Moiraine first. He wished he knew more about the Aelfinn and Eelfinn and their bloody tower. Nobody knew about it, nobody spoke more than legends, nobody had anything useful to say. . . .
. . . nobody but Birgitte. Mat stopped in the street. Birgitte. She had been the one to tell Olver how to get into the Tower. How had she known?
Cursing himself for a fool, he turned toward the Inner City The streets were emptying of the traffic that had burdened them before the almost-rain began. Soon Mat felt he had the whole city to himself; even the cut-purses and beggars withdrew.
For some reason, that put him on edge more than being stared at. It was not natural. Someone should have tried at least to bloody shadow him to see if he was worth picking off. Once again, he longed for his medallion. He had been an idiot to give that away. Better to have cut off his own bloody hand and offered that to Elayne as payment! Was the gholam there, in that darkness, somewhere?
There should have been toughs on the street. Cities were full of them. That was practically one of the bloody requirements for a city. A town hall, a few inns and a tavern, and several blunt-faced fellows whose only desire was to pound you into the mud and spend your coin on drink and women.
He passed a courtyard and headed through the Mason's Gate into the Inner City, the white archway almost seeming to glow, rain-slick in the phantom light of the clouded moon. Mat's quarterstaff knocked against the paving stones. The gate guards were huddled and quiet in their cloaks. Like statues, not men at all. The entire place felt like a tomb.
A ways past the gate, he passed an alleyway, and hesitated. He thought he could see a group of shadowy forms inside. Tall buildings rose on either side, grand Ogier masonry. A grunt sounded from inside the alleyway.
"A robbery?" Mat said with relief.
A hulking figure looked back out of the alleyway. Moonlight revealed a fellow with dark eyes and a long cloak. He seemed stunned to find Mat standing there. He pointed with a thick-fingered hand, and three of his companions made for Mat.
Mat relaxed, wiping his brow free of rainwater. So there were footpads out this night. What a relief. He had been jumping at nothing!
A thug swung his cudgel at Mat. Mat had worn the shortsword on the right side intentionally; the thug took the bait, assuming that Mat would move to draw the weapon.
Instead, Mat brought up the quarterstaff swiftly, snapping the butt against the man's leg. The footpad stumbled, and Mat swung into the man's head. The drizzle, which was nearly a proper rain by now, sprayed off the cutpurse as he fell, tripping one of his companions.
Mat stepped back and slammed the top of the quarterstaff down on the head of the tripping thug. He went down on top of his companion. The third man looked back toward his leader, who held to the collar of a gangly man Mat could barely make out in the shadows. Mat took the opportunity to leap over the small pile of unconscious thugs, swinging at the third man.
The footpad brought his cudgel up to protect his head, so Mat slammed his quarterstaff into the man's foot. He then swung the quarterstaff, knocking aside the third man's weak parry, and dropped him with a blow to the face.
Mat casually flipped a knife toward the leader of the gang, who was charging forward. The leader gurgled, stumbled in the drizzle, clawing at the knife in his neck. The others Mat would leave unconscious poor fools, maybe they would take this warning and reform.
Mat stepped to the side as the leader stumbled past, then finally collapsed on top of his three companions. Mat kicked him over, pulled out the knife, then cleaned it. Finally, he glanced at the victim of the robbery.
"Sure am glad to see you," Mat said.
"You . . . you are?" the man asked.
"Sure am," Mat said, standing up straight. "I thought the thieves were not out tonight. A city without cutpurses, well, that's like a field without weeds. And if there were no weeds, what would you need a farmer for? Bloody inhospitable, I tell you."
The rescued man stumbled forward on shaky feet. He seemed confused by what Mat had said, but he scrambled up, taking Mat's hand. "Thank you!" The man had a nasal voice. "Thank you so, so much." In the faint moonlight, Mat could barely make out a wide face with buck teeth atop an awkwardly thin body.
Mat shrugged, setting aside his staff and unwinding his scarf which was getting sodden and beginning to wring it free. "I'd stay away from traveling by yourself at night, if I were you, friend."
The man squinted in the darkness. "You!" he said, voice nearly a squeak.
Mat groaned. "Blood and bloody ashes! Can't I go anywhere without "
He cut off as the man lunged, a dagger flashing in the faint moonlight. Mat cursed, and snapped his scarf in front of him. The dagger hit the cloth instead of Mat's gut, and Mat quickly twisted his hands, tying the assassin's dagger in lengths of cloth.
The man yelped, and Mat released the scarf and pulled out a pair of knives, one in each hand, releasing them by reflex. They took the assassin in the eyes. One in each eye. Light! Mat had not been aiming for the eyes.
The man collapsed to the wet paving stones.
Mat stood breathing in and out. "Mothers milk in a cup! Mother's bloody milk!" He grabbed his quarterstaff, glancing about him, but the gloomy street was empty. "I rescued you. I rescued you, and you try to stab me?"
Mat knelt down beside the corpse. Then, grimly certain what he would find, he fished in the man's pouch. He came out with a couple of coins gold coins and a folded-up piece of paper. Moonlight revealed Mat's face on it. He crinkled the paper and shoved it in his pocket.
One in each bloody eye. Better than the man deserved. Mat retied his scarf, grabbed his knives, then walked out onto the street, wishing he had left the assassin to his fate.
Birgitte folded her arms, leaning against a marble pillar and watching as Elayne sat enjoying an evening presentation of "players." Groups like this acting out stories had become very popular in Cairhien, and were now trying to achieve the same success in Andor. One of the palace halls, where bards performed, had been adapted to allow the players to act out their stories.
Birgitte shook her head. What was the good of acting out fake stories?
Why not go live a few stories of your own? Besides, she'd prefer a bard any day. Hopefully this fashion of seeing "players" would die quickly.
This particular story was a retelling of the tragic marriage and death of the Princess Walishen, slain by beasts of the Shadow. Birgitte was familiar with the ballad that the players had adapted to form their story. In fact, they sang parts of it during the performance. It was remarkable how little that song had changed over the years. Some different names, a few different notes, but the same overall.
Much like her own lives. Repeated over and over, but with little variations. Sometimes she was a soldier. Sometimes she was a forest woman, with no formal military training. She'd been a general once or twice, unfortunately. She'd rather leave that particular job for someone else.
She'd been a guard, a noble thief, a lady, a peasant, a killer and a savior. But she had never before been a Warder. The unfamiliarity didn't bother her; in most of her lives, she had no knowledge of what had come before. What she could draw from her previous lives now was a boon, yes, but she had no right to those memories.
That didn't stop her heart from twisting each time one of those memories faded. Light! If she couldn't be with Gaidal this time around, couldn't she at least remember him? It was as if the Pattern didn't know what to do with her. She'd been forced into this life, shoving other threads aside, taking an unexpected place. The Pattern was trying to weave her in. What would happen when all of the memories faded? Would she remember waking up as an adult with no history? The thought terrified her as no battlefield ever had.
She nodded to one of her Guardswomen, Kaila Bent, who passed by the back row of the makeshift theater and saluted.
"Well?" Birgitte asked, stepping around the corner to speak with Kaila.
"Nothing to report," Kaila said. "All is well." She was a lanky fire-h
aired woman, and had taken very easily to wearing the trousers and coat of a Guardswoman. "Or, all is as well as it could be while having to suffer through The Death of Princess Walishen!'
"Stop complaining," Birgitte said, suppressing a wince as the diva so the players called her began a particularly shrill aria so they called a song by yourself. Why did the players need so many new names for things? "You could be out patrolling in the rain."
"I could?" Kaila asked, sounding eager. "Why didn't you say so sooner? Maybe I'll get struck by lightning. That might be preferable."
Birgitte snorted. "Get back to your rounds."
Kaila saluted and left. Birgitte tuned back into the theater, leaning against the pillar. Perhaps she should have brought some wax to stuff in her ears. She glanced over at Elayne. The Queen sat with a calm demeanor, watching the play. At times, Birgitte felt more like a nursemaid than a bodyguard. How did you protect a woman who seemed, at times, so determined to see herself dead?
And yet, Elayne was also so very capable. Like tonight; she'd somehow convinced her most bitter rival to attend this play. That was Ellorien sitting over in the eastern row; the woman's last parting from the palace had been so bitter that Birgitte hadn't expected her to return unless she was in chains. Yet here she was. It whispered of a political maneuver by Elayne that was thirteen steps more subtle than Birgitte had a mind for.
She shook her head. Elayne was a queen. Volatility and all. She'd be good for Andor. Assuming Birgitte could keep that golden-haired head from being lopped off its neck.
After some time suffering through the singing, Kaila approached again. Birgitte stood up straight, curious at the woman's quick pace. "What?" she asked quietly.
"You looked bored," Kaila whispered, "so I thought I'd bring this to you. Disturbance at the Plum Gate." That was the southeastern entrance to the palace grounds. "Someone tried to sneak through."
"Another beggar looking for scraps? Or a spy for one of the lordlings, hoping to listen in?"
"I don't know," Kaila said. "I heard the news thirdhand from Calison as we passed on patrol. He said the Guardsmen have the intruder in custody at the gate."
Birgitte glanced to the side. It looked like another solo was about to begin. "You have command here; hold this post and take reports. I'll go stretch my legs and check on this disturbance."
"Bring me some wax for my ears when you come back, would you?"
Birgitte chuckled, leaving the theater and stepping into a white-and-red palace hallway. Though she had Guardswomen and men with extra bows at the hallways, Birgitte herself carried a sword, for an assassination attempt would most likely turn to close-quarters fighting.
Birgitte trotted down the hallway, glancing out a window when she passed. The sky leaked a strengthening drizzle. Utterly dreary. Gaidal would have liked this weather. He loved the rain. On occasion, she'd joked that drizzle suited his face better, making him less likely to frighten children. Light, but she missed that man.
The most direct route to the Plum Gate took her through the servants' quarters. In many palaces, this would have meant entering a section of the building that was more drab, meant for less important people. But this building had been Ogier built, and they had particular views about such things. The marble stonework here was as grand as it was elsewhere, with tiled mosaics of red and white.
The rooms, while small by royal standards, were each large enough to hold an entire family. Birgitte generally preferred to take her meals in the servants' large, open dining hall. Four separate hearths crackled here in defiance of the dreary night, and off-duty servants and Guards laughed and chatted. Some said you could judge a monarch by the way he treated those who served him. If that were the case, then the Andoran palace had been designed in a way to encourage the best in its queens.
Birgitte reluctantly passed by the inviting scents of food and instead pushing her way out into the cold summer storm. The chill wasn't biting. Just uncomfortable. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and crossed the slick paving down to the Plum Gate. The gatehouse was alight with an orange glow, and the Guardsmen on watch stood outside in wet cloaks, halberds held to the side.
Birgitte marched up to the gatehouse, water dripping from the lip of her hood, then pounded on the thick oak door. It opened, revealing the bald-headed, mustached face of Renald Macer, sergeant on duty. A stout man, he had wide hands and a calm temperament. She always thought he should be in a shop somewhere making shoes, but the Guard took all types, and dependability was often more important than skill with the sword.
"Captain-General!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"Getting rained on," she snapped.
"Oh, my!" He stepped back, making way for her to enter the gatehouse. It had a single crowded room. The soldiers were on storm shift meaning twice as many men would work the gate as usual, but they would only have to stand outside an hour before rotating with the men warming inside the gatehouse.
Three Guardsmen sat at a table, throwing dice into a dicing box while an open-fronted iron stove consumed logs and warmed tea. Dicing with the four soldiers was a wiry man with a black scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face. His clothing was scruffy, his head topped by a mop of wet brown hair sticking out in all directions. Brown eyes glanced at Birgitte over the top of the scarf, and the man sank down a little in his seat.
Birgitte took off her cloak and shook it free of rainwater. "This is your intruder, I assume?"
"Why, yes," the sergeant said. "How did you hear about that?"
She eyed the intruder. "He tried to sneak onto the palace grounds, and now you're dicing with him?"
The sergeant and the other men looked sheepish. "Well, my Lady "
"I'm no lady." Not this time at least. "I work for a living."
"Er, yes," Macer continued. "Well, he gave up his sword readily, and he doesn't seem that dangerous. Just another beggar wanting scraps from the kitchens. Right nice fellow. Thought we'd get him warm before sending him out into that weather again."
"A beggar," she said. "With a sword?"
Sergeant Macer scratched his head. "I guess that is kind of odd."
"You could charm the helmet off a general on a battlefield, couldn't you, Mat?" she said.
"Mat?" the man asked in a familiar voice. "I don't know what you mean, my good woman. My name is Garard, a simple beggar who has a quite interesting past, if you care to listen to it- "
She eyed him with a firm gaze.
"Oh, bloody ashes, Birgitte," he complained, taking off the scarf. "I only wanted to get warm for a spell." "And win the coin off my men." "A friendly game never hurt a man," Mat said.
"Unless it was against you. Look, why are you sneaking into the palace?"
"It took too much bloody work to get in last time," Mat said, sitting back in his chair. "Thought I might pass that up this time."
Sergeant Macer glanced at Birgitte. "You know this man?"
"Unfortunately," she said. "You can release him to my custody, Sergeant. I'll see that Master Cauthon is properly taken care of."
"Master Cauthon?" one of the men said. "You mean the Raven Prince?"
"Oh, for bloody . . ." Mat said, as he stood and picked up his walking staff. "Thanks," he said dryly to Birgitte, throwing on his coat.
She put her cloak back on, then pushed open the door as one of the Guards handed Mat his sword, belt still attached. Since when had Mat carried a shortsword? Probably a decoy away from the quarterstaff.
The two stepped out into the rain as Mat tied on the belt. "Raven Prince?" she asked.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm getting too bloody famous for my own good, that's why."
"Wait until it tracks you across generations," she said, glancing up at the sky, blinking as a raindrop hit her square in the eye.
"Come on, let's go grab a drink," Mat said, walking toward the gate.
"Wait," she said. "Don't you want to go see Elayne?"
&
nbsp; "Elayne?" Mat said. "Blood and ashes, Birgitte, I'm here to talk to you. Why do you think I let those Guards catch me? You want a drink or not?"
She hesitated, then shrugged. By putting Kaila on duty in her place, Birgitte had officially gone on break. She knew a fairly decent tavern only two streets from the Palace.
"All right," she said, waving to the Guards and leading Mat onto the rainy street. "But I'll need to have milk or tea instead of ale. We aren't sure if her Warder drinking would be bad for the babies or not." She smiled, thinking of a drunk Elayne trying to talk to her allies after the play. "Though if I make her tipsy, it might be good revenge for some of the things she's done to me."
"I don't know why you let her bond you in the first place," Mat said. The street was nearly empty around them, though the tavern up ahead looked inviting, its yellow light spilling into the street.
"I didn't have a say in the matter," she said. "But I don't regret it. Did you really sneak into the palace to meet with me?"
Mat shrugged. "I have some questions."
"About what?"
He replaced that ridiculous scarf, which she noticed had a rip in the middle. "You know," he said. "Things!'
Mat was one of the few who knew who she really was. He couldn't mean. . . . "No," she said, turning, "I don't want to talk about it."
"Bloody ashes, Birgitte! I need your information. Come on, for an old friend."
"We agreed to keep each other's secrets."
"And I'm not out blabbing yours," Mat said quickly. "But, see, there's this issue."
"What issue?"
"The Tower of Ghenjei."
"That's not an issue," she said. "You stay away from it."
"I can't."
"Of course you can. It's a flaming building, Mat. It can't exactly chase you down."
"Very amusing. Look, will you at least hear me out, over a mug? Order milk. I'll buy."
She stopped for a moment. Then she sighed. "Bloody right, you'll buy," she muttered, waving him onward. They entered the inn, known as The Grand Hike, which was crowded beyond usual because of the rain. The innkeeper was a friend of Birgitte's, however, and he had the bouncer toss out a drunkard sleeping in one of the booths to make room for her.
Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson - [Wheel of Time 13] Page 42
