"Burn how good my eye is," he growled, clapping his hat on. He knew he should speak smoothly, but he could not have taken the roughness from his voice with a file. "Do you always ride like a moon-blinded idiot? You could have broken that mare's neck before she even got a name. Worse, you could have broken your own. I promised to get you home safely, and I mean to do just that. If you're going to risk killing yourself every time you go riding, then I won't let you ride." He wished he had those last words back as soon as they left his tongue.
A man might laugh off a threat like that as a joke, maybe, if you were lucky, but a woman. . . . Now all he could do was wait for the explosion. He expected Aludra's nightflowers to pale by comparison.
She raised the hood of her cloak, settling it just so. She studied him, tilting her head first one way then the other. Finally, she nodded to herself. "I name her Akein. That means 'swallow.' " Mat blinked. That was it? No eruption? "I know. A good name. It suits her." What was she about now? The woman almost never did or said what he expected.
"What is this place, Toy?" she said, frowning at the trees. "Or should I say, what was it? Do you know?"
What did she mean, what was this place? It was a bloody forest was what it was. But suddenly what had seemed a large boulder right in front of him, nearly obscured by thick vines, resolved into a huge stone head, slightly tilted to one side. A woman's head, he thought; those smooth roundels were probably meant for jewels in her hair. The statue it sat on must have been immense. A full span of the thing showed, yet only her eyes and the top of her head were out of the ground. And that long white stone outcrop with an oak tree's roots growing over it was piece of a spiral column. All around them now he could make out bits of columns and large worked stones that plainly had been part of some grand structure and what had to be a stone sword two spans long, all half buried. Still, ruins of cities and monuments could be found in many places, and few even among Aes Sedai had any idea what they had been. Opening his mouth to say that he did not know, he caught sight through the trees of three tall hills in a row, perhaps another mile on. The middle hill had a cleft top, like a wedge cut cleanly out, while the hill on the'left had two. And he knew. There could hardly be three hills exactly like that anywhere else.
Those hills had been called The Dancers when this place had been Londaren Cor, the capital city of Eharon. The road behind them had been paved then and ran through the heart of the city, which had sprawled for miles. People had said that the artistry in stone that the Ogier had practiced in Tar Valon. they had perfected in Londaren Cor. Of course, the people of every Ogier-built city had claimed their own outdid Tar Valon, confirming Tar Valon as the touchstone. He had a number of memories of the city—dancing at a ball in the Palace of the Moon, carousing in soldiers' taverns where veiled dancers writhed, watching the Procession of Flutes during the Blessing of the Swords—but oddly, he had another memory of those hills, from near enough five hundred years after the Trollocs left no stone standing in Londaren Cor and Eharon died in blood and fire. Why it had been necessary for Nerevan and Esandara to invade Shiota, as the land was then, he did not know. Those old memories were fragments however long a time any one covered, and full of gaps. He had no idea why those hills had been called The Dancers, either, or what the Blessing of the Swords was. But he remembered being an Esandaran lord in a battle fought among these ruins, and he remembered having those hills in view when he took an arrow through his throat. He must have fallen no more than half a mile from the very spot where he sat Pips, drowning in his own blood.
Light. I hate to remember dying, he thought, and the thought turned to a coal burning in his brain. A coal that burned hotter and hotter. He remembered those men's deaths, not just one but dozens of them. He—remembered—dying.
"Toy, are you ill?" Tuon brought the mare close and peered up into his face. Concern filled her big eyes. "You've gone pale as the moon."
"I'm right as spring water," he muttered. She was close enough for him to kiss if he bent his head, but he did not move. He could not. He was thinking so furiously he had nothing left for motion. Somehow only the Light knew, the Eelfinn had gathered the memories they had planted in his head, but how could they harvest memory from a corpse? A corpse in the world of men, at that. He was certain they never came to this side of that twisted doorframe ter'angreal for longer than minutes at a time. A way occurred to him, one he did not like, not a scrap. Maybe they created some sort of link to any human who visited them, a link that allowed them to copy all of a man's memories after that right up to the moment he died. In some of those memories from other men he was white-haired, in some only a few years older than he really was, and everything in between, but there were none of childhood or growing up. What were the odds of that, if they had just stuffed him with random bits and pieces, likely things they considered rubbish or had done with? What did they do with memories, anyway? They had to have some reason for gathering them beyond giving them away again. No, he was just trying to avoid where this led. Burn him, the bloody foxes were inside his head right then! They had to be. It was the only explanation that made sense.
"Well, you look as if you're about to vomit," Tuon said, backing the razor away with a grimace. "Who in the show would have herbs? I have some knowledge there."
"I'm all right, I tell you." In truth, he did want to sick up. Having those foxes in his head was a thousand times worse than the dice however hard the dice rattled. Could the Eelfinn see through his eyes? Light, what was he going to do? He doubted any Aes Sedai could Heal him of this, not that he would trust them to, not when it meant leaving off the foxhead. There was nothing to be done. He would just have to live with it. He groaned at the thought.
Cantering up to them, Selucia gave him and Tuon each a quick look, as if considering what they might have been up to in their time alone. But then, she had taken her time in catching up. giving them that time. That was hopeful. "Next time, you can ride this gentle creature and I will ride your gelding," she told Mat. "High Lady, people from those wagons are following us with dogs. They're afoot, but they will be here soon. The dogs don't bark."
"Trained guard dogs, then," Tuon said, gathering her reins. "Mounted, we can avoid them easily enough."
"No need to try, and no use," Mat told her. He should have expected this. "Those people are Tinkers, Tuatha'an, and they're no danger to anybody. They couldn't be violent if their lives depended on it. That's no exaggeration, just simple truth. But they saw you two go haring off, trying to get away from me as it must have seemed, and me chasing after. Now that those dogs have a scent trail, the Tinkers will follow us all the way back to the show if need be to make sure you two haven't been kidnapped or harmed. We'll go meet them to save the time and trouble." It was not the Tinkers' time he cared about. Luca probably would not care one way or the other if a bunch of Tinkers getting in the way delayed the show setting out. but Mat certainly would.
Selucia scowled at him indignantly, and her fingers flew, but Tuon laughed. "Toy wishes to be commanding today, Selucia. I will let him command and see how he does." Bloody kind of her.
They trotted back the way they had come—riding around the fallen trees this time, though now and then Tuon would gather her reins as if she meant to jump one, then give Mat a mischievous grin— and it was not long before the Tinkers came into sight running through the trees behind their huge mastiffs like a flight of butterflies, fifty or so men and women in bright colors, often in jarring combinations. A man might be wearing a red-and-blue striped coat and baggy yellow trousers tucked into knee boots, or a violet-colored coat above red trousers, or worse. Some women wore dresses striped in as many colors as there were colors and even colors Mat had no name for, while others wore skirts and blouses as varied in hue and as clashing as the men's coats and trousers. A fair number had shawls, as well, to add more colors to the eye-scrambling blend. Except for the gray-haired man who had been driving the lead wagon, they all appeared to be short of their middle years. He must be the Seeker
, the leader of the caravan. Mat dismounted, and after a moment, Tuon and Selucia did, too.
The Tinkers stopped at that, calling their clogs to heel. The big animals slumped to the ground, tongues lolling out, and the people came on more slowly. None carried so much as a stick, and though Mat wore no weapons that showed, they eyed him warily. The men clustered in front of him, while the women gathered around Tuon and Selucia. There was no threat in it, but as easily as that, Tuon and Selucia were separated from him, off where the Tinker women could make inquiries. Suddenly it occurred to him that Tuon might think it a fine game to claim he was trying to bother her. She and Selucia could ride off while he was trying to contend with Tinkers crowding around him and Pips so he could not climb into the saddle. That was all they would do, but unless he was willing to fight his way clear, they might keep him here for hours, maybe, to give that pair time to "escape."
The gray-haired man bowed with his hands pressed to his chest. "Peace be on you and yours, my Lord. Forgiveness if we intrude, but we feared our dogs had frightened the ladies' horses."
Mat responded with a bow in the same fashion. "Peace be on you always. Seeker, and on all the People. The ladies' horses weren't frightened. The ladies are . . . impetuous at times." What were the women saying? He tried to eavesdrop, but their voices were low murmurs.
"You know something of the People, my Lord?" The Seeker sounded surprised and had a right to. The Tuatha'an kept away from anywhere larger than a moderate-sized village. They would seldom encounter anyone in a silk coat.
"Only a little," Mat replied. A very little. He had memories of meeting Tinkers, but he himself had never spoken to one before. What were those bloody women saying? "Will you answer me a question? I've seen a number of your caravans the past few days, more than I'd have expected to, and all heading toward Ebou Dar. Is there a reason?"
The man hesitated, darting a glance toward the women. They were still murmuring away, and he had to be wondering why their conversation was lasting so long. After all, it only needed a moment to say yes, I need help, or the opposite. "It is the people called Seanchan, my Lord," he said finally. "Word is spreading among the People that there is safety where the Seanchan rule, and equal justice for all. Elsewhere. . . . You understand, my Lord?"
Mat did. Like the showfolk, Tinkers were strangers wherever they went, and worse, strangers with an undeserved reputation for thievery—well, they stole no more often than anyone else—and a deserved one for trying to entice young people into joining them. And on top of it, for Tinkers there was no question of fighting back if anybody tried to rob them or chase them away. "Take a care. Seeker. Their safety comes at a price, and some of their laws are harsh. You know what they do with women who can channel?"
"Thank you for your concern, my Lord," the man said calmly, "but few of our women ever begin channeling, and if one does, we will do as we always do and take her to Tar Valon."
Abruptly, the women began laughing, great gales and peals. The Seeker relaxed visibly. If the women were laughing, Mat was not the kind of man who would strike them down or kill them for getting in his way. For Mat's part, he scowled. There was nothing in that laughter that he liked.
The Tinkers made their departure with more apologies from the Seeker for having bothered them, but the women kept looking back and laughing behind cupped hands. Some of the men leaned close as they walked, plainly asking questions, but the women just shook their heads. And looked back again, laughing.
"What did you tell them?" Mat asked sourly.
"Oh. that's none of your business, now is it, Toy?" Tuon replied, and Selucia laughed. Oh, she bloody cackled, she did. He decided he was better off not knowing. Women just purely enjoyed planting needles in a man.
CHAPTER 9
A Short Path
Tuon and Selucia were not the only women who caused Mat trouble, of course. Sometimes it seemed that most of the trouble in his life came from women, which he could not understand at all since he always tried to treat them well. Even Egeanin gave her share of grief, though it was the smallest share.
"I was right. You do think you can marry her," she drawled when he asked her for help with Tuon. She and Domon were seated on the steps of their wagon, with their arms around each other. A trickle of smoke rose from Domon's pipe. It was midmorning on a fine day. though gathering clouds threatened rain for later, and the performers were putting on their acts for the inhabitants of four small villages that, combined, perhaps equaled Runnien Crossing in size. Mat had no desire to go watch. Oh, he still enjoyed watching the contortionists. and better still the female acrobats and tumblers, but when you saw jugglers and fire-eaters and the like every day just about, even Miyora and her leopards became, well, less interesting if not exactly ordinary. "Never you mind what I think. Egeanin. Will you tell me what you know of her? Trying to find out from her is like fishing blindfolded and bare-handed in a briar patch trying to catch a rabbit."
"My name is Leilwin. Cauthon. Don't forget it again." she said in tones suitable for giving orders on a ship's deck. Her eyes tried to drive the command home like blue hammers. "Why should I help you? You aim too high above yourself, a mole yearning for the sun. You could face execution for simply saying you want to marry her. It's disgusting. Besides. I've left all that behind me. Or it's left me," she added bitterly. Domon gave her a one-armed hug.
"If you've left all that behind you. what do you care how disgusting my wanting to marry her is?" There. It was out in the open. Partly, at least.
Domon removed the pipe from his mouth long enough to blow a smoke-ring aimed at Mat's face. "If she does no want to help you. then give over." He gave it that same ship's deck voice of command.
Egeanin muttered under her breath. She appeared to be arguing with herself. Finally, she shook her head. "No, Bayle. He's right. If I'm cast adrift, then I have to find a new ship and a new course. I can never return to Seanchan, so I might as well cut the cable and be done with it."
What she knew of Tuon was mainly rumor—it seemed the Imperial family lived their lives behind walls even when in plain sight, and only whispers of what went on behind those walls escaped—yet those were sufficient to make the hair on the back of Mat's neck stand up. His wife-to-be had had a brother and a sister assassinated? After they tried to have her killed, true, but still! What kind of family went around killing one another? The Seanchan Blood and the Imperial family, for starters. Half of her siblings were dead, assassinated, most of them, and maybe the others, too. Some of what Egeanin—Leilwin— had to tell was generally known among Seanchan, and hardly more comforting. Tuon would have been schooled in intrigue from infancy, schooled in weapons and fighting with her bare hands, heavily guarded yet expected to be her own last line of defense. All of those born to the Blood were taught to dissemble, to disguise their intentions and ambitions. Power shifted constantly among the Blood, some climbing higher, others slipping down, and the dance was only faster and more dangerous in the Imperial family. The Empress—she started to add, 'May she live forever," and half-choked in swallowing the words, then closed her eyes tor a long moment before continuing—the Empress had borne many children, as every Empress did, so that among those who survived there would be one fit to rule after her. It would not do to have someone who was stupid or a fool ascend the Crystal Throne. Tuon was accounted very far from either. Light! The woman he was to marry was as bad as Warder and Aes Sedai wrapped into one. And maybe as dangerous.
He had several conversations with Egeanin—he was careful to name her Leilwin to her face lest she go for him with her dagger, yet he thought of her as Egeanin—trying to learn more, but her knowledge of the Blood was largely from the outside looking in, and her knowledge of the Imperial Court, by her own admission, little better than that of a street urchin in Seandar. The day he gave Tuon the mare, he had ridden alongside Egeanin's wagon having one of those fruitless conversations. He had accompanied Tuon and Selucia for a time, but they kept looking at him sideways, then exchanging glance
s and giggling. Over what they had told the Tinker women, without a sliver of doubt. A man could only take so much of that sort of thing.
"A clever gift, that mare," Egeanin said, leaning out from the driver's seat to look up the line of wagons. Domon was handling the reins. She took her turn sometimes, but handling a team was not among the skills she had learned on ships. "How did you know?"
"Know what?" he asked.
She straightened and adjusted her wig. He did not know why she continued to wear the thing. Her own black hair was short, but no shorter than Selucia's. "About courting gifts. Among the Blood, when you are courting someone higher than you. a traditional gift is something exotic or rare. Best of all is if you can connect the gift somehow to one of the recipient's pleasures, and it's well known the High Lady loves horses. It's good you've acknowledged that you don't expect to be her equal, too. Not that this is going to work, you understand. I don't have a clue why she's still here, now you've stopped guarding her, but you can't believe she'll actually say the words. When she marries, it will be for the good of the Empire, not because some layabout like you gave her a horse or made her smile."
Mat ground his teeth to keep from shouting a curse. He had acknowledged what? No wonder a set of bloody dice had stopped. Tuon would let him forget this when it snowed on Sunday. He was certain sure of that.
If Leilwin bloody Shipless gave him small griefs, the Aes Sedai managed larger. Aes Sedai liked nothing better. He was resigned to them traipsing about every village and town they stopped at, asking questions and doing the Light knew what else. He had no choice but resignation, with no way to stop them. They claimed to be taking care—at least, Teslyn and Edesina did: Joline snapped that he was a fool for worrying—yet an Aes Sedai taking care was still clearly a woman of consequence whether or not anybody recognized what she was. Lacking the coin for silks, they had purchased bolts of fine wool in Jurador, and the seamstresses worked as hard for Aes Sedai as they did for Mat's gold, so they strolled about dressed like wealthy merchants and as sure of themselves as any noble ever born. Nobody saw one of them walk five strides without knowing that she expected the world to conform itself to her. Three women like that, with a traveling show at that, were sure to cause talk. At least Joline left her Great Serpent ring in her belt pouch. The other two had lost theirs to the Seanchan. If Mat had seen Joline with the thing actually on her finger, he thought he would have wept.
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