“Of course I am.” Light, if I say that much more often, I may start believing it. “What about you? Do you serve Morgase and Gaebril loyally?”
Tallanvor gave him a look as hard as the dice’s mercy. “I serve Morgase, Thom Grinwell. Her, I serve to the death. Fare you well!” He turned and strode back toward the Palace with a hand gripping his sword hilt.
Watching him go, Mat muttered to himself. “I will wager this”—he gave Gaebril’s wash-leather purse a toss—“that Gaebril says the same.” Whatever games they played in the Palace, he wanted no place in any of them. And he meant to make sure Egwene and the others were out of them, too. Fool women! Now I have to keep their bacon from burning instead of looking after my own! He did not start to run until the streets hid him from the Palace.
When he came dashing into The Queen’s Blessing, nothing very much had changed in the library. Thom and the innkeeper still sat over the stones board—a different game, he saw from the positions of the stones, but no better for Gill—and the calico cat was back on the table, washing herself. A tray holding their unlit pipes and the remains of a meal for two sat near the cat, and his belongings were gone from the armchair. Each man had a wine cup at his elbow.
“I will be leaving, Master Gill,” he said. “You can keep the coin and take a meal out of it. I’ll stay long enough to eat, but then I am on the road to Tear.”
“What is your hurry, boy?” Thom seemed to be watching the cat more than the board. “We only just arrived here.”
“You delivered the Lady Elayne’s letter, then?” the innkeeper said eagerly. “And kept your skin whole, it seems. Did you really climb over that wall like the other young man? No, that does not matter. Did the letter soothe Morgase? Do we still have to keep tiptoeing on eggs, man?”
“I suppose it soothed her,” Mat said. “I think it did.” He hesitated a moment, bouncing Gaebril’s purse on his hand. It made a clinking sound. He had not looked to see if it really held ten gold marks; the weight was about right. “Master Gill, what can you tell me of Gaebril? Aside from the fact that he does not like Aes Sedai. You said he had not been in Caemlyn long?”
“Why do you want to know about him?” Thom asked. “Basel, are you going to place a stone or not?” The innkeeper sighed and stuck a black stone on the board, and the gleeman shook his head.
“Well, lad,” Gill said, “there is not much to tell. He came out of the west during the winter. Somewhere out your way, I think. Maybe it was the Two Rivers. I’ve heard the mountains mentioned.”
“We have no lords in the Two Rivers,” Mat said. “Maybe there are some up around Baerlon. I do not know.”
“That could be it, lad. I had never even heard of him before, but I do not keep up with the country lords. Came while Morgase was still in Tar Valon, he did, and half the city was afraid the Tower was going to make her disappear, too. The other half did not want her back. The riots started up again, the way they did last year at the tail of winter.”
Mat shook his head. “I do not care about politics, Master Gill. It’s Gaebril I want to know about.” Thom frowned at him, and began cleaning the dottle from his long-stemmed pipe with a straw.
“It is Gaebril I am telling you about, lad,” Gill said. “During the riots, he made himself leader of the faction supporting Morgase—got himself wounded in the fighting, I hear—and by the time she returned, he had it all suppressed. Gareth Bryne didn’t like Gaebril’s methods—he can be a very hard man—but Morgase was so pleased to find order restored that she named him to the post Elaida used to hold.”
The innkeeper stopped. Mat waited for him to go on, but he did not. Thom thumbed his pipe full of tabac and walked over to light a spill at a small lamp kept for the purpose on the mantel above the fireplace.
“What else?” Mat asked. “The man has to have a reason for what he does. If he marries Morgase, would he be king when she dies? If Elayne were dead, too, I mean?”
Thom choked lighting his pipe, and Gill laughed. “Andor has a queen, lad. Always a queen. If Morgase and Elayne both died—the Light send it not so!—then Morgase’s nearest female relative would take the throne. At least there’s no question of who that is this time—a cousin, the Lady Dyelin—not like the Succession, after Tigraine vanished. It took two years before Morgase sat on the Lion Throne, then. Dyelin could keep Gaebril as her advisor, or marry him to cement the line—though she would not likely do that unless Morgase had had a child by him—but he would be the Prince Consort even then. No more than that. Thank the Light, Morgase is a young woman, yet. And Elayne is healthy. Light! The letter did not say she is ill, did it?”
“She is well.” For now, at least. “Isn’t there anything else you can tell me about him? You do not seem to like him. Why?”
The innkeeper frowned in thought, and scratched his chin, and shook his head. “I suppose I would not like him marrying Morgase, but I do not truly know why. He’s said to be a fine man; the nobles all look to him. I do not like most of the men he’s brought into the Guards. Too much has changed since he came, but I cannot lay it all at his door. There just seem to be too many people muttering in corners since he came. You would think we were all Cairhienin, the way they were before this civil war, all plotting and trying to find advantage. I keep having bad dreams since Gaebril came, and I am not the only one. Fool thing to worry about, dreams. It is probably only worry about Elayne, and what Morgase means to do concerning the White Tower, and people acting like Cairhienin. I just do not know. Why are you asking all these questions about Lord Gaebril?”
“Because he wants to kill Elayne,” Mat said, “and Egwene and Nynaeve with her.” There was nothing useful in what Gill had told him that he could see. Burn me, I don’t have to know why he wants them dead. I just have to stop it. Both men were staring at him again. As if he were mad. Again.
“Are you coming down sick again?” Gill said suspiciously. “I remember you staring crossways at everyone the last time. It’s either that, or else you think this is some sort of prank. You have the look of a prankster to me. If that is it, it’s a nasty one!”
Mat grimaced. “It is no bloody prank. I overheard him telling some man called Comar to cut Elayne’s head off. And Egwene’s and Nynaeve’s while he was about it. A big man, with a white stripe in his beard.”
“That does sound like Lord Comar,” Gill said slowly. “He was a fine soldier, but it is said he left the Guard over some matter of weighted dice. Not that anyone says it to his face; Comar was one of the best blades in the Guards. You really mean it, don’t you?”
“I think he does, Basel,” Thom said. “I very much think he does.”
“The Light shine on us! What did Morgase say? You did tell her, didn’t you? The Light burn you, you did tell her!”
“Of course, I did,” Mat said bitterly. “With Gaebril standing right there, and her gazing at him like a lovesick lapdog! I said, ‘I may be a simple village man who just climbed over your wall half an hour past, but I already happen to know your trusted advisor there, the one you seem to be in love with, intends to murder your daughter.’ Light, man, she’d have cut my head off!”
“She might have at that.” Thom stared into the elaborate carvings on the bowl of his pipe and tugged one mustache. “Her temper was ever as sudden as lightning, and twice as dangerous.”
“You know it better than most, Thom,” Gill said absently. Staring at nothing, he scrubbed both hands through his graying hair. “There has to be something I can do. I haven’t held a sword since the Aiel War, but. . . . Well, that would do no good. Get myself killed and do nothing by it. But I must do something!”
“Rumor.” Thom rubbed the side of his nose; he seemed to be studying the stones board and talking to himself. “No one can keep rumors from reaching Morgase’s ears, and if she hears it strongly enough, she will start to wonder. Rumor is the voice of the people, and the voice of the people often speaks truth. Morgase knows that. There is not a man alive I would back against her in the Game
. Love or no love, once Morgase starts examining Gaebril closely, he’ll not be able to hide as much as his childhood scars from her. And if she learns he means harm to Elayne”—he placed a stone on the board; it seemed an odd placement at first glance, but Mat saw that in three more moves, a third of Gill’s stones would be trapped—“Lord Gaebril will have a most elaborate funeral.”
“You and your Game of Houses,” Gill muttered. “Still, it might work.” A sudden smile appeared on his face. “I even know who to tell to start it. All I need do is mention to Gilda that I dreamed it, and in three days she’ll have told serving girls in half the New City that it is a fact. She is the greatest gossip the Creator ever made.”
“Just be certain it cannot be traced back to you, Basel.”
“No fear of that, Thom. Why a week ago, a man told me one of my own bad dreams as a thing he’d heard from somebody who’d had it from someone else. Gilda must have eavesdropped on me telling it to Coline, but when I asked, he gave me a string of names that led all the way to the other side of Caemlyn and vanished. Why, I actually went over there and found the last man, just out of curiosity to see how many mouths had passed it, and he claimed it was his very own dream. No fear, Thom.”
Mat did not really care what they did with their rumors—no rumors would help Egwene or the others—but one thing puzzled him. “Thom, you seem to be taking this all very calmly. I thought Morgase was the great love of your life.”
The gleeman stared into the bowl of his pipe again. “Mat, a very wise woman once told me that time would heal my wounds, that time smoothed everything over. I didn’t believe her. Only she was right.”
“You mean you do not love Morgase anymore.”
“Boy, it has been fifteen years since I left Caemlyn a half step ahead of the headsman’s axe, with the ink of Morgase’s signature still wet on the warrant. Sitting here listening to Basel natter on”—Gill protested, and Thom raised his voice—“natter on, I say, about Morgase and Gaebril, and how they might marry, I realized the passion faded a long time gone. Oh, I suppose I am still fond of her, perhaps I even love her a little, but it is not a grand passion anymore.”
“And here I half thought you’d go running up to the Palace to warn her.” He laughed, and was surprised when Thom joined him.
“I am not so big a fool as that, boy. Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this. Men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget. Morgase might kiss my cheek and give me a cup of wine and say how she has missed me. And then she might just let the Guards haul me off to prison and the headsman. No. Morgase is one of the most capable women I’ve ever known, and that is saying something. I could almost pity Gaebril once she learns what he is up to. Tear, you say? Is there any chance of you waiting until tomorrow to leave? I could use a night’s sleep.”
“I mean to be as far toward Tear as I can before nightfall.” Mat blinked. “Do you mean to come with me? I thought you meant to stay here.”
“Did you not just hear me say I had decided not to have my head cut off? Tear sounds a safer place to me than Caemlyn, and suddenly that does not seem so bad. Besides, I like those girls.” A knife appeared in his hand and was as suddenly gone again. “I’d not like anything to happen to them. But if you mean to reach Tear quickly, it’s Aringill you want. A fast boat will have us there days sooner than horses, even if we rode them to death. And I don’t say it just because my bottom has already taken on the shape of a saddle.”
“Aringill, then. As long as it’s fast.”
“Well,” Gill said, “I suppose if you are leaving, lad, I had better see about getting you that meal.” He pushed back his chair and started for the door.
“Hold this for me, Master Gill,” Mat said, and tossed him the wash-leather purse.
“What’s this, lad? Coin?”
“Stakes. Gaebril doesn’t know it, but he and I have a wager.” The cat jumped down as Mat picked up the wooden dice cup and spun the dice out on the table. Five sixes. “And I always win.”
CHAPTER
48
Following the Craft
As the Darter wallowed toward the docks of Tear, on the west bank of the River Erinin, Egwene did not see anything of the oncoming city. Slumped head down at the rail, she stared down at the waters of the Erinin rolling past the ship’s fat hull, and the frontmost sweep on her side as it swung into her vision and back again, cutting white furrows in the river. It made her queasy, but she knew raising her head would only make the sickness worse. Looking at the shore would only make the slow, corkscrew motion of the Darter more apparent.
The vessel had moved in that twisting roll ever since Jurene. She did not care how it had sailed before then; she found herself wishing the Darter had sunk before reaching Jurene. She wished they had made the captain put in at Aringill so they could find another ship. She wished they had never gone near a ship. She wished a great many things, most of them just to take her mind off where she was.
The twisting was less now, under sweeps, than it had been under sail, but it had gone on too many days now for the change to make much difference to her. Her stomach seemed to be sloshing about inside her like milk in a stone jug. She gulped and tried to forget that image.
They had not done much in the way of planning on the Darter, she and Elayne and Nynaeve. Nynaeve could seldom go ten minutes without vomiting, and seeing that always made Egwene lose whatever food she had managed to get down. The increasing warmth as they went further downriver did not help. Nynaeve was below now, no doubt with Elayne holding a basin for her again.
Oh, Light, no! Don’t think about that! Green fields. Meadows. Light, meadows do not heave like that. Hummingbirds. No, not hummingbirds! Larks. Larks singing.
“Mistress Joslyn? Mistress Joslyn!”
It took her a moment to recognize the name she had chosen to give Captain Canin, and the captain’s voice. She raised her head slowly and fixed her eyes on his long face.
“We are docking, Mistress Joslyn. You’ve kept saying how eager you were to be ashore. Well, we’re there.” His voice did not hide his eagerness to be rid of his three passengers, two of whom did little more than sick up, as he called it, and moan all night.
Barefoot, shirtless sailors were tossing lines to men on the stone dock that thrust out into the river; the dockmen seemed to be wearing long leather vests in place of shirts. The sweeps had already been drawn in, except for a pair fending the ship off from coming against the dock too hard. The flat stones of the dock were wet; the air had a feel of rain not long gone, and that was a little soothing. The twisting motion had ceased some time since, she realized, but her stomach remembered. The sun was falling toward the west. She tried not to think of supper.
“Very good, Captain Canin,” she said with all the dignity she could summon. He’d not sound like that if I were wearing my ring, not even if I were sick on his boots. She shuddered at the picture in her mind.
Her Great Serpent ring and the twisted ring of the ter’angreal hung on a leather cord about her neck, now. The stone ring felt cool against her skin—almost enough to counteract the damp warmth of the air—but aside from that, she had found that the more she used the ter’angreal, the more she wanted to touch it, without pouch or cloth between it and her.
Tel’aran’rhiod still showed her little of immediate use. Sometimes there had been glimpses of Rand, or Mat, or Perrin, and more in her own dreams without the ter’angreal, but nothing of which she could make any sense. The Seanchan, who she refused to think about. Nightmares of a White-cloak putting Master Luhhan in the middle of a huge, toothed trap for bait. Why should Perrin have a falcon on his shoulder, and what was important about him choosing between that axe he wore now and a blacksmith’s hammer? What did it mean that Mat was dicing with the Dark One, and why did he keep shouting, “I am coming!” and why did she think in the dream that he was shouting at her? And Rand. He had been sneaking through utter darkness toward Callandor, whi
le all around him six men and five women walked, some hunting him and some ignoring him, some trying to guide him toward the shining crystal sword and some trying to stop him from reaching it, appearing not to know where he was, or only to see him in flashes. One of the men had eyes of flame, and he wanted Rand dead with a desperation she could nearly taste. She thought she knew him. Ba’alzamon. But who were the others? Rand in that dry, dusty chamber again, with those small creatures settling into his skin. Rand confronting a horde of Seanchan. Rand confronting her, and the women with her, and one of them was a Seanchan. It was all too confusing. She had to stop thinking about Rand and the others and put her mind to what was right ahead of her. What is the Black Ajah up to? Why don’t I dream something about them? Light, why can’t I learn to make it do what I want?
“Have the horses put ashore, Captain,” she told Canin. “I will tell Mistress Maryim and Mistress Caryla.” That was Nynaeve—Maryim—and Elayne—Caryla.
“I have sent a man to tell them, Mistress Joslyn. And your animals will be on the dock as soon as my men can rig a boom.”
He sounded very pleased to be rid of them. She thought about telling him not to hurry, but rejected it immediately. The Darter’s corkscrewing might have stopped, but she wanted dry land under her feet again. Now. Still, she stopped to pat Mist’s nose and let the gray mare nuzzle her palm, to let Canin see she was in no great rush.
Nynaeve and Elayne appeared at the ladder from the cabins, laden with their bundles and saddlebags, and Elayne almost as laden with Nynaeve. When Nynaeve saw Egwene watching, she pushed herself away from the Daughter-Heir and walked unaided the rest of the way to where men were setting a narrow gangplank to the dock. Two crewmen came to fasten a wide canvas sling under Mist’s belly, and Egwene hurried below for her own things. When she came back up, her mare was already on the dock and Elayne’s roan dangled in the canvas sling halfway there.
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