Comar's sword lay within easy reach of his hand. But he did not move. He stared at Mat, though, as Mat kicked the sword away and went to one knee beside him. Light! I think his back is broken! "I told you you should have gone, Comar. Your luck is all used up."
"Fool," the big man breathed. "Do you… think I… was the only… one hunting them? They won't… live till…" His eyes stared at Mat, and his mouth was open, but he said no more. Nor ever would again.
Mat met the glazing stare, trying to will more words out of the dead man. Who else, burn you? Who? Where are they? My luck. Burn me, what happened to my luck? He became aware of the innkeeper pulling frantically at his arm.
"You must go. You must. Before the Defenders come. I will show them the dice. I will tell them it was an outlander, but a tall man. With red-colored hair, and gray eyes. No one will suffer. A man I dreamed of last night. No one real. No one will contradict me. He took coin from everyone with his dice. But you must go. You must!" Everyone else in the room was studiously looking another way.
Mat let himself be hauled away from the dead man and pushed outside. Thom was already waiting in the rain. He seized Mat's arm and limped down the street hurriedly, pulling Mat stumbling behind him. Mat's hood hung down his back; the rain soaked his hair and poured down his face, down his neck, but he did not notice. The gleeman kept looking over his shoulder, searching the street beyond Mat.
"Are you asleep, boy? You did not look asleep back there. Come on, boy. The Defenders will arrest any outlander within two streets, no matter what description that innkeeper gives."
"It's the luck," Mat mumbled. "I've figured it out. The dice. My luck works best when things are… random. Like dice. Not much good for cards. No good at stones. Too much pattern. It has to be random. Even finding Comar. I'd stopped visiting every inn. I walked into that one by chance. Thom, if I am going to find Egwene and the others in time, I have to look without any pattern."
"What are you talking about? The man is dead. If he already killed them… Well, you've avenged them. If he hasn't, you saved them. Now will you bloody walk faster? The Defenders won't be long coming, and they are not so gentle as the Queen's Guards."
Mat shook his arm free and picked up his pace unsteadily, dragging the quarterstaff. "He let it slip that he hadn't located them, yet. But he said he was not the only one. Thom, I believe him. I was looking him in the eye, and he was telling the truth. I still have to find them, Thom. And now I don't even know who is after them. I have to find them."
Stifling a huge yawn with his fist, Thom pulled Mat's hood up against the rain. "Not tonight, boy. I need sleep, and so do you."
Wet. My hair's dripping in my face. His head seemed fuzzy. With a need for sleep, he realized after a moment. And he realized how tired he was, if he had to think just to know it. "All right, Thom. But I am going to look again as soon as it's light." Thom nodded and coughed, and they made their way back to The White Crescent through the rain.
Dawn was not long in coming, but Mat rousted himself out of bed, and he and Thom set off trying to search every inn inside the walls of Tear. Mat let himself wander wherever the mood and the next turning took him, not looking for inns at all, and tossing a coin to decide whether to go in. For three days and nights he did this, and for three days and nights it rained without stopping, sometimes thundering, sometimes quiet, but always pouring down.
Thom's cough grew worse, so he had to stop playing the flute and telling stories, and he would not carry his harp out in that weather; he insisted on going along, however, and men still talked to a gleeman. Mat's luck with the dice seemed even better since he had begun this random wander, though he never stayed in one inn or tavern long enough to win more than a few coins. Neither of them heard anything useful. Rumors of war with Illian. Rumors of invading Mayene. Rumors of invasion from Andor, of the Sea Folk shutting off trade, of Artur Hawkwing's armies returning from the dead. Rumors the Dragon was coming. The men Mat gambled with were as gloomy about one rumor as the next; they seemed to him to hunt for the darkest rumors they could find and half believe them all. But he heard not a whisper that might lead him to Egwene and the others. Not one innkeeper had seen women matching their descriptions.
He began to have bad dreams, no doubt from all his worrying. Egwene and Nynaeve and Elayne, and some fellow with close-cropped white hair, wearing a coat with puffy, striped sleeves like Comar's, laughing and weaving a net around them. Only sometimes it was Moiraine he was weaving the net for, and sometimes he held a crystal sword instead, a sword that blazed like the sun as soon as he touched it. Sometimes it was Rand who held the sword. For some reason, he dreamed of Rand a good deal.
Mat was sure it was all because he was not getting enough sleep, not eating except when he happened to remember, but he would not stop. He had a wager to win, he told himself, and he meant to win this one if it killed him.
Chapter 50
(Serpent and Wheel)
The Hammer
The afternoon sun was hot as the ferry docked in Tear; puddles stood on the steaming stones of the dock, and the air seemed almost as damp to Perrin as Illian's had. The air smelled of pitch and wood and rope — he could see shipyards further south along the river — of spices and iron and barley, of perfumes and wines and a hundred different aromas he could not single out from the melange, most coming from the warehouses behind the docks. When the wind swirled momentarily out of the north, he caught the scents of fish, too, but those faded as the wind swung back. No smells of anything to hunt. His mind reached out to feel for wolves before he realized what he was doing and snapped his guards shut. He had done that too often of late. There had been no wolves, of course. Not in a city like this. He wished it did not feel so — alone.
As soon as the ramp at the end of the barge was lowered, he led Stepper up to the dock after Moiraine and Lan. The huge shape of the Stone of Tear lay off to their left, shadowed so that it looked like a mountain despite the great banner at its highest point. He did not want to look at the Stone, but it seemed impossible to look at the city without seeing it. Is he here yet? Light, if he has already tried to get into that, he could be dead already. And then it would all be for nothing.
"What are we meant to find here?" Zarine asked behind him. She had not stopped asking questions; she just did not ask them of the Aes Sedai or the Warder. "Illian showed us Gray Men and the Wild Hunt. What does Tear hold that — that someone wants to keep you from so badly?"
Perrin glanced around; none of the dockmen shuttling cargo about seemed to have heard. He was sure he would have smelled fear if they had. He bit back the sharp remark that hung on the end of his tongue. She had a quicker tongue, and a sharper.
"I wish you did not sound so eager," Loial rumbled. "You seem to think it will all be as easy as Illian, Faile."
"Easy?" Zarine muttered. "Easy! Loial, we were nearly killed twice in one night. Illian was enough for a Hunter's song in itself. What makes you call it easy?"
Perrin grimaced. He wished Loial had not decided to call Zarine by that name she had chosen; it was a constant reminder that Moiraine thought she was Min's falcon. And it did nothing to stop Perrin wondering if she was the beautiful woman Min had warned him against, too. At least I've not run up against the hawk. Or a Tuatha'an with a sword! Now that would be the strangest of all, or I am a wool merchant!
"Stop asking questions, Zarine," he said as he swung up into Stepper's saddle. "You will find out why we are here when Moiraine decides to tell you." He tried not to look at the Stone.
She turned those dark, tilted eyes on him. "I do not think you know why, blacksmith. I think that is why you will not tell me, because you cannot. Admit it, farmboy."
With a small sigh, he rode off the docks after Moiraine and Lan. Zarine did not dig at Loial in that cutting way when the Ogier refused to answer her questions. He thought she must be trying to browbeat him into using that name. He would not.
Moiraine had tied the oiled cloak behind her saddle, atop the i
nnocuous-looking bundle that held the Dragon banner, and despite the heat had donned the blue linen cloak from Illian. Its deep, wide hood hid her face. Her Great Serpent ring was on a cord around her neck. Tear, she had said, did not forbid the presence of Aes Sedai, only channeling, but the Defenders of the Stone kept a close eye on any woman who wore the ring. She did not want to be watched on this visit to Tear.
Lan had stuffed his color-shifting cloak into his saddlebags two days earlier, when it had become apparent that whoever had sent the Darkhounds — Sammael, Perrin thought with a shiver, and tried not to think of the name at all — whoever had sent them had not sent any more pursuit. The Warder had made no concessions to the heat of Illian, and he made none to the lesser heat of Tear. His gray-green coat was buttoned up all the way.
Perrin wore his coat half undone, and the neck of his shirt untied. Tear might be a little cooler than Illian, but it was still as hot as summer in the Two Rivers, and as always after rain, the dampness of the air made the heat seem worse. His axe belt hung looped around the tall pommel of his saddle. It was handy there, if he needed it, and he felt better not wearing it.
He was surprised at the mud in the first streets they rode along. Only villages and smaller towns had dirt streets, that he had seen, and Tear was one of the great cities. But the people did not seem to mind, many going barefoot. A woman walking on little wooden platforms caught his attention for a time, and he wondered why they did not all wear them. Those baggy breeches on the men looked as if they might be cooler than the snug ones he wore, but he was sure he would feel a fool if he tried them. He made a picture in his head of himself wearing those breeches and one of those round straw hats, and chuckled at it.
"What do you find funny, Perrin?" Loial asked. His ears were drooping till their tufts were hidden in his hair, and he looked at the people in the street worriedly. "These folk look… defeated, Perrin. They did not look this way when I was here last. Even people who let their grove be cut down do not deserve to look like this."
As Perrin began to study faces instead of just looking at everything at once, he saw that Loial was right. Something had gone out of too many of those faces. Hope, maybe. Curiosity. They barely glanced at the party riding by, except to get out of the way of the horses. The Ogier, mounted on an animal as big as a draft horse, might as well have been Lan, or Perrin.
The streets changed, gaining wide stone paving, after they passed inside the gates of the high, gray city wall, past the hard, dark eyes of soldiers in breastplates over red coats with wide sleeves ending in narrow white cuffs, and rimmed, round helmets with a ridge over the top. Instead of the baggy breeches other men wore, theirs were tight, and tucked into knee-high boots. The soldiers frowned at Lan's sword and fingered their own, stared sharply at Perrin's axe and his bow, but in a way, despite their frowns and sharp looks, there was something beaten in their faces, too, as if nothing were really worth the effort any longer.
The buildings were larger and taller inside the walls, though most were made no differently from those outside. The roofs looked a bit odd to Perrin, especially those that came to points, but he had seen so many different kinds of roof since leaving home that he only wondered what kind of nails they used with their tiles. In some places, the people did not use nails on their roof tiles at all.
Palaces and great buildings stood among the smaller and more ordinary, seemingly placed haphazardly; a structure of towers and squarish, white domes, surrounded on all sides by wide streets, might have shops and inns and houses on the other sides of those streets. A huge hall fronted by squared columns of marble four paces on a side, with fifty steps to climb to reach bronze doors five spans high, had a bakery one side and a tailor on the other.
More men wore coats and breeches like the soldiers' here, though in brighter colors and without armor, and some even wore swords. None of them went barefoot, not even those in baggy breeches. The women's dresses were often longer, their necklines lower to bare shoulders and even bosom, the cloth as likely to be silk as wool. The Sea Folk traded a good deal of silk through Tear. As many sedan chairs and carriages drawn by teams of horses moved through the streets as ox-carts and wagons. Yet too many of the faces had that same look of having given up.
The inn Lan chose, the Star, had a weaver's shop on one side and a smithy on the other, with narrow alleyways between. The smithy was of undressed gray stone, the weaver's and the inn of wood, though the Star stood four stories tall and had small windows in its roof as well. The rattle of looms was hard-pressed to compete with the clang of the smith's hammer. They handed their horses over to stablemen, to be taken around back, and went inside the inn. There were fish smells from the kitchen, baking and perhaps stewing, and the scent of roast mutton. The men in the common room all wore the tight coats and loose breeches; Perrin did not think richer men — somehow he was sure the men in colorful coats with puffy sleeves and the bare-shouldered women in bright silk were all rich, or nobles — those folk would not put up with the noise. Perhaps that was why Lan had chosen it.
"How are we supposed to sleep with this racketing?" Zarine muttered.
"No questions?" he said with a smile. For a moment he thought she was going to stick out her tongue at him.
The innkeeper was a round-faced, balding man in a long, deep blue coat and those loose breeches, who bowed over hands clasped across his stout belly. His face had that look, a weary resignation. "The Light shine on you, mistresses, and welcome," he sighed. "The Light shine on you, masters, and welcome." He gave a small start at Perrin's yellow eyes, then passed wearily on to Loial. "The Light shine on you, friend Ogier, and welcome. It is a year or more since I have seen one of your kind in Tear. Some work or other at the Stone. They stayed in the Stone, of course, but I saw them in the street one day." He finished with another sigh, seemingly unable to summon any curiosity as to why another Ogier had come to Tear, or why any of them had come, for that matter.
The balding man, whose name was Jurah Haret, showed them to their rooms himself. Apparently Moiraine's silk dress and the way she kept her face hidden, taken with Lan's hard face and sword, made them a lady and her guard in his eyes, and so worthy of his personal attention. Perrin he obviously took as some kind of retainer, and Zarine he was plainly unsure of — to her visible disgust — and Loial was, after all, an Ogier. He called men to push beds together for Loial, and offered Moiraine a private room for her meals if she wished. She accepted graciously.
They kept together through it all, making a small procession through the upper halls until Hater bowed and sighed his way out of their presence, leaving them all where they had begun, outside Moiraine's room. The walls were white plaster, and Loial's head brushed the hall ceiling.
"Odious fellow," Zarine muttered, brushing furiously at the dust on her narrow skirts with both hands. "I believe he took me for your handmaid, Aes Sedai. I will not stand for that!"
"Watch your tongue," Lan said softly. "If you use that name where folk can hear, you will regret it, girl." She looked as if she were going to argue, but his icy blue eyes stilled her tongue this time, if it did not cool her glare.
Moiraine ignored them. Staring off at nothing, she worked her cloak in her hands almost as if wiping them. Unaware what she was doing, in Perrin's opinion.
"How do we go about finding Rand?" he asked, but she did not appear to hear him. "Moiraine?"
"Remain close to the inn," she said after a moment. "Tear can be a dangerous city for those who do not know its ways. The Pattern can be torn, here." That last was soft, as if to herself. In a stronger voice she said, "Lan, let us see what we can discover without attracting attention. The rest of you, stay close to the inn!"
" 'Stay close to the inn,' " Zarine mimicked as the Aes Sedai and the Warder disappeared down the stairs. But she said it quietly enough that they would not hear. "This Rand. He is the one you called the…" If she looked like a falcon right then, it was a very uneasy falcon. "And we are in Tear, where the Heart of the Stone holds�
�� And the Prophecies say… The Light burn me, ta'veren, is this a story I want to be in?"
"It is not a story, Zarine." For a moment Perrin felt almost as hopeless as the innkeeper had sounded. "The Wheel weaves us into the Pattern. You chose to tangle your thread with ours; it's too late to untangle it, now."
"Light!" she growled. "Now you sound like her!"
He left her there with Loial and went to put his things in his room — it had a low bed, comfortable but small, as city people seemed to think befitted a servant, a washstand, a stool, and a few pegs on the cracked plaster wall — and when he came out, they were both gone. The ring of hammer on anvil called to him.
So much in Tear looked odd that it was a relief to walk into the smithy. The ground floor was all one large room with no back wall except for two long doors that stood open on a yard for shoeing horses and oxen, complete with an ox sling. Hammers stood in their stands, tongs of various kinds and sizes hung on the exposed joists of the walls, buttresses and hoof knives and other farrier's tools lay neatly arranged on wooden benches with chisels and beak irons and swages and all the implements of the blacksmith's craft. Bins held lengths of iron and steel in various thicknesses. Five grinding wheels of different roughness stood about the hard dirt floor, six anvils, and three stone-sided forges with their bellows, though only one held glowing coals. Quenching barrels stood ready to hand.
The smith was plying his hammer on yellow-hot iron gripped in heavy tongs. He wore baggy breeches and had pale blue eyes, but the long leather vest over his bare chest and apron were not much different from those Perrin and Master Luhhan had worn back in Emond's Field, and his thick arms and shoulders spoke of years working metal. His dark hair had almost the same amount of gray that Perrin remembered in Master Luhhan's. More vests and aprons hung on the wall, as if the man had apprentices, but they were not in evidence now. The forge-fire smelled like home. The hot iron smelled like home.
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