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 try 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 just have 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’d think I would have heard of the old High Lord dying. If you had settled for booting some poor fellows 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 wood-rasp working on an oak knot. He had forgotten that.
It was one of the two large men—Sanor or Vasa; he did not give his name—who came to pull the captain’s iron-bound money 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 onto 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 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 isn’t 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 the 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 to 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 scuffle 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 knife blades. 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 heard 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 being 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 around his shoulders, hiding the pale linen of his smallclothes. On bare feet he padded down the passage and climbed the ladder, 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 sound except the rush of water along 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 us too much of the trouble, Wait! Who are you?”
Mat swung the staff with all 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 thu
nk. The rising motion became a fall, and a man sprawled almost at Mat’s feet.
A babble of voices rose belowdecks 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 shutter on a bull’s-eye lantern. “You were lucky, boy. One of those below had this lantern. Could have set the ship on fire, lying 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 more men stood among the pulled-in oars.
“The Great Lord take me, it’s 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 lying on the tiller? He’ll run us onto a mudbank!” Naked save for linen underbreeches, Mallia dashed to the tiller, hauling the dead man off roughly 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 down 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’m going to win. Light, what game?
Playing “Rose of the Morning” softly on his flute, Rand peered into his campfire, where a rabbit was roasting on a stick slanting over the flames. A night wind made the flames flicker; he barely noticed the smell of the rabbit, though a vagrant thought did come that he needed to find more salt in the next village or town. “Rose of the Morning” was one of the tunes he had played at those weddings.
How many days ago was that? Were there really so many, or did I imagine it? Every woman in the village deciding to marry at once? What was its name? Am I going mad already?
Sweat beaded on his face, but he played on, barely loud enough to be heard, staring into the fire. Moiraine had told him he was ta’veren. Everyone said he was ta’veren. Maybe he really was. People like that—changed—things around them. A ta’veren might have caused all those weddings. But that was too close to something he did not want to think about.
They say I’m the Dragon Reborn, too. They all say it. The living say it, and the dead. That doesn’t make it true. I had to let them proclaim me. Duty. I had no choice, but that does not make it true.
He could not seem to stop playing that one tune. It made him think of Egwene. He had thought once that he would marry Egwene. A long time ago, that seemed. That was gone, now. She had come in his dreams, though. It might have been her. Her face. It was her face.
Only, there had been so many faces, faces he knew. Tam, and his mother, and Mat, and Perrin. All trying to kill him. It had not really been them, of course. Only their faces, on Shadowspawn. He thought it had not really been them. Even in his dreams it seemed the Shadowspawn walked. Were they only dreams? Some dreams were real, he knew. And others were only dreams, nightmares, or hopes. But how to tell the difference? Min had walked his dreams one night—and tried to plant a knife in his back. He was still surprised at how much that had pained him. He had been careless, let her come close, let down his guard. Around Min, he had not felt any need to be on his guard in so long, despite the things she saw when she looked at him. Being with her had been like having balm soothed into his wounds.
And then she tried to kill me! The music rose to a discordant screech, but he pulled it back to softness. Not her. Shadowspawn with her face. Least of them all would Min hurt me. He could not understand why he thought that, but he was sure it was true.
So many faces in his dreams. Selene had come, cool and mysterious and so lovely his mouth went dry just thinking of her, offering him glory as she had—so long ago, it seemed—but now it was the sword she said he had to take. And with the sword would come Selene. Callandor. That was always in his dreams. Always. And taunting faces. Hands, pushing Egwene, and Nynaeve, and Elayne into cages, snaring them in nets, hurting them. Why should he weep more for Elayne than for the other two?
His head spun. His head hurt as much as his side, and sweat rolled down his face, and he softly played “Rose of the Morning” through the night, fearing to sleep. Fearing to dream.
CHAPTER
33
Within the Weave
From his saddle, Perrin frowned down at the flat stone half hidden in weeds by the roadside. This road of hard-packed dirt, already called the Lugard Road now they were near the Manetherendrelle and the border of Murandy, had been paved once, long in the past, so Moiraine had said two days earlier, and bits of paving stone still worked their way to the surface from time to time. This one had an odd marking on it.
If dogs had been able to make footprints on stone, he would have said it was the print of a large hound. There were no hound’s footprints in any of the bare ground he could see, where softer dirt on the verge might take one, and no smell of any dog’s trail. Just a faint trace in the air of something burned, almost the sulphurous smell left by setting off fireworks. There was a town ahead, where the road struck the river; maybe some children had sneaked out here with some of the Illuminators’ handiwork.
A long way yet for children to sneak. But he had seen farms. It could have been farm children. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with that marking. Horses don’t fly, and dogs don’t make footprints on stone. I’m getting too tired to think straight.
Yawning, he dug his heels into Stepper’s ribs, and the dun broke into a gallop after the others. Moiraine had been pushing them hard since leaving Jarra, and there was no waiting for anyone who stopped for even a moment. When the Aes Sedai put her mind on something, she was as hard as cold hammered iron. Loial had given up reading as he rode six days earlier, after looking up to find himself left a mile behind and everyone else almost out of sight over the next hill.
Perrin slowed Stepper alongside the Ogier’s big horse, behind Moiraine’s white mare, and yawned again. Lan was up ahead somewhere, scouting. The sun behind them stood no more than an hour above the treetops, but the Warder had said they would reach a town
called Remen, on the Manetherendrelle, before dark. Perrin was not sure he wanted to see what awaited them there. He did not know what it might be, but the days since Jarra had made him wary.
“I don’t see why you can’t sleep,” Loial told him. “I am so tired by the time she lets us halt for the night, I fall asleep before I can lie down.”
Perrin only shook his head. There was no way to explain to Loial that he did not dare sleep soundly, that even his lightest sleep was full of troubled dreams. Like that odd one with Egwene and Hopper in it. Well, no wonder I dream about her. Light, I wonder how she is. Safe in the Tower by now, and learning how to be Aes Sedai. Verin will look after her, and after Mat, too. He did not think anyone needed to look after Nynaeve; around Nynaeve, to his mind, other people needed someone to look after them.
He did not want to think about Hopper. He was succeeding in keeping live wolves out of his head, although at the price of feeling as if he had been hammered-and-drawn by a hasty hand; he did not want to think a dead wolf might be creeping in. He shook himself and forced his eyes wide open. Not even Hopper.
There had been more reasons than bad dreams not to sleep well. They had found other signs left by Rand’s passage. Between Jarra and the River Boern there had been none Perrin could see, but when they crossed the Boern by a stone bridge arching from one fifty-foot river cliff to another, they had left behind a town called Sidon all in ashes. Every building. Only a few stone walls and chimneys still stood among the ruins.
Bedraggled townspeople said a lantern dropped in a barn had started it, and then the fire seemed to run wild, and everything went wrong. Half the buckets that could be found had holes in them. Every last burning wall had fallen outward instead of in, setting houses to either side alight. Flaming timbers from the inn had somehow tumbled as far as the main well in the square, so no one could draw more water from it to fight the fires, and houses had fallen right on top of three other wells. Even the wind had seemed to shift, fanning the flames in every direction.