“To continue,” he said, shooting the pair of them a glare. It was very hard not to sigh, dealing with women. “Whoever sent the gholam has to know the Bowl is here in the Tarasin Palace, now. If he, or she, sends the gholam here, some of you are going to die. Maybe a lot of you. I can’t protect all of you at once. Maybe he’ll get the Bowl, too. And that’s on top of Falion Bhoda; small chance she’s alone, even with Ispan a prisoner, so that means we have the Black Ajah to worry about, as well. Just in case the Forsaken and gholam aren’t enough for you.” Reanne and the Wise Women drew themselves up even more indignantly than Merilille and her friends at mention of the Black Ajah, and the Aes Sedai, stiffening and gathering skirts, looked ready to stalk out in a huff. Press on; that was all he could do. “Now. Now do you see why you all have to leave the palace and take the Bowl somewhere the gholam doesn’t know about? Somewhere the Black Ajah doesn’t know? Do you see why it has to be done now?”
Renaile’s sniff would have startled geese in the next room. “You merely repeat yourself, Master Cauthon. Merilille Sedai says she has never heard of this gholam. Elayne Sedai says there was a strange man, a creature, but little else. What is this . . . stasis-box? You have not explained that. How do you know what you claim to know? Why should we go any further from the water than we are on the word of a man who creates fables from air?”
Mat looked to Nynaeve and Elayne, though with little hope. If they would only open their mouths, this could been have been finished long since, but they gazed back at him, practicing expressionless Aes Sedai masks till their jaws must be creaking. He could not understand their silence. A bare-bones account of events in the Rahad had been all they gave, and he was willing to bet they would not have mentioned the Black Ajah at all had there been any other way to explain showing up in the palace with an Aes Sedai bound and shielded. Ispan was being held in another part of the palace, her presence known only to a handful. Nynaeve had forced some concoction down her throat, a foul-smelling mix of herbs that bulged the woman’s eyes going down and had her giggling and stumbling in short order, and the rest of the Knitting Circle occupied the room with her for guards. Unwilling guards, but very assiduous; Nynaeve had made it extremely clear that should they let Ispan get away, they had best start running before she laid hands on them again.
He very carefully did not look toward Birgitte, standing beside the door with Aviendha. The Aiel woman wore an Ebou Dari dress; not the plain wool she had returned in, but a silver-gray silk riding dress that jarred with her plain-sheathed horn-handled belt knife. Birgitte had been quick to shed her own dress for her usual short coat and wide trousers, these dark blue and dark green. A quiver already hung at her hip. She was the source of everything he knew about gholam—and stasis-boxes—except what his eyes had seen in the Rahad. And he would not have revealed that on a hot grill.
“I read a book once that talked about—” he began, and Renaile cut him off.
“A book,” she sneered. “I will not abandon the salt for a book Aes Sedai do not know.”
Suddenly it struck Mat that he was the only man present. Lan had gone off at Nynaeve’s command, gone as tamely as Beslan had at his mother’s. Thom and Juilin were packing to leave. Had probably finished packing by now. If there was any use to it; if they ever did leave. The only man, surrounded by a wall of women who apparently intended to let him beat his head against that wall till his brains were scrambled. It made no sense. None. They looked at him, waiting.
Nynaeve, in yellow-slashed lace-trimmed blue, had pulled her braid over her shoulder so it hung down between her breasts, but that heavy gold ring—Lan’s ring, he had learned—was carefully positioned to show anyway. Her face was smooth, and her hands rested in her lap, yet sometimes her fingers twitched. Elayne, in green Ebou Dari silk that made Nynaeve seem covered up despite the smoky lace collar under her chin, gazed back at him with eyes like cool pools of deep blue water. Her hands lay in her lap too, but now and again she would begin to trace the thread-of-gold embroidery that covered her skirts, then immediately stop. Why did they not say something? Were they trying to get back at him? Was it just a case of “Mat wants to be in charge so much, let him see how well he can do without us”? He might have believed it of Nynaeve, any time but this anyway, but not of Elayne, not anymore. So why?
Reanne and the Wise Women did not huddle away from him as they did from the Aes Sedai, but their manner toward him had changed. Tamarla gave him a decently respectful nod. Honey-haired Famelle went so far as a friendly smile. Strangely, Reanne blushed, a pale stain. But they did not count as opposition, really. The six women had not said a dozen unprompted words between them since entering this room. Every one would jump if Nynaeve or Elayne snapped her fingers, and keep jumping until told to stop.
He turned to the rest of the Aes Sedai. Faces infinitely calm, infinitely patient. Except. . . . Merilille’s eyes flickered past him toward Nynaeve and Elayne for one instant. Sareitha began slowly smoothing her skirts under his gaze, seemingly unaware of doing so. A dark suspicion bloomed in his mind. Hands moving on skirts. Reanne’s blush. Birgitte’s ready quiver. A murky suspicion. He did not really know of what. Just that he had been going about this the wrong way. He gave Nynaeve a stern look, and Elayne a sterner. Butter would not have melted on their bloody tongues.
Slowly he walked toward the Sea Folk. He just walked, but he heard someone with Merilille sniff, and Sareitha muttered, “Such insolence!” Well, he was about to show them insolence. If Nynaeve and Elayne did not like it, they should have taken him into their confidence. Light, but he hated being used. Especially when he did not know how, or why.
Stopping in front of Renaile’s chair, he studied the dark faces of the Atha’an Miere women behind it before looking down to her. She frowned, stroking a knife set with moonstones thrust behind her sash. She was a handsome woman rather than pretty, somewhere in her middle years, and under different circumstances he might have enjoyed looking at her eyes. They were large black pools a man could spend an evening just gazing into. Under different circumstances. Somehow, the Sea Folk were the fly in the cream pitcher, and he had not a clue how to pluck it out. He managed to keep his irritation under control. Barely. What to bloody do?
“You can all channel, I understand,” he said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean much to me.” As well be straight from the start. “You can ask Adeleas or Vandene how much I care whether a woman can channel.”
Renaile looked past him toward Tylin, but it was not to the Queen she spoke. “Nynaeve Sedai,” she said dryly, “I believe there was no mention in your bargain of my having to listen to this young oakum picker. I—”
“I don’t bloody care about your bargains with anybody else, you daughter of the sands,” Mat snapped. So his irritation was not that well under control. A man could only take so much.
Gasps rose among the women behind her. Something over a thousand years ago a Sea Folk woman had called a Shiotan soldier a son of the sands just before trying to plant a blade in his ribs; the memory lay tucked inside Mat Cauthon’s head, now. It was not the worst insult among the Atha’an Miere, but it came close. Renaile’s face gorged with blood; hissing, eyes bulging in fury, she leaped to her feet, that moonstone-studded dagger flashing in her fist.
Mat snatched it out of her hand before the blade could reach his chest and shoved her back into her chair. He did have quick hands. He could still hold on to his temper, too. No matter how many women thought they could dance him for a puppet, he could—“You listen to me, you bilge stone.” All right; maybe he could not hold it. “Nynaeve and Elayne need you, or I’d leave you for the gholam to crack your bones and the Black Ajah to pick over what’s left. Well, as far as you’re concerned, I’m the Master of the Blades, and my blades are bare.” What that meant exactly, he had no idea, except for having once heard, “When the blades are bare, even the Mistress of the Ships bows to the Master of the Blades.” “This is the bargain between you and me. You go where Nynaeve and Elayne want, and
in return, I won’t tie the lot of you across horses like packsaddles and haul you there!”
That was no way to go on, not with the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships. Not with a bilgeboy off a broken-backed darter, for that matter. Renaile quivered with the effort of not going for him with her bare hands, and never mind her dagger in his hand. “It is agreed, under the Light!” she growled. Her eyes nearly started out of her head. Her mouth worked, confusion and disbelief suddenly chasing one another across her face. This time, the gasps sounded as if the wind had ripped the curtains down.
“It is agreed,” Mat said quickly, and touching fingers to his lips, he pressed them to hers.
After a moment, she did the same, fingers trembling against his mouth. He held out the dagger, and she stared dully at it before taking it from him. The blade went back into its jeweled sheath. It was not polite to kill someone you had sealed a bargain with. At least, not until the terms were fulfilled. Murmurs began among the women behind her chair, rising, and Renaile stirred herself to clap her hands once. That silenced Windfinders to Wavemistresses as quickly as the two deckhands in training.
“I think I have just made a bargain with a ta’veren,” she said in that cool, deep voice. The woman could teach Aes Sedai how to pull themselves together quickly. “But one day, Master Cauthon, if it pleases the Light, I think you will walk a rope for me.”
He did not know what that meant, except that she made it sound unpleasant. He made his best leg. “All things are possible, if it pleases the Light,” he murmured. Courtesy paid, after all. But her smile was disturbingly hopeful.
When he turned back to the rest of the room, you would have thought he had horns and wings, for the stares. “Is there any further argument?” he asked in a wry tone, and did not wait for answers. “I thought not. In that case, I suggest you pick out some spot well away from here, and we can be on our way as soon as you bundle up your belongings.”
They made a show of discussion. Elayne mentioned Caemlyn, sounding at least half-serious, and Careane suggested several remote villages in the Black Hills, all easily reached by gateway. Light, anywhere was easily reached by gateway. Vandene spoke of Arafel, and Aviendha suggested Rhuidean, in the Aiel Waste, with the Sea Folk women growing glummer the farther from the sea were the places named. All a show. To Mat, at least, that was clear by Nynaeve’s impatient fiddling with her braid despite the suggestions coming hot and fast.
“If I may speak, Aes Sedai?” Reanne said timidly at last. She even raised her hand. “The Kin maintain a farm on the other side of the river, a few miles north. Everyone knows it is a retreat for women who need contemplation and quiet, but no one connects it to us. The buildings are large and quite comfortable, if there’s any need to stay long, and—”
“Yes,” Nynaeve broke in. “Yes, I think that sounds just the thing. What do you say, Elayne?”
“I think it sounds wonderful, Nynaeve. I know Renaile will appreciate staying close to the sea.” The other five sisters practically piled on top of her saying how agreeable it sounded, how superior to any other suggestion.
Mat rolled his eyes to the heavens. Tylin was a study in not seeing what lay under her nose, but Renaile snapped at it like a trout taking a lacewing. Which was the point, of course. For some reason she was not to know that Nynaeve and Elayne had had everything arranged beforehand. She led the rest of the Sea Folk women out to gather whatever belongings they had brought before Nynaeve and Elayne could change their minds.
Those two would have followed Merilille and the other Aes Sedai, but he crooked a finger at them. They exchanged glances—he would have had to talk an hour to say as much as passed in those looks—then, somewhat to his surprise, came to him. Aviendha and Birgitte watched from the door, Tylin from her chair.
“I am very sorry to have used you,” Elayne said before he could get a word out. Her smile flashed that dimple at him. “We did have reasons, Mat; you must believe that.”
“Which you do not need to know,” Nynaeve put in firmly, flipping her braid back over her shoulder with a practiced toss of her head that made the gold ring bounce on her bosom. Lan must be insane. “I must say, I never expected you to do what you did. Whatever in the world made you think of trying to bully them? You could have ruined everything.”
“What’s life if you don’t take a chance now and then?” he said blithely. As well by him if they thought it was planned instead of temper. But they had used him again without telling him, and he wanted a bit back for that. “Next time you have to make a bargain with the Sea Folk, let me make it for you. Maybe that way, it won’t turn out as badly as the last one.” Spots of color blooming in Nynaeve’s cheeks told him he had hit the mark squarely. Not bad shooting blindfolded.
Elayne, though, just murmured “A most observant subject” in tones of rueful amusement. Being in her good books might turn out less comfortable than being in her bad.
They swept toward the door without letting him say more. Well, he had not really thought they would explain anything. Both were Aes Sedai to the bone. A man learned to live with what he had to.
Tylin had all but slipped from his mind, but he had not from hers. She caught him up before he took two steps. Nynaeve and Elayne paused at the door with Aviendha and Birgitte, watching. So they saw when Tylin pinched his bottom. Some things, nobody could learn to live with. Elayne put on a face of commiseration, Nynaeve of glowering disapproval. Aviendha fought laughter none too successfully, while Birgitte wore her grin openly. They all bloody knew.
“Nynaeve thinks you are a little boy needing protection,” Tylin breathed up at him. “I know you are a grown man.” Her smoky chuckle made that the dirtiest comment he had ever heard. The four women by the door got to watch his face turn beet red. “I will miss you, pigeon. What you did with Renaile was magnificent. I do so admire masterful men.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” he muttered. To his shock, that was simple truth. He was leaving Ebou Dar just in time. “But if we meet again, I’ll do the chasing.”
She chortled at him, and those dark eagle’s eyes almost glowed. “I admire masterful men, duckling. But not when they try being masterful with me.” Seizing his ears, she pulled his head down where she could kiss him.
He never saw Nynaeve and the others go, and he walked out on unsteady legs, tucking his shirt back in. He had to return to fetch his spear from the corner, and his hat. The woman had no shame. Not a scrap of it.
He found Thom and Juilin, coming out of Tylin’s apartments, followed by Nerim and Lopin, Nalesean’s stout man, who each lugged a large wicker pannier made for a packsaddle. Loaded with his belongings, he realized. Juilin carried Mat’s unstrung bow and had his quiver slung on one shoulder. Well, she had said she was moving him.
“I found this on your pillow,” Thom said, tossing him the ring he had bought what seemed a year ago. “A parting gift, it seems; there were lovers-knots and some other flowers strewn over both pillows.”
Mat jammed the ring onto his finger. “It’s mine, burn you. I paid for it myself.”
The old gleeman knuckled his mustaches and coughed in a failed effort to stifle a sudden wide grin. Juilin snatched off that ridiculous Taraboner hat and became engrossed in studying the inside of it.
“Blood and flaming—!” Mat drew a deep breath. “I hope you two spared a moment for your own belongings,” he said levelly, “because as soon as I grab Olver, we’re on our way, even if we happen to leave a moldy harp or a rusty sword-breaker behind.” Juilin tugged at the corner of his eye with one finger, whatever that was supposed to mean, but Thom actually frowned. Insults to Thom’s flute or his harp were insults to himself.
“My Lord,” Lopin said mournfully. He was a dark, balding man, rounder than Sumeko, and his black Tairen commoner’s coat, tight to the waist then flaring, like Juilin’s, fit very tightly indeed. Normally almost as solemn as Nerim, now he had reddened eyes, as though he had been weeping. “My Lord, is there any chance I might remain to see Lord Nalesea
n buried? He was a good master.”
Mat hated saying no. “Anybody left behind might be left for a long time, Lopin,” he said gently. “Listen, I’ll need someone to help look after Olver. Nerim has his hands full with me. For that matter, Nerim will go back to Talmanes, you know. If you’d like, I will take you on myself.” He had grown used to having a manservant, and these were hard times for a man hunting work.
“I would like that very much, my Lord,” the fellow said lugubriously. “Young Olver reminds me much of my youngest sister’s son.”
Only, when they entered Mat’s former rooms, the Lady Riselle was there, much more decently clothed than when he had last seen her, and quite alone.
“Why should I have kept him tied to me?” she said, that truly marvelous bosom heaving with emotion as she planted her fists on her hips. The Queen’s duckling, it seemed, was not supposed to take a snappish tone with the Queen’s attendants. “Clip a boy’s wings too far, and he will never grow to a proper man. He read his pages aloud sitting on my knee—he might have read all day, had I allowed it—and did his numbers, so I let him go. Why are you in such a bother? He promised to return by sunset, and he seems to set a great store by his promises.”
Propping the ashandarei in its old corner, Mat told the other men to drop their burdens and go find Vanin and the remaining Redarms. Then he left Riselle’s spectacular bosom and ran all the way to the rooms Nynaeve and the other women shared. They were all there, in the sitting room, and so was Lan, with his Warder’s cloak already draped down his back and saddlebags on his shoulders. His saddlebags, and Nynaeve’s, it seemed. A good many bundles of dresses and not-so-small chests stood about the floor. Mat wondered if they would make Lan carry those, too.
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