Birgitte eyed each one who entered, but the Cairhienin were models of propriety. None would show anything like Ellorien's audacity in Andor. She was a patriot, if one who frustratingly continued to disagree with Elayne. In Cairhien, one did not do such things.
Once the crowd had stilled, Elayne took a deep breath. She'd considered a speech, but her mother had taught her that sometimes, decisive action made for the best speech. Elayne moved to sit down in the throne.
Birgitte caught her arm.
Elayne glanced at her questioningly, but the Warder was eyeing the throne. "Wait a moment," she said, bending down.
The nobles began murmuring one to another, and Lorstrum stepped up to Elayne. "Your Majesty?"
"Birgitte," Elayne said, blushing, "is this really necessary?"
Birgitte ignored her, prodding at the seat's cushion. Light! Was the Warder determined to embarrass her in every possible situation? Surely the—
"Aha!" Birgitte said, yanking something from the pillowed cushion.
Elayne started, the stepped closer, Lorstrum and Bertome at her side. Birgitte was holding up a small needle, tipped black. "Hidden in the cushion."
Elayne paled.
"It was the only place they knew you'd be, Elayne," Birgitte said softly. She knelt down and began prodding for more traps.
Lorstrum had grown flushed. "I will find who did this, Your Majesty," he said in a low voice. A dangerous voice. "They will know my wrath."
"Not if they know mine first," stocky Bertome said, looking over the needle.
"Obviously an assassination attempt intended for the Lord Dragon, Your Majesty," Lorstrum said in a louder voice, for the benefit of the audience. "None would dare try to kill you, our beloved sister from Andor."
"That is good to hear," Elayne said, eyeing him. That expression of hers said to everyone in the room that she would put up with this ruse, intended to save his face. As her strongest supporter, the shame of an assassination attempt fell on him.
Agreeing to let him save face would cost him. He lowered his eyes briefly in understanding. Light, she hated this game. But she would play it. And she would play it well.
"Is it safe?" she asked Birgitte.
The Warder rubbed her chin. "One way to find out," she said, then plopped herself down in the throne with an unceremonious amount of force.
Not a few of the nobles in the hall gasped, and Lorstrum grew more
pale.
"Not very comfortable," Birgitte said, leaning to the side, then pushing her back up against the wood. "I would have expected a monarch's throne to be more cushioned, what with your delicate backside and all."
"Birgitte!" Elayne hissed, feeling her face grow red again. "You can't sit in the Sun Throne!"
"I'm your bodyguard," Birgitte said. "I can taste your food if I want, I can walk through doorways before you, and I can bloody sit in your chair if I think it will protect you." She grinned. "Besides," she added in a lower voice, "I always wondered what one of these felt like." The Warder stood up, still wary, but also satisfied.
Elayne turned and faced the nobility of Cairhien. "You have waited long for this," she said. "Some of you are dissatisfied, but remember that half of my blood is Cairhienin. This alliance will make both of our nations great. I do not demand your trust, but I do demand your obedience." She hesitated, then added, "Remember again, this is as the Dragon Reborn wishes it to be."
She saw that they understood. Rand had conquered this city once, though it had been to liberate it from the Shaido. They would be wise not to tempt him to come back and conquer it again. A queen used the tools that she had at hand. She had taken Andor on her own; she would let Rand help her with Cairhien.
She sat down. Such a simple thing, but the implications would be far-reaching indeed. "Gather your individual forces and House guards," she commanded to the collected nobles. "You will be marching, with the forces of Andor, through gateways to a place known as the Field of Merrilor. We will be meeting the Dragon Reborn."
The nobles seemed surprised. She would come in, take the throne, then command their armies from the city the same day? She smiled. Best to act quickly and decisively; it would build precedent for obeying her. And would begin to ready them for the Last Battle.
"Also," she announced as they began to whisper, "I want you to gather every man in this realm who can hold a sword and conscript them into the
Queen's army. There won't be much time for training, but every man will be needed in the Last Battle—and those women who wish to fight may report as well. Also, send word to the bellfounders in your city. I will need to meet with them within the hour."
"But," Bertome said, "the coronation feast, Your Majesty. . . ." "We will feast when the Last Battle has been wori and Cairhien's children are safe," Elayne said. She needed to distract them from their plots, give them work to keep them busy, if possible. "Move! Pretend the Last Battle is on your doorstep, and will arrive on the morrow!" For, indeed it might.
Mat leaned against a dead tree, looking over his camp. He breathed in and out, smiling, feeling the beautiful comfort of knowing that he was no longer being chased. He had forgotten how good that felt. Better than a pretty serving girl on each knee, that feeling was. Well, better than one serving girl, anyway.
A military camp at evening was one of the most comfortable places in all the world, even if half the camp was empty, the men there having gone to Cairhien. The sun had set, and some of those who remained had turned in. But for those who had pulled afternoon duty the next day, there was no reason to sleep just yet.
A dozen firepits smoldered through the camp, men sitting to share tales of exploits, of women left behind, or of rumors from far off. Tongues of flames flickered as men laughed, sitting on logs or rocks, someone occasionally digging into the coals with a twisted branch and stirring tiny sparks into the air as his friends sang "Come Ye Maids" or "Fallen Willows at Noon."
The men of the Band were from a dozen different nations, but this camp was their true home. Mat strode through them, hat on his head, ashandarei over his shoulder. He had gotten a new scarf for his neck. People knew about his scar, but there was no reason to show it off like one or Luca's bloody wagons.
The scarf he had chosen this time was red. In memory of Tylin and the others who had fallen to the gholam. For a short time, he had been tempted to choose pink. A very short time.
Mat smiled. Though songs rang from several of the campfires, none were loud, and there was a healthy stillness about the camp. Not a silence. Silence was never good. He hated silence. Made him wonder who was trying so hard to sneak up on him. No, this was a stillness. Men snoring softly,
fires crackling, other men singing, weeds crunching as those on watch passed by. The peaceful noises of men enjoying their lives.
Mat found his way back to his table outside his darkened tent. He sat down, looking over the papers he had stacked here. The inside of the tent had been too stuffy. Besides, he had not wanted to wake Olver.
Mat's tent rippled in the wind. His seat did look odd, the fine oak table sitting in a patch of hensfoot, Mat's chair beside it, a pitcher of mulled cider on the ground beside him. The papers on his table were weighed down with various rocks he had picked up, lit by a single flickering lamp.
He should not have to have stacks of paper. He should be able to sit at one of those fires and sing "Dance with Jak o' the Shadows." He could faintly make out the words of the song from a nearby campfire.
Papers. Well, he had agreed to Elayne's employment, and there were papers for that sort of thing. And papers about setting up the dragon crews. Papers about supplies, discipline reports, and all kinds of nonsense. And a few papers he had been able to wiggle out of her royal majesty, spy reports he had wanted to look over. Reports on the Seanchan.
Much of the news was not new to him; by courtesy of Verin's gateway, Mat had traveled to Caemlyn more quickly than most rumors. But Elayne had gateways of her own, and some of the news from Tear and Illian was fre
sh. There was talk of the new Seanchan Empress. So Tuon really had crowned herself, or whatever it was the Seanchan did to name a new leader.
That made him smile. Light, but they did not know what they were in for! They probably thought they did. But she would surprise them, sure as the sky was blue. Or, well, it had been gray lately.
There was also talk of Sea Folk in alliance with the Seanchan. Mat dismissed that. The Seanchan had captured enough Sea Folk vessels to give that impression, but it was not the truth. He found some pages with news about Rand, too, most of it unspecific or untrustworthy.
Blasted colors. Rand was sitting around and talking with some people in a tent. Perhaps he was in Arad Doman, but he could not be both there and fighting in the Borderlands, now could he? One rumor said that Rand had killed Queen Tylin. Which bloody idiots thought that?
He turned over the reports on Rand quickly. He hated having to banish those flaming colors over and over again. At least Rand was wearing clothes this time.
The last page was curious. Wolves running in enormous packs, congregating in clearings and howling in chorus? The skies shining red at night? Livestock lining up in the fields, all facing toward the north, watching silently? The footprints of Shadowspawn armies in the middle of fields?
These things smelled of simple hearsay, passed on from farmwife to farm-wife until they reached the ears of Elayne's spies.
Mat looked over the sheet, then—without even thinking of it-realized he had pulled Verin's envelope out of his pocket. The still-sealed letter was looking worn and dirty, but he had not opened it. It seemed lke the most difficult thing he had ever done, resisting that;/urge.
"Now that is a sight of some irregularity," a woman's voice said. Mat looked up to see Setalle strolling toward him. She wore a brown dress that laced over her ample bosom. Not that Mat spent any time looking at it.
"You like my den?" Mat asked. He set the envelope aside, then put the last of the spy reports on a stack, just beside a series of sketches he'd been doing on some new crossbows, based on the ones Talmanes had bought The papers threatened to blow away. As he had no rock for this stack, he pulled off one of his boots and set it on the top.
"Your den?" Setalle asked, sounding amused.
"Sure," Mat said, scratching the bottom of his stockinged foot. "You'll have to make an appointment with my steward if you want to come in."
"Your steward?"
"The stump right over there," Mat said, nodding. "Not the little one, the big one with moss growing on the top."
She raised an eyebrow.
"He's quite good," Mat said. "Hardly ever lets anyone in I don't want to see."
"You are an interesting creature, Matrim Cauthon," Setalle said, seating herself on the larger stump. Her dress was after the Ebou Dar style, with the side pinned up to reveal petticoats colorful enough to scare away a Tinker.
"Did you want anything specific?" Mat asked. "Or did you just drop by so that you could sit on my steward's head?"
"I heard that you visited the palace again today. Is it true that you know the Queen?"
Mat shrugged. "Elayne's a nice enough girl. Pretty thing, that's for certain."
"You don't shock me anymore, Matrim Cauthon," Setalle noted. "I've realized that the things you say are often intended to do that."
They were? "I say what I'm thinking, Mistress Anan. Why does it matter to you if I know the Queen?"
"Merely another piece of the puzzle that you represent," Setalle said. "I received a letter from Joline today."
"What did she want from you?"
"She didn't ask for anything. She merely wanted to send word that they had arrived safely in Tar Valon."
"You must have read it wrong."
Setalle gave him a chiding stare. "Joline Sedai respects you, Master Cauthon. She often spoke highly of you, and the way that you rescued not only her, but the other two. She asked after you in the letter."
Mat blinked. "Really? She said things like that?"
Setalle nodded.
"Burn me," he said. "Almost makes me feel bad for painting her mouth blue. But you wouldn't have known she thought that way, considering how she treated me."
"Speaking such things to a man inflates his opinion of himself. One would think that the way she treated you would have been enough."
"She's Aes Sedai," Mat muttered. "She treats everyone like they're mud to be scraped off her boots."
Setalle glared at him. She had a stately way about her, part grandmother, part court lady, part no-nonsense innkeeper.
"Sorry," he said. "Some Aes Sedai aren't as bad as others. I didn't mean to insult you."
"I'll take that for a compliment," Setalle said. "Though I'm not Aes Sedai."
Mat shrugged, finding a nice small rock at his feet. He used it to replace his boot atop the stack of paper. The rains of the last few days had passed, leaving a crisp freshness to the air. "I know you said it didn't hurt," Mat said. "But . . . what does it feel like? The thing you lost?"
She pursed her lips. "What is the most delightful food you enjoy, Master Cauthon? The one thing that you would eat above all others?"
"Ma's sweet pies," Mat said immediately.
"Well, it is like that," Setalle said. "Knowing that you used to be able to enjoy those pies every day, but now they have been denied you. Your friends, they can have as many of those pies as they want. You envy them, and you hurt, but at the same time you're happy. At least someone can enjoy what you cannot."
Mat nodded slowly.
"Why is it that you hate Aes Sedai so, Master Cauthon?" Setalle asked.
"I don't hate them," Mat said. "Burn me, but I don't. But sometimes, a man can't seem to do two things without women wanting him to do one of those things a different way and ignore the other one completely."
"You aren't forced to take their advice, and I warrant that much of the time, you eventually admit it is good advice."
Mat shrugged. "Sometimes, a man just likes to do what he wants without someone telling him what's wrong with it and what's wrong with him. That's all."
"And it has nothing to do with your . . . peculiar views of nobles? Most Aes Sedai act as if they were noblewomen, after all."
"I have nothing against nobles," Mat said, straightening his coat. "I just don't fancy being one myself."
"Why is that, then?"
Mat sat for a moment. Why was it? Finally, he looked down at his foot then replaced his boot. "It's boots."
"Boots?" Setalle looked confused.
"Boots," Mat said with a nod, tying his laces. "It's all about the boots."
"But—"
"You see," Mat said, pulling the laces tight, "a lot of men don't have to worry much about what boots to wear. They're the poorest of folks. If you ask one of them 'What boots are you going to wear today, Mop?' their answer is easy. 'Well, Mat. I only have one pair, so I guess I'm gonna wear that pair.'"
Mat hesitated. "Or, I guess they wouldn't say that to you, Setalle, since you're not me and all. They wouldn't call you Mat, you understand."
"I understand," she said, sounding amused.
"Anyway, for people that have a little coin, the question of which boots to wear is harder. You see, average men, men like me. . . ." He eyed her. "And I'm an average man, mind you."
"Of course you are."
"Bloody right I am," Mat said, finishing with his laces and sitting up. "An average man might have three pairs of boots. Your third best pair of boots, those are the boots you wear when you're working at something unpleasant. They might rub after a few paces, and they might have a few holes, but they're good enough to keep your footing. You don't mind mucking them up in the fields or the barn."
"All right," Setalle said.
"Then you have your second best pair of boots," Mat said. "Those are your day-to-day boots. You wear those if you are going over to dinner at the neighbors. Or, in my case, you wear those if you're going to battle. They're nice boots, give you good footing, and you don't mind being se
en in them or anything."
"And your best pair of boots?" Setalle asked. "You wear those to social events, like a ball or dining with a local dignitary?"
"Balls? Dignitaries? Bloody ashes, woman. I thought you were an inn-keeper."
Setalle blushed faintly.
"We're not going to any balls," Mat said. "But if we had to, I suspect we'd wear our second best pair of boots. If they're good enough for visiting old lady Hembrew next door, then they're bloody well good enough for stepping on the toes of any woman fool enough to dance with us."
"Then what are the best boots for?"
"Walking," Mat said. "Any farmer knows the value of good boots when you go walking a distance."
Setalle looked thoughtful. "All right. But what does this have to do with being a nobleman?"
"Everything," Mat said. "Don't you see? If you're an average fellow, you know exactly when to use your boots. A man can keep track of three pairs of boots. Life is simple when you have three pairs of boots. But noblemen . . . Talmanes claims he has forty different pairs of boots at home. Forty pairs, can you imagine that?"
She smiled in amusement.
"Forty pairs," Mat repeated, shaking his head. "Forty bloody pairs. And, they aren't all the same kind of boots either. There is a pair for each outfit, and a dozen pairs in different styles that will match any number of half your outfits. You have boots for kings, boots for high lords, and boots for normal people. You have boots for winter and boots for summer, boots for rainy days and boots for dry days. You have bloody shoes that you wear only when you're walking to the bathing chamber. Lopin used to complain that I didn't have a pair to wear to the privy at night!"
"I see. ... So you're using boots as a metaphor for the onus of responsibility and decision placed upon the aristocracy as they assume leadership of complex political and social positions."
"Metaphor for. . . ." Mat scowled. "Bloody ashes, woman. This isn't a metaphor for anything! It's just boots"
Setalle shook her head. "You're an unconventionally wise man, Matrim Cauthon."
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