being a guide. He was a scholar, an academic. He could explain a map for you perfectly, but he had as much trouble as Vanin making sense of where they were, since this roadway was so disjointed and broken, the pines high enough to obscure landmarks, the hilltops all nearly identical.

  Of course, there was also the fact that Vanin seemed threatened by the presence of the mapmaker, as if he were worried about being unseated from his position guiding Mat and the Band. Mat had never expected such an emotion from the overweight horsethief. It might have been enough to make him amused if they weren’t lost so much of the flaming time.

  Vanin scowled. “I think that has to be Mount Sardlen. Yes. It’s got to be.”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “Which means we keep heading along the roadway,” Vanin said. “The same thing I told you an hour ago. We can’t bloody march an army through a forest this thick, now can we? That means staying on the stones.”

  “I’m just asking,” Mat said, pulling down the brim of his hat against the sun. “A commander’s got to ask things like this.”

  “I should ride ahead,” Vanin said, scowling again. He was fond of scowls. “If that is Mount Sardlen, there should be a village of fair size an hour or two further along. I might be able to spot it from the next rise.”

  “Go, then,” Mat said. They had advance scouts out, of course, but none of them were as good as Vanin. Despite his size, the man could sneak close enough to an enemy fortification to count the whiskers in the camp guards’ beards and never be seen. He’d probably make off with their stew, too.

  Vanin shook his head as he regarded the map again. “Actually,” he muttered, “now that I think about it, maybe that’s Favlend Mountain. . . .” He set off at a trot before Mat could object.

  Mat sighed, heeling Pips to catch up to Talmanes. The Cairhienin shook his head. He could be an intense one, Talmanes. Early in their association, Mat had assumed him to be stern, unable to have fun. He was learning better. Talmanes wasn’t stern, he was just reserved. But at times, there seemed to be a twinkle to the nobleman’s eyes, as if he were laughing at the world, despite that set jaw and his unsmiling lips.

  Today, he wore a red coat, trimmed with gold, and his forehead was shaved and powdered after Cairhienin fashion. It looked bloody ridiculous, but who was Mat to judge? Talmanes might have terrible fashion sense, but he was a loyal officer and a good man. Besides, he had excellent taste in wine.

  “Don’t look so glum, Mat,” Talmanes said, puffing on his gold-rimmed pipe. Where’d he gotten that, anyway? Mat didn’t remember him having it before. “Your men have full bellies, full pockets, and they just won a great victory. Not much more than that a soldier can ask for.”

  “We buried a thousand men,” Mat said. “That’s no victory.” The memories in his head—the ones that weren’t his—said he should be proud. The battle had gone well. But there were still those dead who had depended on him.

  “There are always losses,” Talmanes said. “You can’t let them eat you up, Mat. It happens.”

  “There aren’t losses when you don’t fight in the first place.”

  “Then why ride to battle so often?”

  “I only fight when I can’t avoid it!” Mat snapped. Blood and bloody ashes, he only fought when he had to. When they trapped him! Why did that seem to happen every time he turned around?

  “Whatever you say, Mat,” Talmanes said, taking out his pipe and pointing it at Mat knowingly. “But something’s got you on edge. And it isn’t the men we lost.”
r />   Flaming noblemen. Even the ones you could stand, like Talmanes, always thought they knew so much.

  Of course, Mat was now a nobleman himself. Don’t think about that, he told himself. Talmanes had spent a few days calling Mat “Your Highness” until Mat had lost his temper and yelled at the man—Cairhienin could be such sticklers for rank.

  When Mat had first realized what his marriage to Tuon meant, he’d laughed, but it had been the laughter of incredulous pain. And men called him lucky. Well why couldn’t his luck have helped him avoid this fate! Bloody Prince of the Ravens? What did that mean?

  Well, right now he had to worry about his men. He glanced over his shoulder, looking along the ranks of cavalrymen, with crossbowmen riding behind. There were thousands of both, though Mat had ordered their banners stowed. They weren’t likely to pass many travelers on this backwater path, but if anyone did see them, he didn’t want their tongues wagging.

  Would the Seanchan chase him? He and Tuon both knew they were on opposing sides now, and she’d seen what his army could do.

  Did she love him? He was married to her, but Seanchan didn’t think like regular people. She’d stayed in his possession, enduring captivity, never running. But he had little doubt that she’d move against him if she thought it best for her empire.

  Yes, she’d send men after him, though potential pursuit didn’t trouble him half as much as the worry that she might not make it back to Ebou Dar safely. Someone had offered a very large pile of coin for Tuon’s head. That Seanchan traitor, the leader of the army Mat had destroyed. Had he been working alone? Were there others? What had Mat released Tuon into?

  The questions haunted him. “Should I have let her go, do you think?” Mat found himself asking.

  Talmanes shrugged. “You gave your word, Mat, and I think that rather large Seanchan fellow with the determined eyes and the black armor wouldn’t have reacted well if you’d tried to keep her.”

  “She could still be in danger,” Mat said, almost to himself, still looking backward. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight. Fool woman.”

  “Mat,” Talmanes said, pointing at him with the pipe again. “I’m surprised at you. Why, you’re starting to sound downright husbandly.”

  That gave Mat a start. He twisted around in Pips’ saddle. “What was that? What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, Mat,” Talmanes said hurriedly. “Just that, the way you’re mooning after her, I—”

  “I’m not mooning,” Mat snapped, pulling the lip of his hat down, then adjusting his scarf. His medallion was a comfortable weight around his neck. “I’m just worried. That’s all. She knows a lot about the Band, and she could give away our strengths.”

  Talmanes shrugged, puffing his pipe. They rode for a time in silence. The pine needles soughed in the wind, and Mat occasionally heard women’s laughter from behind, where the Aes Sedai rode in a little cluster. For all the fact that they didn’t like one another, they usually got along just fine when others could see them. But, as he’d said to Talmanes, women were only enemies with one another as long as there wasn’t a man around to gang up on.

  The sun was marked by a blazing patch of clouds; Mat hadn’t seen pure sunlight in days. He hadn’t seen Tuon in as long either. The two events seemed paired in his head. Was there a connection?

  Bloody fool, he thought to himself. Next you’ll start thinking like her, reading portents into every little thing, looking for symbols and meaning every time a rabbit runs across your path or a horse lets wind.

  That kind of fortunetelling was all nonsense. Though he had to admit, he now cringed every time he heard an owl hoot twice.

  “Have you ever loved a woman, Talmanes?” Mat found himself asking.

  “Several,” the short man replied, riding with pipe smoke curling behind him.

  “Ever consider marrying one of them?”

  “No, thank the Light,” Talmanes said. Then, apparently, he thought better of what he’d just said. “I mean, it wasn’t right for me at the time, Mat. But I’m certain it will work out fine for you.”

  Mat scowled. If Tuon was going to bloody finally decide to go through with the marriage, couldn’t she have picked a time when others couldn’t hear?

  But no. She’d gone and spoken in front of everyone, including the Aes Sedai. That meant Mat had been doomed. Aes Sedai were great at keeping secrets unless those secrets could in any way embarrass or inconvenience Matrim Cauthon. Then you could be certain the news would spread through the entire camp in a day’s time, and likely be known three villages down the road as well. His own bloody mother—leagues and leagues away—had probably heard the news by now.

  “I’m not giving up gambling,” Mat muttered. “Or drinking.”

  “So I believe you’ve told me,” Talmanes said. “Three or four times so far. I half believe that if I were to peek into your tent at night, I’d find you mumbling it in your sleep. ‘I’m going to keep bloody gambling! Bloody, bloody gambling and drinking! Where’s my bloody drink? Anyone want to gamble for it?’ ” He said it with a perfectly straight face, but once again, there was that hint of a smile in his eyes, if you knew just where to look.

  “I just want to make sure everyone knows,” Mat said. “I don’t want anyone to start thinking I’m getting soft just because of . . . you know.”

  Talmanes shot him a consoling look. “You won’t go soft just because you got married, Mat. Why, some of the Great Captains themselves are married, I believe. Davram Bashere is for certain, and Rodel Ituralde. No, you won’t go soft because you’re married.”

  Mat nodded sharply. Good that was settled.

  “You might go boring though,” Talmanes noted.

  “All right, that’s it,” Mat declared. “Next village we find, we’re going to go dicing at the tavern. You and me.”

  Talmanes grimaced. “With the kind of third-rate wine these little mountain villages have? Please, Mat. Next you’ll be wanting me to drink ale.”

  “No arguing.” Mat glanced over his shoulder as he heard familiar voices. Olver—ears sticking out to the sides, diminutive face as ugly as any Mat had seen—sat astride Wind, chatting with Noal, who rode beside him on a bony gelding. The gnarled old man was nodding appreciatively to what Olver was saying. The little boy looked astonishingly solemn, and was undoubtedly explaining yet another of his theories on how to best sneak into the Tower of Ghenjei.

  “Ho, now,” Talmanes said. “There’s Vanin.”

  Mat turned to spot a rider approaching along the rocky path ahead. Vanin always looked so ridiculous, perched like a melon atop the back of his horse, his feet sticking out to the sides. But the man could ride, there was no doubting that.

  “It is Mount Sardlen,” Vanin proclaimed as he rode up to them, wiping his sweaty, balding brow. “The village is just ahead; it’s called Hinderstap on the map. These are bloody good maps,” he added grudgingly.

  Mat exhaled in relief. He’d begun to think that they might end up wandering these mountains until the Last Battle came and went. “Great,” he began, “we can—”

  “A village?” a curt female voice demanded.

  Mat turned with a sigh as three riders forced their way up to the front of the column. Talmanes reluctantly raised a hand to the soldiers behind, halting the march as the Aes Sedai descended on poor Vanin. The rotund man squatted down in his saddle, looking for all the world as though he’d rather have been discovered stealing horses—and therefore on his way to execution—than have to sit there and be interrogated by Aes Sedai.

  Joline led the pack. Once, Mat might have described her as a pretty girl, with her slender figure and large, inviting brown eyes. But that ageless Aes Sedai face was an instant warning for him now. No, he wouldn’t dare think of the Green as pretty now. Begin letting yourself think of Aes Sedai as pretty, and in two clicks of the tongue you’d find yourself wrapped around her finger and hopping at her command. Why, Joline had already hinted that she’d like to have Mat as a Warder!

&nb
sp; Was she still sore at him because he’d paddled her? She couldn’t hurt him with the Power, of course—even without his medallion, since Aes Sedai were sworn not to use the Power to kill except in very specific instances. But he was no fool. He’d noticed that those oaths of theirs didn’t say anything about using knives.

  The two with Joline were Edesina, of the Yellow Ajah, and Teslyn, of the Red. Edesina was pleasant enough to look at, save for that ageless face, but Teslyn was about as appetizing as a stick. Sharp of face, the Illianer woman was bony and scrappy, like an aged cat left too long on its own. But she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, from what Mat had seen, and he’d found her treating him with some measure of respect sometimes. Respect from a Red. Imagine that.

  Still, from the way each of those Aes Sedai looked at Mat in turn as they reached the front of the line, you’d never know that they owed him their lives. That was the way of it with women. Save her life, and she’d inevitably claim that she’d been about to escape on her own, and therefore owed you nothing. Half the time, she’d berate you for messing up her supposed plans.

  Why did he bother? One of these days, burn him, he was going to get smart and leave the next lot crying in their chains.

  “What was this?” Joline demanded of Vanin. “You’ve finally determined where we are?”

  “Bloody well have,” Vanin said, then unabashedly scratched himself. Good man, Vanin. Mat smiled. Treated all people the same, Vanin did. Aes Sedai and all.

  Joline stared Vanin straight in the eyes, looming like a gargoyle atop some lord’s mansion stonework. Vanin actually cringed, then wilted, then finally looked downward, abashed. “I mean, I have indeed, Joline Sedai.”

  Mat felt his smile fade. Burn it all, Vanin!

  “Excellent,” Joline said. “And there is a village ahead, I heard? Finally, perhaps, we’ll find a decent inn. I could use something other than the ‘fare’ these ruffians of Cauthon’s call food.”