“Not yet, we won’t,” Rand retorted. “Everybody dies. The Wheel turns. I’m not going to curl up and wait for it to happen, though.”
“You sound like Master al’Vere,” Mat grumbled, but his voice had a little spirit in it.
“Good,” Rand said. “Good.” Light, let the others be all right. Please don’t let us be alone.
He began asking directions to The Queen’s Blessing. The responses varied widely, a curse for all those who did not stay where they belonged or a shrug and a blank look being the most common. Some stalked on by with no more than a glance, if that.
A broad-faced man, nearly as big as Perrin, cocked his head and said, “The Queen’s Blessing, eh? You country boys Queen’s men?” He wore a white cockade on his wide-brimmed hat, and a white armband on his long coat. “Well, you’ve come too late.”
He went off roaring with laughter, leaving Rand and Mat to stare at one another in puzzlement. Rand shrugged; there were plenty of odd folk in Caemlyn, people like he had never seen before.
Some of them stood out in the crowd, skins too dark or too pale, coats of strange cut or bright colors, hats with pointed peaks or long feathers. There were women with veils across their faces, women in stiff dresses as wide as the wearer was tall, women in dresses that left more skin bare than any tavernmaid he had seen. Occasionally a carriage, all vivid paint and gilt, squeezed through the thronged streets behind a four- or six-horse team with plumes on their harness. Sedan chairs were everywhere, the polemen pushing along with never a care for who they shoved aside.
Rand saw one fight start that way, a brawling heap of men swinging their fists while a pale-skinned man in a red-striped coat climbed out of the sedan chair lying on its side. Two roughly dressed men, who seemed to have been just passing by up till then, jumped on him before he was clear. The crowd that had stopped to watch began to turn ugly, muttering and shaking fists. Rand pulled at Mat’s sleeve and hurried on. Mat needed no second urging. The roar of a small riot followed them down the street.
Several times men approached the two of them instead of the other way around. Their dusty clothes marked them as newcomers, and seemed to act like a magnet on some types. Furtive fellows who offered relics of Logain for sale with darting eyes and feet set to run. Rand calculated he was offered enough scraps of the false Dragon’s cloak and fragments of his sword to make two swords and half a dozen cloaks. Mat’s face brightened with interest, the first time at least, but Rand gave them all a curt no, and they took it with a bob of the head and a quick, “Light illumine the Queen, good master,” and vanished. Most of the shops had plates and cups painted with fanciful scenes purporting to show the false Dragon being displayed before the Queen in chains. And there were Whitecloaks in the streets. Each walked in an open space that moved with him, just as in Baerlon.
Staying unnoticed was something Rand thought about a great deal. He kept his cloak over his sword, but that would not be good enough for very long. Sooner or later someone would wonder what he was hiding. He would not—could not—take Bunt’s advice to stop wearing it, not his link to Tam. To his father.
Many others among the throng wore swords, but none with the heron-mark to pull the eye. All the Caemlyn men, though, and some of the strangers, had their swords wound in strips of cloth, sheath and hilt, red bound with white cord, or white bound with red. A hundred heron-marks could be hidden under those wrappings and no one would see. Besides, following local fashion would make them seem to fit in more.
A good many shops were fronted with tables displaying the cloth and cord, and Rand stopped at one. The red cloth was cheaper than the white, though he could see no difference apart from the color, so he bought that and the white cord to go with it, despite Mat’s complaints about how little money they had left. The tight-lipped shopkeeper eyed them up and down with a twist to his mouth while he took Rand’s coppers, and cursed them when Rand asked for a place inside to wrap his sword.
“We didn’t come to see Logain,” Rand said patiently. “We just came to see Caemlyn.” He remembered Bunt, and added, “The grandest city in the world.” The shopkeeper’s grimace remained in place. “The Light illumine good Queen Morgase,” Rand said hopefully.
“You make any trouble,” the man said sourly, “and there’s a hundred men in sound of my voice will take care of you even if the Guards won’t.” He paused to spit, just missing Rand’s foot. “Get on about your filthy business.”
Rand nodded as if the man had bid him a cheerful farewell, and pulled Mat away. Mat kept looking back over his shoulder toward the shop, growling to himself, until Rand tugged him into an empty alleyway. With their backs to the street no passerby could see what they were doing. Rand pulled off the sword belt and set to wrapping the sheath and hilt.
“I’ll bet he charged you double for that bloody cloth,” Mat said. “Triple.”
It was not as easy as it looked, fastening the strips of cloth and the cord so the whole thing would not fall off.
“They’ll all be trying to cheat us, Rand. They think we’ve come to see the false Dragon, like everybody else. We’ll be lucky if somebody doesn’t hit us on the head while we sleep. This is no place to be. There are too many people. Let’s leave for Tar Valon now. Or south, to Illian. I wouldn’t mind seeing them gather for the Hunt of the Horn. If we can’t go home, let’s just go.”
“I’m staying,” Rand said. “If they’re not here already, they’ll come here sooner or later, looking for us.”
He was not sure if he had the wrappings done the way everyone else did, but the herons on scabbard and hilt were hidden and he thought it was secure. As he went back out on the street, he was sure that he had one less thing to worry about causing trouble. Mat trailed along beside him as reluctantly as if he were being pulled on a leash.
Bit by bit Rand did get the directions he wanted. At first they were vague, on the order of “somewhere in that direction” and “over that way.” The nearer they came, though, the clearer the instructions, until at last they stood before a broad stone building with a sign over the door creaking in the wind. A man kneeling before a woman with red-gold hair and a crown, one of her hands resting on his bowed head. The Queen’s Blessing.
“Are you sure about this?” Mat asked.
“Of course,” Rand said. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The common room was large and paneled with dark wood, and fires on two hearths warmed it. A serving maid was sweeping the floor, though it was clean, and another was polishing candlesticks in the corner. Each smiled at the two newcomers before going back to her work.
Only a few tables had people at them, but a dozen men was a crowd for so early in the day, and if none looked exactly happy to see him and Mat, at least they looked clean and sober. The smells of roasting beef and baking bread drifted from the kitchen, making Rand’s mouth water.
The innkeeper was fat, he was pleased to see, a pink-faced man in a starched white apron, with graying hair combed back over a bald spot that it did not quite cover. His sharp eye took them in from head to toe, dusty clothes and bundles and worn boots, but he had a ready, pleasant smile, too. Basel Gill was his name.
“Master Gill,” Rand said, “a friend of ours told us to come here. Thom Merrilin. He—” The innkeeper’s smile slipped. Rand looked at Mat, but he was too busy sniffing the aromas coming from the kitchen to notice anything else. “Is something wrong? You do know him?”
“I know him,” Gill said curtly. He seemed more interested in the flute case at Rand’s side now, than in anything else. “Come with me.” He jerked his head toward the back. Rand gave Mat a jerk to get him started, then followed, wondering what was going on.
In the kitchen, Master Gill paused to speak to the cook, a round woman with her hair in a bun at the back of her head who almost matched the innkeeper pound for pound. She kept stirring her pots while Master Gill talked. The smells were so good—two days’ hunger made a fine sauce for anything, but this smelled as good as Mis
tress al’Vere’s kitchen—that Rand’s stomach growled. Mat was leaning toward the pots, nose first. Rand nudged him; Mat hastily wiped his chin where he had begun drooling.
Then the innkeeper was hurrying them out the back door. In the stableyard he looked around to make sure no one was close, then rounded on them. On Rand. “What’s in the case, lad?”
“Thom’s flute,” Rand said slowly. He opened the case, as if showing the gold-and-silver-chased flute would help. Mat’s hand crept under his coat.
Master Gill did not take his eyes off Rand. “Aye, I recognize it. I saw him play it often enough, and there’s not likely two like that outside a royal court.” The pleasant smiles were gone, and his sharp eyes were suddenly as sharp as a knife. “How did you come by it? Thom would part with his arm as soon as that flute.”
“He gave it to me.” Rand took Thom’s bundled cloak from his back and set it on the ground, unfolding enough to show the colored patches, as well as the end of the harp case. “Thom’s dead, Master Gill. If he was your friend, I’m sorry. He was mine, too.”
“Dead, you say. How?”
“A . . . a man tried to kill us. Thom pushed this at me and told us to run.” The patches fluttered in the wind like butterflies. Rand’s throat caught; he folded the cloak carefully back up again. “We’d have been killed if it hadn’t been for him. We were on our way to Caemlyn together. He told us to come here, to your inn.”
“I’ll believe he’s dead,” the innkeeper said slowly, “when I see his corpse.” He nudged the bundled cloak with his toe and cleared his throat roughly. “Nay, nay, I believe you saw Whatever it was you saw; I just don’t believe he’s dead. He’s a harder man to kill than you might believe, is old Thom Merrilin.”
Rand put a hand on Mat’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Mat. He’s a friend.”
Master Gill glanced at Mat, and sighed. “I suppose I am at that.”
Mat straightened up slowly, folding his arms over his chest. He was still watching the innkeeper warily, though, and a muscle in his cheek twitched.
“Coming to Caemlyn, you say?” The innkeeper shook his head. “This is the last place on earth I’d expect Thom to come, excepting maybe it was Tar Valon.” He waited for a stableman to pass, leading a horse, and even then he lowered his voice. “You’ve trouble with the Aes Sedai, I take it.”
“Yes,” Mat grumbled at the same time that Rand said, “What makes you think that?”
Master Gill chuckled dryly. “I know the man, that’s what. He’d jump into that kind of trouble, especially to help a couple of lads about the age of you. . . .” The reminiscence in his eyes flickered out, and he stood up straight with a chary look. “Now . . . ah . . . I’m not making any accusations, mind, but . . . ah . . . I take it neither of you can . . . ah . . . what I’m getting at is . . . ah . . . what exactly is the nature of your trouble with Tar Valon, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Rand’s skin prickled as he realized what the man was suggesting. The One Power. “No, no, nothing like that. I swear. There was even an Aes Sedai helping us. Moiraine was. . . .” He bit his tongue, but the innkeeper’s expression never changed.
“Glad to hear it. Not that I’ve all that much love for Aes Sedai, but better them than . . . that other thing.” He shook his head slowly. “Too much talk of that kind of thing, with Logain being brought here. No offense meant, you understand, but . . . well, I had to know, didn’t I?”
“No offense,” Rand said. Mat’s murmur could have been anything, but the innkeeper appeared to take it for the same as Rand had said.
“You two look the right sort, and I do believe you were—are—friends of Thom, but it’s hard times and stony days. I don’t suppose you can pay? No, I didn’t think so. There’s not enough of anything, and what there is costs the earth, so I’ll give you beds—not the best, but warm and dry—and something to eat, and I cannot promise more, however much I’d like.”
“Thank you,” Rand said with a quizzical glance at Mat. “It’s more than I expected.” What was the right sort, and why should he promise more?
“Well, Thom’s a good friend. An old friend. Hotheaded and liable to say the worst possible thing to the one person he shouldn’t, but a good friend all the same. If he doesn’t show up . . . well, we’ll figure something out then. Best you don’t talk any more talk about Aes Sedai helping you. I’m a good Queen’s man, but there are too many in Caemlyn right now who’d take it wrong, and I don’t mean just the Whitecloaks.”
Mat snorted. “For all I care, the ravens can take every Aes Sedai straight to Shayol Ghul!”
“Watch your tongue,” Master Gill snapped. “I said I don’t love them; I didn’t say I’m a fool thinks they’re behind everything that’s wrong. The Queen supports Elaida, and the Guards stand for the Queen. The Light send things don’t go so bad that changes. Anyway, lately some Guards have forgotten themselves enough to be a little rough with folks they overhear speaking against Aes Sedai. Not on duty, thank the Light, but it’s happened, just the same. I don’t need off-duty Guards breaking up my common room to teach you a lesson, and I don’t need Whitecloaks egging somebody on to paint the Dragon’s Fang on my door, so if you want any help out of me, you just keep thoughts about Aes Sedai to yourself, good or bad.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “Maybe it’s best you don’t mention Thom’s name, either, where anyone but me can hear. Some of the Guards have long memories, and so does the Queen. No need taking chances.”
“Thom had trouble with the Queen?” Rand said incredulously, and the innkeeper laughed.
“So he didn’t tell you everything. Don’t know why he should. On the other hand, I don’t know why you shouldn’t know, either. Not like it’s a secret, exactly. Do you think every gleeman thinks as much of himself as Thom does? Well, come to think of it, I guess they do, but it always seemed to me Thom had an extra helping of thinking a lot of himself. He wasn’t always a gleeman, you know, wandering from village to village and sleeping under a hedge as often as not. There was a time Thom Merrilin was Courtbard right here in Caemlyn, and known in every royal court from Tear to Maradon.”
“Thom?” Mat said.
Rand nodded slowly. He could picture Thom at a Queen’s court, with his stately manner and grand gestures.
“That he was,” Master Gill said. “It was not long after Taringail Damodred died that the . . . trouble about his nephew cropped up. There were some said Thom was, shall we say, closer to the Queen than was proper. But Morgase was a young widow, and Thom was in his prime, then, and the Queen can do as she wishes is the way I look at it. Only she’s always had a temper, has our good Morgase, and he took off without a word when he learned what kind of trouble his nephew was in. The Queen didn’t much like that. Didn’t like him meddling in Aes Sedai matters, either. Can’t say I think it was right, either, nephew or no. Anyway, when he came back, he said some words, all right. Words you don’t say to a Queen. Words you don’t say to any woman with Morgase’s spirit. Elaida was set against him because of his trying to mix in the business with his nephew, and between the Queen’s temper and Elaida’s animosity, Thom left Caemlyn half a step ahead of a trip to prison, if not the headsman’s axe. As far as I know, the writ still stands.”
“If it was a long time ago,” Rand said, “maybe nobody remembers.”
Master Gill shook his head. “Gareth Bryne is Captain-General of the Queen’s Guards. He personally commanded the Guardsmen Morgase sent to bring Thom back in chains, and I misdoubt he’ll ever forget returning empty-handed to find Thom had already been back to the Palace and left again. And the Queen never forgets anything. You ever know a woman who did? My, but Morgase was in a taking. I’ll swear the whole city walked soft and whispered for a month. Plenty of other Guardsmen old enough to remember, too. No, best you keep Thom as close a secret as you keep that Aes Sedai of yours. Come, I’ll get you something to eat. You look as if your bellies are gnawing at your backbones.”
CHAPTER
36
Master Gill took them to a corner table in the common room and had one of the serving maids bring them food. Rand shook his head when he saw the plates, with a few thin slices of gravy-covered beef, a spoonful of mustard greens, and two potatoes on each. It was a rueful, resigned headshake, though, not angry. Not enough of anything, the innkeeper had said. Picking up his knife and fork, Rand wondered what would happen when there was nothing left. It made his half-covered plate seem like a feast. It made him shiver.
Master Gill had chosen a table well away from anyone else, and he sat with his back to the corner, where he could watch the room. Nobody could get close enough to overhear what they said without him seeing. When the maid left, he said softly, “Now, why don’t you tell me about this trouble of yours? If I’m going to help, I’d best know what I’m getting into.”
Rand looked at Mat, but Mat was frowning at his plate as if he were mad at the potato he was cutting. Rand took a deep breath. “I don’t really understand it myself,” he began.
He kept the story simple, and he kept Trollocs and Fades out of it. When somebody offered help, it would not do to tell them it was all about fables. But he did not think it was fair to understate the danger, either, not fair to pull someone in when they had no idea what they were getting into. Some men were after him and Mat, and a couple of friends of theirs, too. They appeared where they were least expected, these men, and they were deadly dangerous and set on killing him and his friends, or worse. Moiraine said some of them were Darkfriends. Thom did not trust Moiraine completely, but he stayed on with them, he said, because of his nephew. They had been separated during an attack while trying to reach Whitebridge, and then, in Whitebridge, Thom died saving them from another attack. And there had been other tries. He knew there were holes in it, but it was the best he could do on short notice without telling more than was safe.
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