Leaning on his spear, he limped around the tent, studying the ground. He was not sure what he was looking for. Soft Aiel boots had left no marks that he could make out by lantern light. Two of the tent ropes hung where they had been cut, but . . . He set the lantern down and fingered the ropes. That sound could have been taut rope being sliced, yet there was no reason to cut these to get inside. Something about the angle of the cuts, the way they lined up with one another, caught his attention. Taking up the lantern, he cast around. A wiry bush not far away had been trimmed along one side, thin branches with small leaves lying on the ground. A very neat trimming, perfectly flat, the severed branch ends smooth as though planed by a cabinetmaker.
The hair on the back of Mat’s neck stirred. One of those holes in the air that Rand used had been opened here. Bad enough that Aiel had tried to kill him, but they had been sent by somebody who could make one of those . . . gateways, Rand called them. Light, if he was not safe from the Forsaken with the Band around him, where was he safe? He wondered how he was going to sleep from now on with watch fires around his tent. And guards; a guard of honor, he could call it to take some of the sting away, to stand sentry around his tent. Next time it would probably be a hundred Trollocs, or a thousand, instead of a handful of Aiel. Or was he important enough for that? If they decided he was too important, the next time it could be one of the Forsaken. Blood and ashes! He had never asked to be ta’veren, never asked to be tied to the Dragon Bloody Reborn.
“Blood and bloody —!”
Soil crunching underfoot warned him, and he spun swinging the spear with a snarl. Barely in time he stopped the slashing blade, as Olver screamed and fell flat on his back, staring wide-eyed at the spearpoint.
“What in the bloody Pit of Doom are you doing here?” Mat snapped.
“I . . . I . . . ” The boy stopped to swallow. “They say fifty Aiel tried to kill you in your sleep, Lord Mat, but you killed them first, and I wanted to see if you were all right, and . . . Lord Edorion bought me some shoes. See?” He raised a shod foot.
Muttering under his breath, Mat hauled Olver to his feet. “That wasn’t what I meant. Why aren’t you in Maerone? Didn’t Edorion find somebody to look after you?”
“She just wanted Lord Edorion’s coin, not me. She had six children of her own. Master Burdin gives me lots to eat, and all I have to do is feed and water his horses, and rub them down. I like that, Lord Mat. He will not let me ride them, though.”
A throat cleared. “Lord Talmanes sent me, my Lord.” Nerim was short even for a Cairhienin, a skinny gray-haired man with a long face that seemed to say nothing was going well at the moment and in the long run, this was a better day than most. “If my Lord will pardon me for saying, those bloodstains will never come out of my Lord’s smallclothes, but if my Lord will allow it, I may be able to do something for the tears in my Lord.” He had his sewing box under one arm. “You, boy, fetch some water. No back talk. Water for my Lord, and quickly.” Nerim combined picking up the lantern with a bow. “If my Lord will step inside? Night air is bad for wounds.”
In short order Mat was stretched out beside his bedding — “My Lord will not want to stain his blankets” — letting Nerim wash away dried blood and sew him up. Talmanes was right; as a seamstress, the man was a ham-fisted cook. With Olver there, there was no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.
To try taking his mind elsewhere than Nerim’s needle, Mat pointed to the frayed cloth scrip hanging from Olver’s shoulder. “What do you have in there?” he panted.
Olver clutched the tattered bag to his chest. He was certainly cleaner than he had been, if no prettier. The shoes appeared stout, and his woolen shirt and breeches looked new. “It is mine,” he said defensively. “I did not steal anything.” After a moment, he opened the bag and began laying things out. A spare pair of breeches, two more shirts and some stockings had no interest for him, but he listed the other things. “This is my redhawk’s feather, Lord Mat, and this stone is just the color of the sun. See?” He added a small purse. “I have five coppers and a silver penny.” A rolled cloth tied with a string and a small wooden box. “My game of Snakes and Foxes; my father made it for me; he drew the board.” For a moment his face crumpled, then he went on. “And see, this stone has a fish head in it. I do not know how it got there. And this is my turtle shell. A blue-back turtle. See the stripes?”
Wincing at a particularly hard thrust of the sewing needle, Mat stretched his hand to finger the rolled cloth. Much better if he breathed through his nose. It was odd how those holes in his real memories worked; he could remember how to play Snakes and Foxes, but not ever playing it. “That’s a fine turtle shell, Olver. I had one, once. A green basker.” Stretching his hand the other way, he reached his own purse; he dipped out two gold Cairhienin crowns. “Add these to your purse, Olver. A man needs a little gold in his pocket.”
Stiffly Olver began stuffing things back into his scrip. “I do not beg, Lord Mat. I can work for my supper. I am not a beggar.”
“Never meant to say you are.” Mat cast around hurriedly for some reason to pay the boy two crowns. “I . . . I need someone to carry messages for me. Can’t ask any of the Band; they are all busy soldiering. Of course, you’d have to take care of your own horse. I could not ask anybody to do it for you.”
Olver sat up straight. “I would have my own horse?” he said incredulously.
“Of course. There is one thing. My name is Mat. You call me Lord Mat again, and I’ll tie your nose in a knot.” Bellowing, he jerked half-upright. “Burn you, Nerim, that’s a leg, not a bloody side of beef!”
“As my Lord says,” Nerim murmured, “my Lord’s leg is not a side of beef. Thank you, my Lord, for instructing me.”
Olver was feeling his nose hesitantly, as if considering whether it could be tied in a knot.
Mat settled back with a groan. Now he had saddled himself with a boy, and had done the lad no favor — not if he was nearby the next time the Forsaken tried to reduce the number of ta’veren in the world. Well, if Rand’s plan worked, there would be one less Forsaken. If Mat Cauthon had his way, he intended to stay out of trouble and out of danger until there were no Forsaken.
Chapter 23
To Understand a Message
* * *
Graendal managed not to stare as she entered the room, but her streith gown went dead black before she could control herself and return it to a blue mist. Sammael had done enough to make anyone doubt that this chamber was in the Great Hall of the Council in Illian. But then, she would be very surprised if anyone but he ever penetrated this far uninvited into “Lord Brend’s” apartments.
The air was pleasantly cool; in one corner rose the hollow cylinder of an exchanger. Glowbulbs, bright and steady, stood oddly in heavy gold candleholders, giving much better illumination than candles or oil lamps ever could. A small music box sat on the marble mantelpiece, producing from its memory the soft strains of a sound-sculpture that very likely had not been heard outside this room in well over three thousand years. And she recognized several of the artworks on the walls.
She paused in front of Ceran Tol’s “Tempo of Infinity.” Not a copy. “One might think you had looted a museum, Sammael.” It was hard to keep the envy from her voice, and when she saw his faint smile, she realized she had failed.
Filling two silver-chased goblets with wine, he handed her one. “Only a stasis box. I suppose people tried to save what they could in the last days.” His smile pulled at that awful scar across his face as he beamed around the chamber, with especial fondness for the zara board projecting its field of still-transparent boxes in the air; he had always liked the more violent games. Of course, a zara board meant his stasis box had been filled by someone who followed the Great Lord; possession of a single once-human playing piece had meant imprisonment at the least on the other side. What else had he found?
Sipping her wine — and suppressing a sigh; it was from the here and now; she had hoped for a delicate Satare or one of the exquisite Comolads — she stroked her gown with beringed fingers. “I found one as well, but beyond streith, it contained the most appalling collection of useless rubbish.” After all, since he had invited her here and let her see this, it was a time for confidences. Small confidences.
“How sad for you.” Again that faint smile. He had found something more than playthings and pretties. “On the other hand,” he went on, “think how awful it would have been to open a box and rouse a nest of cafar, say, or a jumara, or one of Aginor’s other little creations. Did you know there are jumara loose in the Blight? Full-grown, though they’ll never transform now. They call them Worms.” He laughed so hard at that, he shook.
Graendal smiled a good deal more warmly than she felt inside, though if her gown changed color, it was by a hair. She had had an unpleasant, in fact almost fatal, experience with one of Aginor’s creations. The man had been brilliant in his way, but mad. None but a madman would have made the gholam. “You seem in very good mood.”