That red hand symbol Talmanes wore was intriguing. More than intriguing. Much more. Of an old and distinguished House, was he? But Toy was the one. He remembered Hawkwing’s face. That seemed utterly impossible, yet his denial of it had plainly been a lie, as plain as the spots on a leopard. Could the Red Hand be Toy’s sigil? But if so, what about his ring? She had almost fainted when she first saw that. Well, she had come as close to it as she had since childhood.
“That’s going to change, Talmanes,” Toy growled. “I let it go on too long as it is. If Reimon and the others command banners now, that makes them Banner-Generals. And you a Lieutenant-General. Daerid commands five banners, and that makes him a Lieutenant-General, too. Reimon and the others will obey his orders or they can go home. Come Tarmon Gai’don, I’m not going to have my skull split open because they bloody refuse to listen to somebody who doesn’t have bloody estates.”
Talmanes turned his horse to ride around a patch of briars, and everyone followed. The tangled vines seemed to have particularly long thorns, and hooked besides. “They will not like it, Mat, but they will not go home, either. You know that. Have you any ideas yet how we are to get out of Altara?”
“I’m thinking on it,” Toy muttered. “I’m thinking on it. Those crossbowmen. . . .” He exhaled heavily. “That wasn’t wise, Talmanes. For one thing, they’re used to marching on their own feet. Half of them will have all they can do to stay in the saddle if we’re moving fast, and we’re going to have to. They can be useful in woods like these, or anywhere they have plenty of cover, but if we’re on open ground, with no pikes, they’ll be ridden down before they can loose a second flight.”
In the distance, a lion coughed. In the distance, but it was still enough to make the horses whicker nervously and dance a few steps. Toy leaned forward on his gelding’s neck and appeared to whisper in the animal’s ear. It quieted immediately. So that had not been another of his fanciful tales after all. Remarkable.
“I picked men who could ride, Mat,” Talmanes said once his bay stopped frisking. “And they all have the new crank.” A touch of excitement entered his voice now. Even restrained men tended to warmth over weapons. “Three turns of the crank,” his hands moved in a quick circle, demonstrating, “and the bowstring is latched. With a little training, a man can get off seven or eight quarrels in a minute. With a heavy crossbow.”
Selucia made a small sound in her throat. She was right to be startled. If Talmanes was telling the truth, and he had no reason to lie that Tuon could find, then she had to obtain one of these marvelous cranks somehow. With one for a pattern, artisans could make more. Archers could shoot faster than crossbowmen, but they took longer to train, too. There were always more crossbowmen than archers.
“Seven?” Toy exclaimed incredulously. “That would be more than useful, but I never heard of such a thing. Ever.” He muttered that as if it had some special significance, then shook his head. “How did you come by it?”
“Seven or eight. There was a mechanic in Murandy who wanted to take a wagonload of things he had invented up to Caemlyn. There is a school of some sort there for scholars and inventors. He needed money for the journey, and he was willing to teach the Band’s armorers to make the things. Smother your enemy with arrows at every opportunity. It is always better to kill your enemies far off than close at hand.”
Selucia held her hands up so Tuon could see them, slim fingers moving quickly. WHAT IS THIS BAND THEY SPEAK OF? She used the proper form, inferior to superior, yet her impatience was almost palpable. Impatience with everything that was happening. Tuon kept few secrets from her, but some seemed advisable for the present. She would not put it past Selucia to return her to Ebou Dar forcibly, so she would not be breaking her word. A shadow’s duties were many, and sometimes required paying the final sacrifice. She did not want to have to order Selucia’s execution.
She replied in the imperative form. TOY’S PERSONAL ARMY, OBVIOUSLY. LISTEN AND WE MAY LEARN MORE.
Toy commanding an army seemed very odd. He was charming at times, even witty and amusing, but often a buffoon and always a rapscallion. He had seemed very much in his element as Tylin’s pet. Yet he had seemed in his element among the show’s performers, too, and with the marath’damane and the two escaped damane, and in the hell. That had been such a disappointment. Not even one fight! Events later had not compensated for that. Getting swept up in a street brawl was hardly the same as seeing fights in a hell. Which admittedly had been far more boring than rumor heard in Ebou Dar had made it seem. Toy had displayed an unexpected side of himself in that street brawl. A formidable man, though with a peculiar weakness. For some reason, she found that strangely endearing.
“Good advice,” he said absently, tugging at the black scarf tied around his neck. She wondered about the scar he took such pains to hide. That he did was understandable. Why had he been hanged, and how had he survived? She could not ask. She did not mind lowering his eyes a little—in fact, it was enjoyable making him writhe; it took so little effort—but she did not want to destroy him. At least, not for the moment.
“Do you not recognize it?” Talmanes said. “It is from your book. King Roedran has two copies in his library. He has it memorized. The man thinks it will make him a great captain. He was so pleased with how our bargain worked out that he had a copy printed and bound for me.”
Toy gave the other man a mystified look. “My book?”
“The one you told us about, Mat. Fog and Steel, by Madoc Comadrin.”
“Oh, that book.” Toy shrugged. “I read it a long time ago.”
Tuon gritted her teeth. Her fingers flashed. WHEN WILL THEY STOP TALKING OF BOOKS AND GO BACK TO INTERESTING THINGS?
PERHAPS IF WE LISTEN WE MAY LEARN MORE, Selucia replied. Tuon glared at her, but the woman wore such an innocent look that she could not maintain her scowl. She laughed—softly, so as not to let Toy realize how close behind him she was—and Selucia joined in. Softly.
Toy had fallen silent, though, and Talmanes seemed content to leave it so. They rode in silence save for the sounds of the forest, birds singing, strange black-tailed squirrels chittering on branches. Tuon set herself to watching for omens, but nothing caught her eye. Bright-feathered birds darted among the trees. Once they spotted a herd of perhaps fifty tall, lean cattle with very long horns that stuck out almost straight to either side. The animals had heard them coming and were squared up, facing them. A bull tossed his head and pawed at the ground. Toy and Talmanes led the careful way around the herd, keeping their distance. She looked over her shoulder. The Redarms—why were they called that? She would have to ask Toy—the Redarms were leading the packhorses, but Gorderan had raised his crossbow, and the others had arrows nocked to their bows. So these cattle were dangerous. There were few omens concerning cattle, and she was relieved when the herd dwindled behind them. She had not come all this way to be killed by a cow. Or to see Toy killed by one.
After a time, Thom and Aludra came up to ride beside her. The woman glanced at her once, then looked straight ahead. The Taraboner’s face, framed by those brightly beaded braids, was always wooden when she looked at her or Selucia, so clearly she was one of those who refused to accept the Return. She was watching Toy, and she looked . . . satisfied. As if something had been confirmed for her, perhaps. Why had Toy brought her along? Surely not for her fireworks. Those were pretty enough, but they could not compare with Sky Lights performed by even a half-trained damane.
Thom Merrilin was much more interesting. Patently, the white-haired old man was an experienced spy. Who had sent him to Ebou Dar? The White Tower seemed the most obvious candidate. He spent little time around the three who called themselves Aes Sedai, but a well-trained spy would not give himself away in that fashion. His presence troubled her. Until the last Aes Sedai was leashed, the White Tower was something to be wary of. Despite everything, she still had troubling thoughts at times that somehow, Toy was part of a White Tower plot. That was impossible unless some of the Aes Sedai
were omniscient, yet the thought sometimes came to her.
“A strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Master Merrilin?” she said. “Encountering part of Toy’s army in the middle of an Altaran forest.”
He stroked his long mustaches with a knuckle, failing to mask a small smile. “He’s ta’veren, my Lady, and you can never tell what will happen around a ta’veren. It’s always . . . interesting . . . when you travel with one of those. Mat has a tendency to find what he needs when he needs it. Sometimes before he knows he needs it.”
She stared at him, but he seemed serious. “He’s tied to the Pattern?” That was how the word would translate. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The old man’s blue eyes widened in astonishment. “You don’t know? But it’s said Artur Hawkwing was the strongest ta’veren anyone had ever seen, perhaps as strong as Rand al’Thor. I’d have thought you of all people would. . . . Well, if you don’t, you don’t. Ta’veren are people the Pattern shapes itself around, people who were spun out by the Pattern itself to maintain the proper course of the weaving, perhaps to correct flaws that were creeping in. One of the Aes Sedai could explain better than I.” As if she would have conversation with a marath’damane, or worse, a runaway damane.
“Thank you,” she told him politely. “I think I’ve heard enough.” Ta’veren. Ridiculous. These people and their endless superstitions! A small brown bird, surely a finch, flew out of a tall oak and circled widdershins three times above Toy’s head before flying on. She had found her omen. Stay close to Toy. Not that she had any intention of doing otherwise. She had given her word, playing the game as it had to be played, and she had never broken her word in her life.
Little more than an hour after setting out, as a bird warbled ahead, Selucia pointed out the first sentry, a man with a crossbow up in the thick branches of a spreading oak cupping a hand to his mouth. Not a bird, then. More birdcalls heralded their advance, and soon they were riding through a tidy encampment. There were no tents, but the lances were neatly stacked, the horses picketed on scattered lines among the trees, near to the blankets of the men who would ride them, with a saddle or packsaddle at every animal’s head. It would not take long for them to break camp and be on the march. Their fires were small and gave off little smoke.
As they rode in, men in dull green breastplates with that red hand on their coatsleeves and red scarves tied to their left arms began rising to their feet. She saw grizzled faces with scars and fresh young faces, all with their eyes on Toy and expressions she could only call eager. A growing murmur of voices rose, rustling through the trees like a breeze.
“It’s Lord Mat.”
“Lord Mat is back.”
“Lord Mat’s found us.”
“Lord Mat.”
Tuon exchanged glances with Selucia. The affection in those voices was unfeigned. That was rare, and often went with a commander who had a slack hand at discipline. But then, she expected any army of Toy’s to be a ragtag affair, full of men who spent their time drinking and gambling. Only, these men looked no more ragtag than any regiment that had crossed a mountain range and ridden several hundred miles. No one looked unsteady on his feet with drink.
“Mostly we camp during the day and move at night to avoid being seen by the Seanchan,” Talmanes said to Toy. “Just because we have seen none of those flying beasts does not mean some might not be around. Most of the Seanchan seem to be farther north or farther south, but apparently they have a camp not thirty miles north of here, and rumor says there is one of the creatures there.”
“You seem pretty well informed,” Toy said, studying the soldiers they passed. He nodded suddenly, as if he had reached a decision. He seemed grim and . . . could it be resigned?
“I am that, Mat. I brought half the scouts, and I also signed some Altarans who were fighting the Seanchan. Well, most of them seem to have been stealing horses more than anything else, but some were willing to give that up for a chance to really fight them. I think I know where most of the Seanchan camps are from the Malvide Narrows south to here.”
Suddenly a man began to sing in a deep voice, and others joined in, the song spreading rapidly.
There’re some delight in ale and wine,
and some in girls with ankles fine,
but my delight, yes, always mine,
is to dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.
Every man in the camp was singing, now, thousands of voices roaring the song.
We’ll toss the dice however they fall,
and snuggle the girls be they short or tall,
then follow Lord Mat whenever he calls,
to dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.
They finished with shouts, laughing and clapping one another on the shoulder. Who under the Light was this Jak o’ the Shadows?
Reining in, Toy raised the hand holding his odd spear. That was all, yet silence spread through the soldiers. So he was not soft with discipline. There were a few other reasons for soldiers to be fond of their officers, but the most common seemed unlikely to apply to Toy, of all people.
“Let’s not let them know we’re here until we want them to know,” Toy said loudly. He was not orating, just making sure his voice carried. And the men heard, repeating his words over their shoulders to be passed back to men beyond the sound of his voice. “We’re a long way from home, but I mean to get us home. So be ready to move, and move fast. The Band of the Red Hand can move faster than anybody else, and we’re going to have to prove it.” There was no cheering, but plenty of nods. Turning to Talmanes, he said, “Do you have maps?”
“The best to be found,” Talmanes replied. “The Band has its own mapmaker, now. Master Roidelle already had good maps of everything from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World, and since we crossed the Damonas, he and his assistants have been making new maps of the country we crossed. They even marked a map of eastern Altara with what we have learned of the Seanchan. Most of those camps are temporary, though. Soldiers heading somewhere else.”
Selucia shifted in her saddle, and Tuon signed PATIENCE in high imperative form, a command. She kept her face smooth, but inside, she was furious. Knowing where soldiers were gave clues to where they were going. There had to be some way to burn that map. That would be as important as laying hands on one of the crossbow cranks.
“I’ll want to talk with Master Roidelle, too,” Toy said.
Soldiers came to take the horses, and for a while all seemed confusion and milling about. A gap-toothed fellow took Akein’s reins, and Tuon gave him explicit instructions on caring for the mare. He returned her a sour look along with his bow. Commoners in these lands seemed to believe themselves equal to everyone. Selucia gave the same sort of instructions to the lanky young man who took Rosebud. She thought that an appropriate name for a dresser’s horse. The young man stared at Selucia’s chest, until she slapped him. Hard. He only grinned and led the dun away rubbing his cheek. Tuon sighed. That was all very well for Selucia, but for herself, striking a commoner would lower her eyes for months.
Soon enough, though, she was settled on a folding stool with Selucia at her back, and stout Lopin presented them with tin cups full of dark tea, bowing quite properly to Selucia as well as to her. Not deeply enough, but the balding man did try. Her tea was honeyed to perfection, lightly, but then, he had served her often enough to know how she liked it. Activity bustled about them. Talmanes had a brief reunion with gray-haired Nerim, who apparently was his serving man, and happy to be reunited with him. At least, the thin man’s normally mournful countenance actually flashed a momentary smile. That sort of thing should have been done in private. Leilwin and Domon allowed Master Charin to lead Olver off to explore the camp with Juilin and Thera—Thom and Aludra went too, to stretch their legs—then deliberately took stools close by. Leilwin even went so far as to stare unblinking at Tuon for a long moment. Selucia made a low sound very like a growl, but Tuon ignored the provocation and gestured Mistress Anan to bring her stool over beside her. Event
ually, the traitors would be punished, and the thief, the property restored to its rightful owners, and the marath’damane leashed, but those things had to wait on what was more important.
Three more officers appeared, young noblemen with that red hand on their dark silk coats, and had their own reunion with Toy, with a great deal of laughing and hitting each other on the shoulder, which they seemed to take as a sign of fondness. She soon had them sorted out. Edorion was the dark, lean man with the serious expression except when smiling, Reimon the broad-shouldered fellow who smiled a great deal, and Carlomin the tall, slender one. Edorion was clean-shaven, while Reimon and Carlomin both had dark beards that were trimmed to points and glistened as if oiled. All three made much over the Aes Sedai, bowing deeply. They even bowed to Bethamin and Seta! Tuon shook her head.
“I’ve told you often enough it’s a different world than you’re used to,” Mistress Anan murmured, “but you still don’t quite believe it, do you?”
“Just because a thing is a certain way,” Tuon replied, “doesn’t mean it should be that way, even if it has been for a long time.”
“Some might say the same of your people, my Lady.”
“Some might.” Tuon let it rest there, though she usually enjoyed her private conversations with the woman. Mistress Anan argued against leashing marath’damane, as might be expected, and even against keeping da’covale of all things, yet they were discussions rather than arguments, and Tuon had made her concede a few points. She had hopes of bringing the woman around eventually. Not today, though. She wanted her mind focused on Toy.
Master Roidelle appeared, a graying, round-faced man whose bulk strained his dark coat, followed by six fit-appearing younger men each carrying a long, cylindrical leather case. “I brought all the maps of Altara I have, my Lord,” he told Talmanes in a musical accent as he bowed. Did everyone in these lands speak as if racing to get the words out? “Some cover the whole country, they do, some no more than a hundred square miles. The best are my own, of course, those I made these past weeks.”
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