Knife of Dreams

by Robert Jordan

  Mat's smile slipped. Game? He was just trying to regain a little balance. But she saw a game, and that meant he could lose. Was likely to, since he had no idea what the game was. Why did women always make things so . . . complicated?

  Selucia resumed her place and slid a chipped cup in front of him, and a blue-glazed plate that held half a loaf of crusty bread, six varieties of pickled olives mounded up, and three sorts of cheese. That perked his spirits again. He had hoped for this, if not expected it. Once you got a woman feeding you, she had a hard time finding it in herself to stop you from putting your feet under her table again.

  "The thing of it is," Noal said, resuming his tale, "in those Ayyad villages, you can see woman of any age, but no men much above twenty if that. Not a one." Olver's eyes grew even wider. The boy practically inhaled Noal's tales, about the countries he had seen, even the lands beyond the Aiel Waste, swallowed them whole without butter.

  "Are you any relation to Jain Charin, Noal?" Mat chewed an olive and discreetly spat the pit into his palm. The thing tasted not far from spoiling. So did the next one. But he was hungry, so he gobbled them down and followed with some crumbly white goat cheese while ignoring the frowns Tuon directed at him.

  The old man's face went still as stone, and Mat had torn off a piece of bread and eaten that as well before Noal answered. "A cousin," he said at last, grudgingly. "He was my cousin."

  "You're related to Jain Farstrider?" Olver said excitedly. His favorite book was The Travels of Jain Farstrider, which he would have sat up reading by lamplight long past his bedtime had Juilin and Thera allowed. He said he intended to see everything Farstrider had, when he grew up, all that and more.

  "Who is this man with two names?" Tuon asked. “Only great men are spoken of so, and you speak as if everyone should know him."

  "He was a fool," Noal said grimly before Mat could open his mouth, though Olver did get his open, and left it gaping while the old man continued. "He went gallivanting about the world and left a good and loving wife to die of a fever without him there to hold her hand while she died. He let himself be made into a tool by—" Abruptly Noal's face went blank. Staring through Mat, he rubbed at his forehead as though attempting to recall something.

  "Jain Farstrider was a great man," Olver said fiercely. His hands curled into small fists, as though he was ready to fight for his hero. "He fought Trollocs and Myrddraal, and he had more adventures than anyone else in the whole world! Even Mat! He captured Cowin Gemallan after Gemallan betrayed Malkier to the Shadow!"

  Noal came to himself with a start and patted Olver's shoulder. "He did that, boy. That much is to his credit. But what adventure is worth leaving your wife to die alone?" He sounded sad enough to die on the spot himself.

  Olver had no answer to that, and his face fell. If Noal had put the boy off his favorite book, Mat was going to have words with the old man. Reading was important—he read himself; sometimes, he did— and he had made sure Olver had books he enjoyed.

  Standing, Tuon leaned across the table to rest a hand on Noal's arm. The stern look had vanished from her face, replaced by tenderness. A wide belt of dark yellow tooled leather cinched her waist, emphasizing her slim curves. More of his coin spent. Well, coin was always easy to come by for him, and if she did not spend it, likely he would throw it away on some other woman. "You have a good heart, Master Charin." She gave everybody their bloody names except for Mat Cauthon!

  "Do I, my Lady?" Noal said, sounding as though he really wanted to hear an answer. "Sometimes I think—" Whatever he thought sometimes, they were not to learn it now.

  The door swung open and Juilin put his head into the wagon. The Tairen thief-catcher's conical red cap was at its usual jaunty angle, but his dark face was worried. "Seanchan soldiers are setting up across the road. I'm going to Thera. She'll take a fright if she hears it from anybody else." And as quickly as that he was gone again, leaving the door swinging.

  CHAPTER 7 A Cold Medallion

  Seanchan soldiers. Blood and bloody ashes! That was all Mat needed, with the dice spinning his head. "Noal, find Egeanin and warn her. Olver, you warn the Aes Sedai, and Bethamin and Seta." Those five would all be together or at least close by one another. The two former sul'dam shadowed the sisters whenever they left the wagon they all shared. Light, he hoped none of them had gone into the town again. That could put a weasel in the chicken yard for sure! "I'll go down to the entrance and try to see whether we're in any trouble."

  "She won't answer to that name." Noal muttered, sliding out from the table. He moved spryly for a fellow who looked to have had half the bones in his body broken one time or another. "You know she won't."

  "You know who I mean." Mat told him sharply, frowning at Tuon and Selucia. This name foolishness was their fault. Selucia had told Egeanin that her name was now Leilwin Shipless, and that was the name Egeanin was using. Well, he was not about to put up with that sort of thing, not for himself and not for her. She had to come to her senses, soon or late.

  "I'm just saying," Noal said. "Come on, Olver."

  Mat slid out after them, but before he reached the door, Tuon spoke. "No warnings for us to remain inside, Toy? No one left to guard us?"

  The dice said he should find Hainan or one of the other Redarms and plant him outside just to guard against accidents, but he did not hesitate. "You gave your word." he said, settling his hat on his head. The smile he got in reply was worth the risk. Burn him, but it lit up her face. Women were always a gamble, but sometimes a smile could be win enough.

  He saw from the entrance that Jurador's days without a Seanchan presence had come to an end. Directly across the road from the show, several hundred men were taking off armor, unloading wagons, setting up tents in ordered rows, establishing horselines. All very efficiently done. He saw Taraboners with mail veils hanging from their helmets and bars of blue, yellow and green painted across their breastplates, and men who were clearly infantry, stacking long pikes and racking bows much shorter than a Two Rivers bow, in armor painted the same. He thought those must be Amadicians. Neither Tarabon nor Altara ran much to foot, and Altarans in service to the Seanchan had their armor marked differently for some reason. There were actual Seanchan, of course, perhaps twenty or thirty that he could see. There was no mistaking that painted armor of over-lapping plates or those strange, insectile helmets.

  Three of the soldiers came ambling across the road, lean, hardbitten men. Their blue coats, with the collars striped green-and-yellow, were plain enough despite the colors and showed the wear of armor use, but no signs of rank. Not officers, then, but still maybe as dangerous as red adders. Two of the fellows could have been from Andor or Murandy or even the Two Rivers, but the third had eyes tilted like a Saldaean's, and his skin was the color of honey. Without slowing, they started into the show.

  One of the horse handlers at the entrance gave a shrill three-note whistle that began to echo through the show while the other, a squint-eyed fellow named Bollin, pushed the glass pitcher in front of the three. "Price is a silver penny each, Captain," he said with deceptive mildness. Mat had heard the big man speak in the same tone a heartbeat before he thumped another horse handler over the head with a stool. "Children is five coppers if they's more than waist-high on me, and three if they's shorter, but only children as has to be carried gets in free."

  The honey-skinned Seanchan raised a hand as if to push Bollin out of his way, then hesitated, his face growing harder, if that was possible. The other two squared up beside him, fists clenched, as pounding boots announced the arrival of every man in the show, it seemed, performers in their flashy garb and horse handlers in coarse wool. Every man had a club of some sort in his hand, including Luca, in a brilliant red coat embroidered with golden stars to his turned-down boot-tops, and even the bare-chested Petra, who possessed the mildest nature of any man Mat had ever met. Petra's face was a thunderhead now, though.

  Light, this had the makings of a massacre, with these fellows' companions not a hundred
paces away and all their weapons to hand. It was a good place for Mat Cauthon to take himself out of. Surreptitiously he touched the throwing knives hidden up his sleeves and shrugged just to feel the one hanging down behind the back of his neck. No way to check those under his coat or in his boots without being noticed, though. The dice seemed like continuous thunder. He began to plan how to get Tuon and the others away. He had to hang onto her a while longer, yet.

  Before disaster could open the door, another Seanchan appeared, in blue-green-and-yellow striped armor but carrying her helmet on her right hip. She had the tilted eyes and honey-colored skin, and there was a scattering of white in her close-cropped black hair. She was near a foot shorter than any of the other three, and there were no plumes on her helmet, just a small crest like a bronze arrowhead at the front, but the three soldiers stood up very straight when they saw her. "Now why am I not surprised to find you here at what looks to be the fine beginnings of a riot, Murel?" Her slurred accent had a twang in it. "What's this all about then?"

  "We paid our money, Standardbearer," the honey-skinned man replied in the same twangy accents, "then they said we had to pay more on account of us being soldiers of the Empire."

  Bollin opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a raised hand. She had that kind of presence. Running her eyes over the men gathered in a thick semicircle with their clubs, and pausing a moment to shake her head over Luca, she settled on Mat. "Did you see what happened?"

  "I did," Mat replied, "and they tried to walk in without paying."

  "That's good for you, Murel," she said, getting a surprised blink from the man. "Good for all three of you. Means you won't be out your coin. Because you're all confined to camp for ten days, and I doubt this show will be here that long. You're all docked ten days' pay, as well. You're supposed to be unloading wagons so the homefolks don't get the idea we think we're better than they are. Or do you want a charge of causing dissension in the ranks?" The three men paled visibly. Apparently that was a serious charge. "I didn't think so. Now get out of my sight and get to work before I make it a full month instead of a week."

  "Yes, Standardbearer," they snapped out as one, then ran back across the road as hard as they could go while tugging off their coats. Hard men, yet the Standardbearer was harder.

  She was not finished, however. Luca stepped forward, bowing with a grand flourish, but she cut off whatever thanks he was about to offer. "I don't much like fellows threatening my men with cudgels," she drawled, resting her free hand on her sword hilt, "not even Murel, not at these odds. Still, shows you have backbone. Any of you fine fellows want a life of glory and adventure? Step across the road with me, and I'll sign you up. You there in that fancy red coat. You have the look of a born lancer, to me. I'll wager I can whip you into a proper hero in no time." A ripple of head-shaking ran through the assembled men, and some, seeing that no trouble was likely now, began slipping away. Petra was one of those. Luca looked as though he had been poleaxed. A number of others appeared almost as stunned by the offer. Performing paid better than soldiering, and you avoided the risk of people sticking swords into you. "Well, as long as you're standing here, maybe I can convince you. Not likely you'll get rich, but the pay is usually on time, and there always the chance of loot if the order is given. Happens now and then. The food varies, but it's usually hot, and there's usually enough to fill your belly. The days are long, but that just means you're tired enough to get a good night's sleep. When you don't have to work the night, too. Anyone interested yet?"

  Luca gave himself a shake. "Thank you, Captain, but no," he said, sounding half-strangled. Some fools thought soldiers were flattered by someone thinking they had a higher rank than they did. Some fool soldiers were. "Excuse me, if you please. We have a show to put on. And people who aren't going to be pleased if they have to wait much longer to see it.'' With a last, wary look at the woman, as if he feared she might try to drag him off by his collar, he rounded on the men behind him. "All of you get back to your stands. What are you doing lounging around here? I have everything well in hand. Get back to your stands before people start demanding their money back." That would have been a disaster in his book. Given the choice between handing back coin and having a riot, Luca would have been unable to decide which was worse.

  With the showfolk dispersing and Luca hurrying away while shooting glances at her over his shoulder, the woman turned to Mat, the only man remaining aside from the two horse handlers. "And what about you? From the look of you, you might be made an officer and get to give me orders." She sounded amused by the notion.

  He knew what she was doing. The people in the line had seen three Seanchan soldiers sent running, and who could say for sure why they had run, but now they had seen her disperse a much larger crowd by herself. He would have given her a place in the Band as a Bannerman in a breath. "I'd make a terrible soldier, Standardbearer," he said, tipping his hat, and she laughed.

  As he turned away, he heard Bollin saying, mildly. "You didn't hear what I told that man? It's a silver penny for you and another for your goodwife." Coins clinked into the pitcher. "Thank you." Things were back to normal. And the dice were still racketing in his head.

  Making his way through the show, where acrobats were again tumbling for the crowds on their wooden platforms and jugglers juggling and Clarine's dogs running atop large wooden balls and Miyora's leopards standing on their hind legs inside a cage that looked barely strong enough to hold them, he decided to check on the Aes Sedai. The leopards brought them to mind. The common soldiers might spend the day working, yet he would have laid coin on at least some of the officers coming for a look before long. He trusted Tuon, strangely enough, and Egeanin had enough sense to stay out of sight when there might be other Seanchan around, but common sense seemed in short supply among Aes Sedai. Even Teslyn and Edesina, who had spent time as damane, took foolish chances. Joline, who had not, seemed to think herself invulnerable.

  Everybody in the show knew the three women were Aes Sedai now, but their large wagon, covered with rain-streaked whitewash, still stood near the canvas-topped storage wagons, not far from the horse-lines. Luca had been willing to rearrange his show for a High Lady who gave him a warrant of protection, but not for Aes Sedai who put him at risk with their presence and were practically penniless besides. The women among the showfolk were sympathetic to the sisters for the most part, the men wary to one degree or another—it was almost always so with Aes Sedai—but Luca likely would have turned them out to make their own way without Mat's gold. Aes Sedai were more threat than anything else so long as they were in lands controlled by the Seanchan. Mat Cauthon got no thanks for it, not that he was looking for any. He would have settled for a touch of respect, unlikely as that was. Aes Sedai were Aes Sedai, after all.

  Joline's Warders, Blaeric and Fen, were nowhere to be seen, so there was no need to talk his way past them to get inside, but as he approached the dirt-streaked steps at the back of the wagon, the foxhead medallion hanging beneath his shirt went icy cold against his chest, then colder still. For a moment, he froze like a statue. Those fool women were channeling in there! Coming to himself, he pounded up the steps and banged the door open.

  The women he expected to see were all present, Joline, a Green sister, slender and pretty and big-eyed, and Teslyn, a narrow-shouldered Red who looked as though she chewed rocks, and Edesina, a Yellow, handsome rather than pretty, with waves of black hair spilling to her waist. He had saved all three from the Seanchan, had gotten Teslyn and Edesina out of the damane kennels themselves, yet their gratitude was variable to say the best. Bethamin, as dark as Tuon but tall and nicely rounded, and yellow-haired Seta had been sul’dam before they were forced into helping rescue the three Aes Sedai. The five of them shared this wagon, the Aes Sedai to keep an eye on the former sul’dam, the former sul’dam to keep an eye on the Aes Sedai. None realized their task, but mutual distrust made them carry it out assiduously. The one woman he had not expected to see was Setalle Anan, who had kept
the Wandering Woman in Ebou Dar before she decided to make herself part of that rescue for some reason. But then, Setalle had a way of pushing herself in. Of meddling, in fact. She meddled between him and Tuon incessantly. What they were doing was completely unexpected, though.

  In the middle of the wagon, Bethamin and Seta were standing rigid as fence posts, jammed shoulder-to-shoulder between the two beds that could not be raised against the walls, and Joline was slapping Bethamin's face again and again, first with one hand then the other. Silent tears trickled down the tall woman's cheeks, and Seta looked afraid that she would be next. Edesina and Teslyn, arms folded beneath their breasts, were watching with no expression whatsoever while Mistress Anan frowned her disapproval over Teslyn's shoulder. Whether disapproval of the slapping or of what Bethamin had done to earn it, he could not have said and did not care.

  Crossing the floor in one stride, he seized Joline's upraised arm and spun her around. "What in the Light are you—?" That was as far as he got before she used her other hand to catch him a buffet so hard that his ears rang.

  "Now, that killed the goat," he said, and, spots still floating in his vision, he dropped down onto the nearest bed and pulled a surprised Joline across his lap. His right hand landed on her bottom with a loud smack that pulled a startled squawk from her. The medallion went colder still, and Edesina gasped when nothing happened, but he tried to keep one eye on the other two sisters and one on the open door for Joline's Warders while he held her in place and whacked as fast and as hard as he could. With no idea how many shifts or petticoats she was wearing under that worn blue wool, he wanted to make sure he left an impression. It seemed his hand was beating time for the dice spinning in his head. Struggling and kicking, Joline began cursing like a wagon driver as the medallion seemed to turn to ice, and then to grow so cold he wondered if it would give him frostbite, but he soon added wordless yelps to her pungent vocabulary. His arm might not match Petra's, but he was far from weak. Practice with bow and quarterstaff gave you strong arms.