That siege was over now, and a new Queen—the right Queen—held the throne. For once, there had been a battle and he had missed it. Remembering that lightened his mood somewhat. An entire war had been fought over the Lion Throne, and not one arrow, blade or spear had entered the conflict seeking Matrim Cauthon's heart.
He turned right, along the inside of the city wall. There were a lot of
inns here. There were always inns near city gates. Not the nicest ones, but almost always the most profitable ones.
Light spilled from doorways and windows, painting the road golden in
atches. Dark forms crowded the alleyways except where the inns had hired
men to keep the poor away. Caemlyn was strained. The flood of refugees,
the recent fighting, the . . . other matters. Stories abounded of the dead
walking, of food spoiling, of whitewashed walls suddenly going grimy.
The inn where Thorn had chosen to perform was a steep-roofed, brick-fronted structure with a sign that showed two apples, one eaten down to the core. That made it stark white, the other was stark red—colors .of the An-doran flag. The Two Apples was one of the nicer establishments in the area.
Mat could hear the music from outside. He entered and saw Thorn sitting atop a small dais on the far side of the common room, playing his flute and wearing his patchwork gleeman's cloak. His eyes were closed as he played, his mustache drooping long and white on either side of the instrument. It was a haunting tune, "The Marriage of Cinny Wade." Mat had learned it as "Always Choose the Right Horse," and still was not used to it being performed as slowly as Thom did.
A small collection of coins was scattered on the floor in front of Thom. The inn allowed him to play for tips. Mat stopped near the doorway and leaned back to listen. Nobody spoke in the common room, though it was stuffed so full Mat could have made half a company of soldiers just with the men inside. Every eye was on Thom.
Mat had been all around the world now, walking a great deal of it on his own two feet. He had nearly lost his skin in a dozen different cities, and had stayed in inns far and near. He had heard gleemen, performers and bards. Thom made the entire lot seem like children with sticks, banging on pots.
The flute was a simple instrument. A lot of nobles would rather hear the harp instead; one man in Ebou Dar had told Mat the harp was more elevated." Mat figured he would have gone slack-jawed and saucer-eyed if he had heard Thom play. The gleeman made the flute sound like an extension of his own soul. Soft trills, minor scales and powerfully bold long holds. Such a lamenting melody. Who was Thom sorrowing for?
The crowd watched. Caemlyn was one of the greatest cities in the world, but still the variety seemed incredible. Crusty Illianers sat beside smooth Domani, crafty Cairhienin, stout Tairens and a sprinkling of Bor-derlanders. Caemlyn was seen as one of the few places where one could be safe from both the Seanchan and the Dragon. There was a bit of food, too.
Thorn finished the piece and moved on to another without opening hjs eyes. Mat sighed, hating to break up Thorn's performance. Unfortunately it was time to be moving on back to camp. They had to talk about the I gholam, and Mat needed to find a way to get through to Elayne. Maybe Thorn would go talk to her for him.
Mat nodded to the innkeeper—a stately, dark-haired woman named Bromas. She nodded to Mat, hoop earrings catching the light. She was a little older than his normal taste—but then, Tylin had been her age. He would keep her in mind. For one of his men, of course. Maybe Vanin.
Mat reached the stage, then began to scoop up the coins. He would let Thorn finish and—
Mat's hand jerked. His arm was suddenly pinned by the cuff to the stage, a knife sticking through the cloth. The thin length of metal quivered. Mat glanced up to find Thorn still playing, though the gleeman had cracked an eye before throwing the knife.
Thorn raised his hand back up and continued playing, a smile showing on his puckered lips. Mat grumbled and yanked his cuff free, waiting as Thorn finished this tune, which was not as doleful as the other. When the lanky gleeman lowered the flute, the room burst into applause.
Mat favored the gleeman with a scowl. "Burn you, Thorn. This is one of my favorite coats!"
"Be glad I did not aim for the hand," Thorn noted, wiping down the flute, nodding to the cheering and applause of the inn's patrons. They called for him to continue, but he shook a regretful head and replaced his flute in its case.
"I almost wish you would have," Mat said, raising his cuff and sticking a finger through the holes. "Blood would not have shown that much on the black, but the stitching will be obvious. Just because you wear more patches than cloak doesn't mean I want to imitate you."
"And you complain that you're not a lord," Thorn said, leaning down to collect his earnings.
"I'm not!" Mat said. "And never mind what Tuon said, burn you. I'm no bloody nobleman."
"Ever heard of a farmer complaining that his coat stitches would show?"
"You don't have to be a lord to want to dress with some sense," Mat grumbled.
Thorn laughed, slapping him on the back and hopping down. "I'm sorry, Mat. I moved by instinct, didn't realize it was you until I saw the face attached to the arm. By then, the knife was already out of my fingers."
Mat sighed. "Thorn," he said grimly, "an old friend is in town. One who leaves folks dead with their throats ripped clean out."
Thorn nodded, looking troubled. "I heard about it from some Guardsmen during my break. And we're stuck here in the city unless you decide . . ."
"I'm not opening the letter," Mat said. "Verin could have left instructions for me to crawl all the way to Falme on my hands, and I'd bloody have to do it! I know you hate the delay, but that letter could make a much worse delay."
Thorn nodded reluctantly.
"Let's get back to camp," Mat said.
The Band's camp was a league outside of Caemlyn. Thorn and Mat had not ridden in—walkers were less conspicuous, and Mat would not bring horses into the city until he found a stable that he trusted. The price of good horses was getting ridiculous. He had hoped to leave that behind once he left Seanchan lands, but Elayne's armies were buying up every good horse they could find, and most of the not-so-good ones, too. Beyond that, he had heard that horses had a way of disappearing these days. Meat was meat, and people were close to starving, even in Caemlyn. It made Mat's skin crawl, but it was the truth.
He and Thorn spent the walk back talking about the gbolam, deciding very little other than to make everyone alert and have Mat start sleeping in a different tent every night.
Mat glanced over his shoulder as the two of them crested a hilltop. Caemlyn was ablaze with the light of torches and lamps. Illumination hung over the city like a fog, grand spires and towers lit by the glow. The old memories inside him remembered this city—remembered assaulting it before Andor was even a nation. Caemlyn had never made for an easy fight. He did not envy the Houses that had tried to seize it from Elayne.
Thorn stepped up beside him. "It seems like forever since we left here last, doesn't it, Mat?"
"Burn me, but it does," Mat said. "What ever convinced us to go hunt-ing those fool girls? Next time, they can save themselves."
Thorn eyed him. "Aren't we about to do the same thing? When we go to the Tower of Ghenjei?" It's different. We can't leave her with them. Those snakes and foxes—"
"I'm not complaining, Mat," Thorn said. "I'm just thoughtful."
Thorn seemed thoughtful a lot, lately. Moping around, caressing that worn letter from Moiraine. It was only a letter. "Come on," Mat said, turn-ing back along the road. "You were telling me about getting in to see the Queen?"
Thorn joined him on the dark roadway. "I'm not surprised she hasn't replied to you, Mat. She's probably got her hands full. Word is that Trol-locs have invaded the Borderlands in force, and Andor is still fractured from the Succession. Elayne—"
"Do you have any good news, Thorn?" Mat said. "Tell me some, if you do. I've a mind for it."
&nb
sp; "I wish that The Queen's Blessing were still open. Gill always had tidbits to share."
"Good news," Mat prodded again.
"All right. Well, the Tower of Ghenjei is right where Domon said. I have word from three other ship's captains. It's past an open plain several hundred miles northwest of Whitebridge."
Mat nodded, rubbing his chin. He felt like he could remember something of the tower. A silvery structure, unnatural, in the distance. A trip on a boat, water lapping at the sides. Bayle Domon's thick Illianer accent. . .
Those images were vague to Mat; his memories of the time were full of more holes than one of Jori Congar's alibis. Bayle Domon had been able to tell them where to find the tower, but Mat wanted confirmation. The way Domon bowed and scraped for Leilwin made Mat itch. Neither showed Mat much affection, for all the fact that he had saved them. Not that he had wanted any affection from Leilwin. Kissing her would be about as fun as kissing a stoneoak's bark.
"You think Domon's description will be enough for someone to make us one of those gateways there?" Mat asked.
"I don't know," Thorn said. "Though that's a secondary problem, I should think. Where are we going to find someone to make a gateway? Verin has vanished."
"I'll find a way."
"If you don't, we'll end up spending weeks traveling to the place,' Thorn said. "I don't like—"
"I'll find us a gateway," Mat said firmly. "Maybe Verin will come back and release me from this bloody oath."
"Best that one stays away," Thorn said. "I don't trust her. There's something off about that one."
"She's Aes Sedai," Mat said. "There's something off about them all— like dice where the pips don't add up—but for an Aes Sedai, I kind of like Verin. And I'm a good judge of character, you know that."
Thorn raised an eyebrow. Mat scowled back.
"Either way," Thorn said, "we should probably start sending guards with you when you visit the city."
"Guards won't help against the gholam."
"No, but what of the thugs who jumped you on your way back to camp three nights back?"
Mat shivered. "At least those were just good, honest thieves. They only wanted my purse, nice and natural. Not a one had a picture of me in their pockets. And it's not like they were twisted by the Dark One's power to go crazy at sunset or anything."
"Still," Thorn said.
Mat made no argument. Burn him, but he probably should be bringing soldiers with him. A few Redarms, anyway. The camp was just ahead. One of Elayne's clerks, a man named Norry, had granted the Band permission to camp in Caemlyn's proximity. They had to agree to allow no more than a hundred men to go into the city on a given day, and had to camp at least a league from the walls, out of the way of any villages and not on anyone's farmland.
Talking to that clerk meant Elayne knew Mat was here. She had to. But she had sent no greetings, no acknowledgment that she owed Mat her skin.
At a bend in the road, Thorn's lantern showed a group of Redarms lounging by the side. Gufrin, sergeant of a squad, stood and saluted. He was a sturdy, broad-shouldered man. Not terribly bright, but keen eyed.
"Lord Mat!" he said.
"Any news, Gufrin?" Mat asked.
The sergeant frowned to himself. "Well," he said. "I think there's something you might want to know." Light! The man spoke more slowly than a drunk Seanchan. "The Aes Sedai came back to camp today. While you was away, my Lord."
"All three of them?" Mat asked.
"Yes, my Lord."
Mat sighed. If there had been any hope of this day turning out to be anything other than sour, that washed it away. He had hoped they would stay inside the city for a few more days.
He and Thorn continued, leaving the road and heading down a path through a field of blackwasp nettles and knifegrass. The weeds crunched as they walked, Thorn's lantern lighting the brown stalks. On one hand, it was good to be back in Andor again; it almost felt like home, with those nds of leatherleaf trees and sourgum. However, coming back to find it
looking so dead was disheartening. What to do about Elayne? Women were troublesome. Aes Sedai were worse. Queens were the worst of the lot. And she was all bloody three How was he going to get her to give him her foundries? He had taken Verin's offer in part because he thought it would get him to Andor quicker and therefore to start work on Aludra's dragons!
Ahead, the Band's camp sat on a small series of hills, entrenched around the largest of them at the center. Mat's force had met up with Es-tean and the others that had gone ahead to Andor, and the Band was well and truly whole again. Fires burned; there was no trouble finding dead wood for fires these days. Smoke lingered in the air, and Mat heard men chatting and calling. It was not too late yet, and Mat did not enforce a curfew. If he could not relax, at least his men could. It might be the last chance they got before the Last Battle.
Trollocs in the Borderlands, Mat thought. We need those dragons. Soon.
Mat returned salutes from a few guard posts and parted with Thorn, meaning to go find a bed and sleep on his problems for the night. As he did, he noted a few changes he could make to the camp. The way the hillsides were arranged, a light cavalry charge could come galloping through the corridor between them. Only someone very bold would try such a tactic, but he had done just that during the Battle of Marisin Valley back in old Coremanda. Well, not Mat himself, but someone in those old memories.
More and more, he simply accepted those memories as his own. He had not asked for them—no matter what those bloody foxes claimed—but he had paid for them with the scar around his neck. They had been useful on more than one occasion.
He finally reached his tent, intending to get fresh smallclothes before finding a different tent for the night, when he heard a woman's voice calling to him. "Matrim Cauthon!"
Bloody ashes. He had almost made it. He turned reluctantly.
Teslyn Baradon was not a pretty woman, though she might have made a passable paperbark tree, with those bony fingers, those narrow shoulders and that gaunt face. She wore a red dress, and over the weeks her eyes had lost most of the nervous skittishness she had shown since spending time as a damane. She had a glare so practiced she could have won a staring contest with a post.
"Matrim Cauthon," she said, stepping up to him. "I do be needing to speak with you."
"Well, seems that you're doing so already," Mat said, dropping his hand from his tent flap. He had a slight fondness for Teslyn, against his better judgment, but he was not about to invite her in. No more than he
would invite a fox into his henhouse, regardless of how kindly he thought of the fox in question.
"So I do be," she replied. "You've heard the news of the White Tower?"
"News?" Mat said. "No, I've heard no news. Rumors, though . . . I've a brainful of those. Some say the White Tower has been reunified, which is what you're probably talking about. But I've also heard just as many claiming that it is still at war. And that the Amyrlin fought the Last Battle in Rand's place, and that the Aes Sedai have decided to raise an army of soldiers by giving birth to them, and that flying monsters attacked the White Tower. That last one is probably just stories of raken drifting up from the south. But I think the one about Aes Sedai raising an army of babies holds some water."
Teslyn regarded him with a flat stare. He did not look away. Good thing Mat's father had always said he was more stubborn than a flaming tree stump.
Remarkably, Teslyn sighed, her face softening. "You be, of course, rightly skeptical. But we cannot ignore the news. Even Edesina, who foolishly sided with the rebels, does wish to return. We do plan to go in the morning. As it is your habit to sleep late, I wanted to come to you tonight in order to give you my thanks."
"Your what?"
"My thanks, Master Cauthon," Teslyn said dryly. "This trip did not be easy upon any of us. There have been moments of. . . tension. I do not say that I agree with each decision you made. That do not remove the fact that without you, I would still be in Seanchan hands." She shivered. "I prete
nd, during my more confident moments, that I would have resisted them and eventually escaped on my own. It do be important to maintain some illusions with yourself, would you not say?"
Mat rubbed his chin. "Maybe, Teslyn. Maybe indeed."
Remarkably, she held out her hand to him. "Remember, should you ever come to the White Tower, you do have women there who are in your debt, Matrim Cauthon. I do not forget."
He took the hand. It felt as bony as it looked, but it was warmer than he had expected. Some Aes Sedai had ice running in their veins, that was for certain. But others were not so bad.
She nodded to him. A respectful nod. Almost a bow. Mat released her and, feeling as unsettled as if someone had kicked his legs out from un-derneath him. She turned to walk back toward her own tent.
You'll be needing horses," he said. "If you wait to leave until I get up in the morning, I'll give you some. And some provisions. Wouldn't do for
you to starve before you get to Tar Valon, and from what we've seen lately the villages you'll pass won't have anything to spare."
"You told Joline—"
"I counted my horses again," Mat said. Those dice were still rattling in his head, burn them. "I did another count of the Band's horses. Turns out we have some to spare. You may take them."
"I did not come to you tonight to manipulate you into giving me horses," Teslyn said. "I do be sincere."
"So I figured," Mat said, turning lifting up the flap to his tent. "That's why I made the offer." He stepped into the tent.
There, he froze. That scent. . .
Blood.
CHAPTER
9
Blood in the Air
Mat ducked immediately. That instinct saved his life as something swung through the air above his head. Mat rolled to the side, his hand hitting something wet as it touched the floor. "Murder!" he bellowed. "Murder in the camp! Bloody murder!"
Something moved toward him. The tent was completely black, but he could hear it. Mat stumbled, but luck was with him as again something swished near him.
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