A Crown of Swords

by Jordan, Robert

  “You should have worn white after all,” Elayne murmured, earning a suspicious sideways glance. After a moment, she added, “You did say it was the color for funerals.” Which produced a satisfied nod, though it was not what she had meant at all. This would be disaster if they could not keep peace among themselves. Birgitte had had to settle for an infusion of herbs this morning, and a particularly bitter mix at that, because Nynaeve claimed she was not angry enough to channel. She had gone on in the most dramatic manner about funeral white being the only suitable color, insisted she was not coming, until Elayne dragged her out of their apartments, and announced at least twenty times since that she would not apologize. Peace had to be kept, but. . . . “You agreed to this, Nynaeve. No, I don’t want to hear any more about the rest of us bullying you. You agreed. So stop sulking.”

  Nynaeve spluttered, eyes going wide with outrage. She was not to be diverted, though, despite one fiercely incredulous “Sulking?” under her breath. “We need to discuss this further, Elayne. There is no need to be so hasty. There must be a thousand reasons why this won’t work, ta’veren or no ta’veren, and Mat Cauthon is nine hundred of them.”

  Elayne gave her a level look. “Did you deliberately choose the bitterest herbs that would work this morning?” Wide-eyed outrage turned to wide-eyed innocence, but red stained Nynaeve’s cheeks. Elayne pushed open the door. Nynaeve followed, muttering. Elayne would not have been surprised if she stuck out her tongue, too. Sulky was not even in it, this morning.

  The smell of breads baking wafted from the kitchens, and all the shutters were open to air out the common room. A plump-cheeked serving woman standing atop a tall stool stretched on tiptoes to take down bedraggled evergreen branches from above the windows, while others replaced tables and benches and chairs that must have been taken away for the dancing. This early, no one else was about, except for a skinny girl in a white apron, sweeping half-heartedly with a brush-broom. She might have been pretty if her mouth had not seemed set in a constant pout. There was surprisingly little mess, considering that inns were supposed to be riotous, even licentious, during festivals. A part of her wished she could have seen it, though.

  “Could you direct me to Master Cauthon’s rooms?” she asked the skinny girl with a smile, proffering two silver pennies. Nynaeve sniffed. She was tight as the skin on a fresh apple; she had given the beggar one copper!

  The girl eyed them sullenly—and surprisingly, the coins as well—and mumbled something sour that sounded like, “A gilded woman last night and ladies this morning.” She gave directions grudgingly. For a moment Elayne thought she intended to scorn the pennies, but on the point of turning away, the girl snatched the silver from her hand without so much as a word of thanks, pausing only to tuck them into the neck of her dress, of all places, before she set to swinging her broom as if to beat the floor to death. Perhaps she had a pocket sewn in there.

  “You see,” Nynaeve grumbled under her breath. “You mark me, he tried to push his attentions on that young woman. That’s the sort of man you want me to apologize to.”

  Elayne said nothing, only led the way up the railless steps at the back of the room. If Nynaeve did not stop complaining. . . . The first hallway on the right, the girl had said, and the last door on the left, but in front of it, she hesitated, biting her lower lip.

  Nynaeve brightened. “You see it’s a bad idea now, don’t you? We aren’t Aiel, Elayne. I like the girl well enough, for all she’s forever fondling that knife of hers, but just think of the absolute drivel she talked. It’s impossible. You must know it is.”

  “We did not agree to anything impossible, Nynaeve.” Keeping her voice firm took an effort. Some of what Aviendha had suggested, apparently in all seriousness. . . . She actually had suggested letting the man switch them! “What we did agree to is quite possible.” Barely. She rapped loudly on the paneled door with her knuckles. There was a fish carved on the door, a round thing with stripes and a snout. All of the doors had different carvings, most of fish. There was no answer.

  Nynaeve puffed out a breath she must have been holding. “Perhaps he has gone out. We’ll just have to come back another time.”

  “At this hour?” She rapped once more. “You say he always lies abed when he can.” Still no sound from inside.

  “Elayne, if Birgitte is any indication, Mat got himself juicy as a fiddler last night. He won’t thank us for waking him. Why don’t we just go away and—”

  Elayne lifted the latch and went in. Nynaeve followed with a sigh that could have been heard back in the Palace.

  Mat Cauthon was sprawled on his bed atop the knitted red coverlet, a folded cloth lying over his eyes and dripping onto the pillow. The room was not very tidy despite the absence of dust. A boot stood on the washstand—the washstand!—next to a white basin full of unused water, the stand-mirror sat askew, as if he had stumbled into it and simply left it tilted back sharply, and his wrinkled coat lay tossed across a ladder-back chair. He wore everything else, including that black scarf he seemed never to take off, and the other boot. The silver foxhead dangled from his unlaced shirt.

  The medallion made her fingers itch. If he really was lying there sodden with drink, she might be able to remove it unfelt. One way or another, she intended to find out how the thing absorbed the Power. Finding out how almost anything worked was a fascination to her, but that foxhead was all the puzzles in the world rolled into one.

  Nynaeve caught her sleeve and jerked her head toward the door, silently mouthing “asleep” and something else she could not make out. Probably another plea to go.

  “Leave me alone, Nerim,” he mumbled suddenly. “I told you before; I don’t want anything but a new skull. And close the door softly, or I’ll pin your ears to it.”

  Nynaeve jumped, and tried to pull her toward the door, but she stood her ground. “It is not Nerim, Master Cauthon.”

  Raising his head from the pillow, he used both hands to lift the cloth a trifle and squinted at them with reddened eyes.

  Grinning, Nynaeve made no effort at all to hide her pleasure at his wretched state. What Elayne could not understand at first was why she wanted to grin, too. Her one experience with drinking too much had left her with nothing but pity and sympathy for anyone so snared. In the back of her mind she felt Birgitte’s head throbbing still, and it came to her. Certainly she could not like Birgitte drowning herself in drink, whatever the reason, but neither could she like the thought that anyone could do anything at all better than her first Warder. A ridiculous thought. Embarrassing. But satisfying, too.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded hoarsely, then winced and lowered his voice. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s morning,” Nynaeve said sharply. “Don’t you remember talking with Birgitte?”

  “Could you not be so loud?” he whispered, closing his eyes. The next instant, they popped open again. “Birgitte?” Sitting up abruptly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. For a time he just sat there, peering at the floorboards, elbows on his knees and the medallion swinging from its thong around his neck. At last he turned his head to look at them balefully. Or perhaps his eyes just made it seem so. “What did she tell you?”

  “She informed us of your demands, Master Cauthon,” Elayne said formally. This must be how it felt to stand before the headsman’s block. There was nothing for it but to keep her head high and face whatever came proudly. “I wish to thank you from my heart for rescuing me from the Stone of Tear.” There, she had begun, and it had not hurt. Not very much.

  Nynaeve stood there, glowering, her lips growing tighter and tighter. The woman was not going to leave her to do this alone. Elayne embraced the Source almost before she thought, and channeled a thin flow of Air that flicked Nynaeve’s earlobe like a snapping finger. The woman clapped a hand to her ear and glowered, but Elayne simply turned coolly back to Master Cauthon and waited.

  “I thank you, too,” Nynaeve mumbled sullenly at last. “From the heart.” />
  Elayne rolled her eyes in spite of herself. Well, he had asked them to speak more softly. And he did seem to hear. Strangely, he shrugged with embarrassment.

  “Oh, that. It was nothing. Likely thing, you’d have gotten yourself free in another tick without me.” His head sank to his hands, and he pressed the damp cloth to his eyes once more. “On your way out, would you ask Caira to bring me some wine-punch? A slender girl, pretty, with a warm eye.”

  Elayne quivered. Nothing? The man demanded an apology, she humbled herself to give it, and now it was nothing? He was not deserving of sympathy or pity! She still held saidar, and she considered thumping him with a much thicker flow than she had used on Nynaeve. Not that that would do any good so long as he wore the foxhead. Then again, it hung loose, not touching him. Did it offer the same protection when it was not . . . ?

  Nynaeve ended her speculation by lunging for him, fingers clawed. Elayne managed to put herself between them and seize the other woman by the shoulders. For a stretched moment they stood nose-to-nose except for the difference in their heights; with a grimace, Nynaeve finally relaxed, and Elayne felt it was safe to release her.

  The man still had his head bowed, all unaware. Whether the medallion protected him or not, she could snatch his bowstave from the corner and beat him till he howled. She felt heat rise in her face: She had stopped Nynaeve from ruining everything, only to think of ruining it herself. Worse, by the smirky, self-satisfied little smile the other woman gave her, she knew very well what had been in her head.

  “There is more, Master Cauthon,” she announced, squaring her shoulders. The smile vanished from Nynaeve’s face. “We also wish to apologize for delaying so long in giving you your much deserved thanks. And we apologize . . . humbly . . .” She stumbled a little on that. “. . . for the way we have treated you since.” Nynaeve stretched out a beseeching hand that she ignored. “To show the depth of our regret, we undertake the following promises.” Aviendha had said an apology was only a beginning. “We will not belittle or demean you in any way, nor shout at you for any reason, nor . . . nor attempt to give you orders.” Nynaeve winced. Elayne’s mouth tightened too, but she did not stop. “Recognizing your due concern for our safety, we will not leave the palace without telling you where we are going, and we will listen to your advice.” Light, she had no wish to be Aiel, no wish to do any of this, but she wanted Aviendha’s respect. “If you . . . if you decide that we are . . .” Not that she had any intention of becoming a sister-wife—the very idea was indecent!—but she did like her. “. . . are putting ourselves in needless danger . . .” It was not Aviendha’s fault that Rand had caught both their hearts. And Min’s as well. “. . . we will accept bodyguards of your choosing . . .” Fate or ta’veren or whatever, what was, was. She loved both women like sisters. “. . . and keep them with us as long as possible.” Burn the man for doing this to her! It was not Mat Cauthon she meant. “This I swear by the Lion Throne of Andor.” She breathed in as if she had run a mile. Nynaeve wore a face like a cornered badger.

  His head swiveled toward them ever so slowly, and he lowered the cloth just enough to expose one red-streaked eye. “You sound like you have an iron rod down your throat, my Lady,” he said mockingly. “You have my permission to call me Mat.” Odious man! He would not know civility if it bit him on the nose! That sanguine eye slanted toward her. “What about you, Nynaeve? I heard a lot of ‘we’ from her, but not a word from you.”

  “I won’t shout at you,” Nynaeve shouted. “And all the rest, too. I promise, you . . . you . . . !” She gobbled on the edge of swallowing her tongue as she realized she could not call him one of the names he warranted without breaking the promise already. And yet, the effect of her shout was most gratifying.

  With a cry, he shuddered and dropped the cloth, clutched his head with both hands. His eyes bulged. “Flaming dice,” he whimpered, or something very like. It suddenly struck Elayne that he would be a very good source of pithy language. Stablemen and the like always seemed to scrape their tongues clean the moment they saw her. Of course, she had promised herself to civilize him, to make him useful to Rand, but that need not interfere too much with his language. In fact, she realized there was a good deal she had not promised not to do. Pointing that out should settle Nynaeve considerably.

  After a long moment, he spoke in a hollow voice. “Thank you, Nynaeve.” He paused to swallow hard. “I thought you two must be somebody else in disguise, there for a bit. Since I still seem to be alive, we might as well take care of the rest of it. I seem to recall that Birgitte said you wanted me to find something for you. What?”

  “You won’t find it,” Nynaeve told him in a firm voice. Well, perhaps more hard than firm, but Elayne did not think of calling her down. He merited every wince. “You will accompany us, and we will find it.”

  “Backtracking already, Nynaeve?” Somehow, he managed a derisive sneer, especially hideous with his eyes. “You just finished promising to do as I say. If you want a tame ta’veren on a leash, go ask Rand or Perrin and see what answer you get.”

  “We promised no such thing, Matrim Cauthon,” Nynaeve snapped, going up on her toes. “I promised no such thing!” She looked about to fling herself at him again. Even her braid seemed to bristle.

  Elayne kept a better rein on her temper. They would get nowhere bludgeoning him. “We will listen to your advice, and accept it if it is reasonable, Master . . . Mat,” she chided gently. Surely he could not really believe they had promised to. . . . Looking at him, though, she saw that he did. Oh, Light! Nynaeve was right. He was going to be trouble.

  She held that rein firmly. Channeling again, she lifted his coat from the chair to a proper place on one of the pegs on the wall so she could sit, back straight, arranging her skirts carefully. Keeping her promises to Master Cauthon—Mat—and to herself was going to be difficult, but nothing he said or did could touch her. Nynaeve eyed the only other place to sit, a low carved wooden footstool, and remained standing. One hand moved toward her braid, before she folded her arms. Her foot tapped ominously.

  “The Atha’an Miere call it the Bowl of the Winds, Master . . . Mat. It is a ter’angreal. . . .”

  By the end, a light of excitement shone through his sickliness. “Now, that would be a thing to find,” he murmured. “In the Rahad.” He shook his head, and flinched. “I’ll tell you this now. Neither of you is setting foot on the other side of the river without four or five of my Redarms each. Not outside the palace, for that matter. Did Birgitte tell you about the note that was stuffed in my coat? I’m sure I told her. And there’s Carridin and his Darkfriends; you can’t tell me he isn’t up to something.”

  “Any sister who supports Egwene as Amyrlin is in danger from the Tower.” Bodyguards everywhere? Light! A dangerous light shone in Nynaeve’s eyes, and her foot tapped faster. “We cannot hide, Mast . . . Mat, and we will not. Jaichim Carridin will be taken care of in due course.” They had not promised to tell him everything, and they could not let him be diverted. “There are more important matters afoot.”

  “Due course?” he began, voice rising in disbelief, but Nynaeve cut him short.

  “Four or five each?” she said sourly. “That’s ridic—” Her eyes shut for a moment, and her tone became milder. Slightly milder. “I mean to say, it isn’t sensible. Elayne and me, Birgitte and Aviendha. You don’t have that many soldiers. Anyway, all we really need is you.” That last came out as though dragged. It was much too much an admission.

  “Birgitte and Aviendha don’t need minders,” he said absently. “I suppose this Bowl of the Winds is more important than Carridin, but. . . . It doesn’t seem right, letting Darkfriends walk loose.”

  Slowly Nynaeve’s face turned purple. Elayne checked her own in the stand-mirror, relieved to see she was maintaining her composure. On the outside, anyway. The man was reprehensible! Minders? She was not sure which would be worse: that he had flung that offhand insult on purpose, or that he had done so without realizing. She eyed
herself in the mirror again and lowered her chin a trifle. Minders! She was poise itself.

  He studied them with those bloodshot eyes, but saw nothing, apparently. “Was that all Birgitte told you?” he asked, and Nynaeve snapped back, “That was quite enough, I’d think, even for you.” Inexplicably, he looked surprised, and quite pleased.

  Nynaeve gave a start, then folded her arms around herself tighter. “Since you’re in no condition to go anywhere with us now—don’t scowl at me, Mat Cauthon; that isn’t demeaning, it’s simple truth!—you can spend the morning moving yourself into the palace. And you needn’t think we’ll help carry your things. I didn’t promise to be a packhorse.”

  “The Wandering Woman is plenty good enough,” he began angrily, then stopped, a wondering expression spreading over his face. A horrified expression, Elayne would have said. That should teach him to growl when he had a head like a melon. At least, that was what hers had felt like, the time she drank too much. Of course he would not learn from it. Men kept sticking their hands in the fire thinking this time it would not burn, so Lini always said.

  “You can hardly expect we’ll find the Bowl the first time we try,” Nynaeve went on, “ta’veren or no. Going out each day will be much simpler if you don’t have to come across the square.” If they did not have to wait for him every morning, was what she meant. According to her, drunkenness was not the only excuse he could find for lying in bed till all hours, far from it.

  “Besides,” Elayne added, “that way, you can keep an eye on us.” Nynaeve made a sound in her throat, very close to a groan. Did she not see that he must be enticed? It was not as if she had promised to actually allow him to keep an eye on them.

  He seemed not to have heard her or Nynaeve. Haggard eyes stared right through her. “Why did they bloody well have to stop now?” he moaned, so softly she barely heard. What under the Light did he mean by that?