The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Startled, he half-straightened before jerking the glass back to Cairhien’s walls. That spear—or whatever it was—had come from there. He was certain of it. How was another matter entirely. At this distance it was all he could do to make out an occasional someone moving on the walls or atop a tower.

  Raising his head, Rand found Rhuarc just stepping away from the other looking glass, giving up his place to Han. That was the whole reason for the tower and the glasses. Scouts brought back what word they could of how the Shaido were deployed, but this way the chiefs could see for themselves the terrain on which the battle would be fought. They had worked out a plan between them already, but one more look at the land could never go amiss. Rand did not know much about battles, but Lan thought their plan a good one. At least, Rand did not know much in his own mind; sometimes those other memories crept in, and then he seemed to know more than he wanted.

  “Did you see that? Those . . . spears?”

  Rhuarc looked as puzzled as Rand knew he himself must, but the Aiel nodded. “The last took another Shaido, but he crawled away. Not Couladin, worse luck.” He gestured to the looking glass, and Rand let him take his place.

  Was it such bad luck? Couladin’s death would not end the threat to Cairhien, or to anywhere else. Now they were this side of the Dragonwall, the Shaido would not tamely return just because the man they thought was the true Car’a’carn died. It might well shake them, but not enough for that. And after all Rand had seen, he did not think Couladin deserved so easy a way out. I can be as hard as I must, he thought, stroking his sword hilt. For him, I can.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Before the Arrow

  The inside of a tent roof had to be the most boring sight in the world, but lying back in his shirtsleeves on scarlet-tasseled cushions that Melindhra had acquired, Mat studied the gray-brown cloth intently. Or rather, he stared beyond it. One arm curled behind his head, he swirled a hammered-silver goblet full of good wine from the south of Cairhien. A small cask had cost him as much as two good horses would—as much as two horses would have if the world and everything in it had not been stood on its head—but he counted it a small price for something decent. Sometimes a drop or two splashed over onto his hand, but he never noticed and he never took a drink.

  By his book, matters had long since gone beyond merely serious. Serious was being stuck in the Waste with no idea of the way out. Serious was Darkfriends popping up when you least expected, Trolloc attacks in the night, the odd Myrddraal freezing your blood with an eyeless stare. That sort of thing came quickly, and usually was done before you had much chance to think. It was certainly not what you would seek out, yet if you had to, you could live with it if you could live through it. But for days he had known where they were heading, and why. Nothing quick about it. Days to think.

  I am no bloody hero, he thought grimly, and I’m no bloody soldier. Fiercely he pushed down a memory of walking fortress walls, ordering his last reserves to where another crop of Trolloc scaling ladders had sprung up. That was not me, the Light burn whoever it was! I’m . . . He did not know what he was—a sour thought—but whatever he was, it involved gambling and taverns, women and dancing. That he was sure of. It involved a good horse and every road in the world to choose from, not sitting and waiting for somebody to shoot arrows at him or try to stick a sword or a spear through his ribs. Any different would make him a fool, and he would not be that, not for Rand or Moiraine or anybody else.

  As he sat up, the silver foxhead medallion, hanging on its leather thong, slipped from the unlaced neck of his shirt. He tucked it back before taking a long swallow of wine. The medallion made him safe from Moiraine, or any other Aes Sedai, as long as they did not get it away from him—surely one or another would try sooner or later—but nothing except his own wits kept him safe from some fool killing him along with a few thousand other fools. Or from Rand, or from being ta’veren.

  A man ought to be able to find a profit in something like that, having events twist themselves around him. Rand certainly had, in a way. He himself had never noticed anything twisting around him except the fall of dice. He would not turn away from some of the things that happened to ta’veren in stories. Wealth and fame dropped into their pockets as if from the sky; men who wanted to kill them decided to follow instead, and women with ice in their eyes decided to melt.

  Not that he was complaining at what he had, really. And certainly not that he wanted anything like Rand’s bargain; the price to get into the game was too high. It was just that he seemed to be stuck with all the burdens of being ta’veren and none of the pleasure.

  “It is time to go,” he told the empty tent, then paused thoughtfully and sipped at the goblet. “It is time to get on Pips and ride. Ride to Caemlyn, maybe.” Not a bad city, so long as he avoided the Royal Palace. “Or Lugard.” He had heard rumors about Lugard. A fine place, that, for the likes of him. “Time to leave Rand in my dust. He’s got a bloody Aiel army and more Maidens than he can count taking care of him. He doesn’t need me.”

  That last was not strictly true. In some strange way he was tied to Rand’s success or failure in Tarmon Gai’don, him and Perrin both, three ta’veren all tangled together. The histories would probably only mention Rand. Small chance he or Perrin would find any place in the stories. And then there was the Horn of Valere. Which he did not want to think about, and would not. Not until he had to. There might be some way out of that particular mess yet. Any way he looked at it, the Horn was a problem for another day. A distant day. With luck, all those bills would come due on a very distant day. Only, that might take more luck than he had.

  The point now was that he had said all of that about going and felt scarcely a twinge. Not long ago, he had been unable even to speak of leaving; when he got too far from Rand, he had been drawn back like a hooked fish on some invisible line. Then he had become able to say it, even to lay plans, but the slightest thing would distract him, make him put off his schemes for stealing away. Even in Rhuidean, when he had told Rand he was going, he had been sure something would get in the way. It had, in a manner of speaking; Mat had made it out of the Waste, but he was no further from Rand than before. This time, he did not think he would be diverted.

  “Not like I was abandoning him,” he muttered. “If he can’t bloody take care of himself by now, he’ll never be able to. I’m not his bloody nursemaid.”

  Draining the goblet, he scrambled into his green coat, settled his knives in their hiding places, arranged a dark yellow silk scarf to hide the hanging scar on his throat, then snatched up his hat and ducked out.

  Heat hit him in the face after the relatively cool shade inside. He was not sure how the seasons changed here, but summer was hanging on too long to suit him. One thing he had looked forward to on leaving the Waste was the arrival of autumn. A little coolness. No luck here. At least the hat’s wide brim kept the sun off.

  This hilly Cairhienin forest was a pitiful thing, more clearings than trees and half of them going brown in the drought. Not a patch on the Westwood, back home. Low Aiel tents were everywhere, though at any distance they took on the look of a pile of dead leaves or a bare hummock of ground unless the side flaps were up, and even then they were not easy to see. The Aiel going about their business did not look at him twice.

  From one crest as he crossed the encampment, he caught sight of Kadere’s wagons, all in a circle, the drivers lying in the shade underneath and the peddler nowhere in view. Kadere kept to his wagon more and more, seldom poking his nose out except when Moiraine came to inspect the ladings. The Aiel ringing the wagons, small knots with spears and bucklers, bows and quivers, made little pretense of being anything but guards. Moiraine must think Kadere or some of his men would try to make off with what she had brought out of Rhuidean. Mat wondered whether Rand realized that he was giving her anything and everything she asked. For a while Mat had thought Rand had gotten the upper hand there, but he was not so sure any longer, even if Moiraine did do everything bu
t curtsy and fetch Rand’s pipe.

  Rand’s tent was on a hilltop by itself, naturally, that red banner on a staff at its front. It rippled in a light breeze, sometimes standing out enough to show the black-and-white disc. The thing made Mat’s skin crawl as much as the Dragon banner had. If a man wanted to avoid Aes Sedai entanglements, as any but an idiot would, the last thing to do was wave that symbol about.

  The slopes of the hill were bare, but Maidens’ tents encircled the foot of the hill and spread through the trees up surrounding slopes and down the other side. That was as usual, too, and so was the Wise Ones’ camp within the Far Dareis Mai, dozens of low tents in shouting distance of Rand’s hill, with white-robed gai’shain bustling about.

  There were only a few of the Wise Ones to be seen, yet they made up for lack of numbers with the stares that followed him. He had no idea how many could channel in that bunch, but they were a fair equal of Aes Sedai weighing and measuring when it came to stares. He picked up his pace, making an effort not to shrug uncomfortably; he could feel those eyes on his back as surely as he could have a poke from a stick. And he would have to run the same gauntlet coming out. Well, a few words with Rand, and it would be the last time he had to run it.

  Only, when he pulled off his hat and ducked into Rand’s tent, no one was there except Natael, lounging on the cushions with his gilded, dragon-carved harp propped against his knee and a gold goblet in his hand.

  Mat grimaced, and swore under his breath. He should have known as much. If Rand had been here, he would have had to pass through a circle of Maidens right around the tent. Most likely he was up at that new-built tower. A good idea, that. Know the terrain. That was the second rule, close behind “Know your enemy,” and not much to choose between them.

  The thought put a sour twist to his mouth. Those rules came from other men’s memories; the only rules he wanted to remember were “Never kiss a girl whose brothers have knife scars” and “Never gamble without knowing a back way out.” He almost wished those memories of other men were still separate lumps in his brain instead of oozing into his thoughts when he least expected.

  “Trouble with a bilious stomach?” Natael asked lazily. “One of the Wise Ones might have a root to cure it. Or you could try Moiraine.”

  Mat could not like the man; he always seemed to be thinking of a joke he did not mean to share. And he always looked as if he had three servants taking care of his clothes. All that snowy lace at collar and cuffs, always seeming freshly laundered. The fellow never appeared to sweat, either. Why Rand wanted him around was a mystery. He almost never played anything merry on that harp. “Will he be back soon?”

  Natael shrugged. “When he decides to. Perhaps soon, perhaps late. No man clocks the Lord Dragon. And few women.” There it was again, that secretive smile. A touch bleak, this time.

  “I’ll wait.” He meant to go through with this. Too many times he had found himself putting off going.

  Natael sipped at his wine, studying him across the goblet’s rim.

  It was bad enough that Moiraine and the Wise Ones watched him in that silent, searching way—sometimes Egwene did, too; she had certainly changed, half Wise One and half Aes Sedai—but from Rand’s gleeman, it was enough to set his teeth on edge. The best thing about leaving would be not having anyone look at him as if they would know in a minute what he was thinking, and already knew whether his smallclothes were clean.

  Two maps lay spread out near the firepit. One, copied in detail from a tattered map found in a half-burned town, covered northern Cairhien from west of the Alguenya halfway to the Spine of the World, while, the other, newly drawn and sketchy, showed the land around the city. Slips of parchment held down with pebbles dotted both. If he was going to stay, and ignore Natael’s searching look at the same time, there was nothing for it but to study the maps.

  With the toe of his boot he shifted a few pebbles on the map of the city so he could read what was written on the parchments. In spite of himself, he winced. If the Aiel scouts could count, Couladin had nearly one hundred and sixty thousand spears—Shaido and those who had supposedly gone to join their societies among the Shaido. A hard nut to crack, and prickly. This side of the Spine of the World had not seen an army like that since Artur Hawkwing’s time.

  The second map showed the other clans that had crossed the Dragonwall. All had now, in one force or another, strung out according to when they had left the Jangai and spread apart, but too close to here for comfort. The Shiande, the Codarra, the Daryne, and the Miagoma. Between them, they apparently had at least as many spears as Couladin; they had not left many behind, if that was true. The seven clans with Rand almost doubled that, easily enough to face Couladin or the four clans. Either or. Not both, not at once. But both at once might be what Rand had to fight.

  What the Aiel called the bleakness had to be affecting those clans, too—every day still men tossed down their weapons and vanished—but only a fool would think it lessened their numbers any more than it did Rand’s. And there was always the possibility that some of those were going to Couladin. The Aiel did not speak of it very much or very freely, and masked the idea behind talk of joining societies, but even now, men and Maidens decided they could not accept Rand or what he had told them of themselves. Every morning some were missing, and not all left their spears behind.

  “A pretty situation, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mat’s head jerked up at Lan’s voice, but the Warder had entered the tent alone. “Just something to look at while I waited. Is Rand coming back?”

  “He will be with us soon.” Thumbs tucked behind his sword belt, Lan stood beside Mat, looking down at the map. His face gave away as much as a statue’s would. “Tomorrow should bring the largest battle since Artur Hawkwing.”

  “You don’t say?” Where was Rand? Still up on that tower, probably. Maybe he should go there. No, he could end up haring all over the camp, always one step behind. Rand would come here eventually. He wanted to talk about something besides Couladin. This fight is none of mine. I’m not running away from anything that concerns me in the least. “What about them?” He gestured to the slips representing the Miagoma and the others. “Any word on whether they mean to join Rand, or do they just intend to sit there watching?”

  “Who can say? Rhuarc doesn’t seem to know any more than I do, and if the Wise Ones do, they are not telling. The only thing certain is that Couladin is not going anywhere.”

  Couladin again. Mat shifted uncomfortably and took a half-step toward the entrance. No, he would wait. Fastening his gaze on the maps, he pretended to study them further. Perhaps Lan would leave him in silence. He just wanted to say his piece to Rand and go.

  The Warder appeared to want to talk, though. “What do you think, Master Gleeman? Should we rush down on Couladin with everything and crush him tomorrow?”

  “That sounds as good to me as any other plan,” Natael replied dourly. Emptying the goblet down his throat, he dropped it on the carpets and picked up the harp to begin softly strumming something dark and funereal. “I lead no armies, Warder. I command nothing save myself, and not always that.”

  Mat grunted, and Lan glanced at him before returning to his study of the maps. “You do not think it a good plan? Why not?”

  He said it so casually that Mat answered without thinking. “Two reasons. If you surround Couladin, trap him between you and the city, you might crush him against it.” How long was Rand going to be? “But you might push him right over the walls, too. From what I hear, he’s nearly gotten over twice already, even without miners or siege engines, and the city is hanging on by its teeth.” Say his piece and go, that was it. “Press him enough, and you’ll find yourself fighting inside Cairhien. Nasty thing, fighting in a city. And the idea is to save the place, not finish ruining it.” Those slips laid out on the maps, the maps themselves, made it all so clear.

  Frowning, he squatted with his elbows on his knees. Lan got down with him, but he hardly noticed. A dicey problem. And fasci
nating. “Best if you try to shove him away. Hit him from the south, mainly.” He pointed to the River Gaelin; it joined the Alguenya some miles north of the city. “There are bridges up here. Leave the Shaido a clear path to them. Always leave a way out, unless you really want to find out how hard a man can fight when he’s nothing to lose.” His finger slid east. Wooded hills for the most part, it seemed. Probably not much different from right around here. “A blocking force here on this side of the river will make sure they go for the bridges, if it’s big enough and positioned right. Once they are moving, Couladin won’t want to try fighting someone ahead of him while you’re coming behind.” Yes. Almost exactly the same as at Jenje. “Not unless he’s a complete fool, anyway. They might make it to the river in good order, but those bridges will choke them. I don’t see Aiel swimming, or hunting out fords for that matter. Keep the pressure on, shove them across. With luck you’ll be able to harry them all the way to the mountains.” It was like Cuaindaigh Fords, too, late in the Trolloc Wars, and on much the same scale. Not much different from the Tora Shan, either. Or Sulmein Gap, before Hawkwing found his stride. The names flickered through his head, the images of bloody fields forgotten even by historians. Absorbed in the map as he was, they did not register as anything but his own remembrances. “Too bad you don’t have more cavalry. Light cavalry is best for the harrying. Bite at the flanks, keep them running, and never let them settle to fight. But Aiel should do almost as well.”

  “And the other reason?” Lan asked quietly.

  Mat was caught up in it, now. He more than merely liked gambling, and battle was a gamble to make dicing in taverns a thing for children and toothless invalids. Lives were the stake here, your own and other men’s, men who were not even there. Make the wrong wager, a foolish bet, and cities died, or whole nations. Natael’s somber music was fit accompaniment. At the same time, this was a game that set the blood racing.