Mat abandoned that line of talk. No use firming his suspicions. No use letting him know I know more than’s healthy myself.
The older woman—Thom called her Mada—came back with three chickens with crisp, brown skins, giving the white-haired man a worried look, and Mat a warning one, before she left. Mat ripped off a leg and set to as he talked. Thom frowned into his cup and never looked at the birds.
“Why are you here in Tar Valon, Thom? It’s the last place I’d have expected to see you, the way you feel about Aes Sedai. I heard you were coining money in Cairhien.”
“Cairhien,” the old gleeman muttered, the sharpness fading from his eyes again. “Such trouble it causes killing a man, even when he deserves killing.” He made a flourish with one hand and was holding a knife. Thom always had knives secreted about him. Drunk he might have been, but he held the blade steady enough. “Kill a man who needs killing, and sometimes others pay for it. The question is, was it worth doing anyway? There’s always a balance, you know. Good and evil. Light and Shadow. We would not be human if there wasn’t a balance.”
“Put that away,” Mat growled around a mouthful. “I don’t want to talk about killing.” Light, that fellow is still lying right out there in the street. Burn me, I ought to be on a ship by now. “I just asked why you’re in Tar Valon. If you had to leave Cairhien because you killed someone, I do not want to know about it. Blood and ashes, if you can’t pull your wits out of the wine enough to talk straight, I’ll leave now.”
With a sour look, Thom made the knife disappear. “Why am I in Tar Valon? I’m here because it is the worst place I could be, except maybe Caemlyn. It’s what I deserve, boy. Some of the Red Ajah still remember me. I saw Elaida in the street the other day. If she knew I was here, she would peel my hide off in strips, and then she would stop being pleasant.”
“I never knew you to feel sorry for yourself,” Mat said disgustedly. “Do you mean to drown yourself in wine?”
“What do you know of it, boy?” Thom snarled. “Put a few years on you, see something of life, maybe love a woman or two, and then you’ll know. Perhaps you will, if you have the brains to learn. Aaaah! You want to know why I’m in Tar Valon? Why are you in Tar Valon? I remember you shivering when you found out Moiraine was Aes Sedai. You nearly soiled yourself every time anybody even mentioned the Power. What are you doing in Tar Valon, with Aes Sedai on every side?”
“I am leaving Tar Valon. That’s what I am doing here. Leaving!” Mat grimaced. The gleeman had saved his life, and maybe more. A Fade had been involved. That was why Thom’s right leg did not work as well as it should. There could not be enough wine on a ship to keep him this drunk. “I am going to Caemlyn, Thom. If you need to risk your fool life for some reason, why not come with me?”
“Caemlyn?” Thom said musingly.
“Caemlyn, Thom. Elaida will likely be going back there sooner or later, so you’d have her to worry about. And from what I remember, if Morgase puts her hands on you, you will wish Elaida had you.”
“Caemlyn. Yes. Caemlyn would fit my mood like a glove.” The gleeman glanced at the chicken platter and gave a start. “What did you do, boy? Stuff them up your sleeve?” There was nothing left of the three birds but bones and carcasses with only a few strips of flesh remaining.
“Sometimes I get hungry,” Mat muttered. It was an effort not to lick his fingers. “Are you coming with me, or not?”
“Oh, I will come, boy.” As Thom pushed himself to his feet, he did not seem as unsteady as he had been. “You wait here—and try not to eat the table—while I get my things and say some goodbyes.” He limped away, not staggering once.
Mat drank a little of his wine and stripped off a few shreds that were left on the chicken carcasses, wondering if he had time to order another, but Thom was back quickly. His harp and flute in their dark leather cases hung on his back with a tied blanketroll. He carried a plain walking staff as tall as he was. The two serving women followed on either side. Mat decided they were sisters. Identical big brown eyes looked up at the gleeman with identical expressions. Thom was kissing first Saal, then Mada, and patting cheeks as he headed for the door, jerking his head for Mat to follow. He was outside before Mat could finish collecting his own belongings and pick up his quarterstaff.
The younger of the two women, Saal, stopped Mat as he reached the door. “Whatever you said to him, I forgive you for the wine, even if it is taking him away. I’ve not seen him this alive in weeks.” She pressed something into his hand, and when he glanced at it, his eyes widened in confusion. She had given him a silver Tar Valon mark. “For whatever it was you said. Besides, whoever is feeding you is not doing a good job of it, but you still have pretty eyes.” She laughed at the expression on his face.
Mat was laughing, too, in spite of himself, as he went out into the street, rolling the silver coin across the backs of his fingers. So I have pretty eyes, do I? His laughter shut off like the last drip from a wine barrel: Thom was there, but not the corpse. The windows of the taverns down the street put enough light across the cobblestones for him to be sure of it. The city guard would not have carried a dead man away without asking questions, at those taverns and at The Woman of Tanchico, too.
“What are you staring at, boy?” Thom asked. “No Trollocs in those shadows.”
“Footpads,” Mat muttered. “I was thinking about footpads.”
“No street thieves or strong-arms in Tar Valon, either, boy. When the guards take a footpad—not that many try that game here; the word spreads—but when they do, they haul him to the Tower, and whatever it is the Aes Sedai do to him, the fellow leaves Tar Valon the next day as wide-eyed as a goosed girl. I understand they’re even harder on women caught thieving. No, the only way you’ll have your money stolen here is somebody selling you polished brass for gold or using shaved dice. There are no footpads.”
Mat turned on his heel and strode past Thom, heading toward the docks, quarterstaff thumping off the cobblestones as if he could push himself ahead faster. “We’re going to be on the first ship sailing, whatever it is. The first, Thom.”
Thom’s stick clicked hurriedly after him. “Slow down, boy. What’s your hurry? There are plenty of ships, sailing day and night. Slow down. There aren’t any footpads.”
“The first bloody ship, Thom! If it’s sinking, we’ll be on it!” If they weren’t footpads, what were they? They had to be thieves. What else could they be?
CHAPTER
32
The First Ship
Southharbor itself, the great Ogier-made basin, was huge and round, surrounded by high walls of the same silver-streaked white stone as the rest of Tar Valon. One long wharf, most of it roofed, ran all the way around, except where the wide water gates stood open to give access to the river. Vessels of every size lined the wharf, most moored by the stern, and despite the hour dockmen in coarse, sleeveless shirts hurried about loading and unloading bales and chests, crates and barrels, with ropes and booms, or on their backs. Lamps hanging from the roof beams lit the wharfs and made a band of light around the black water in the middle of the harbor. Small open boats scuttled through the darkness, the square lanterns atop their tall sternposts making it seem as if fireflies skittered across the harbor. They were small only compared to the ships, though; some had as many as six pairs of long oars.
When Mat led a still-muttering Thom under an arch of polished redstone and down broad steps to the wharf, crewmen on one three-masted ship were unfastening the mooring lines not twenty paces away. The vessel was larger than most Mat could see, between fifteen and twenty spans from sharp bow to squared stern, with a flat, railed deck almost level with the wharf. The important thing was that it was casting off. The first ship that sails.
A gray-haired man came up the wharf: three lines of hemp rope sewn down the sleeves of his dark coat marked him as a dockmaster. His wide shoulders suggested that he might have begun as a dockman hauling rope instead of wearing it. He glanced casually in Mat’s direction,
and stopped, surprise on his leathery face. “Your bundles say what you’re planning, lad, but you might as well forget it. The sister showed me a drawing of you. You’ll board no ship in Southharbor, lad. Go back up those stairs so I don’t have to tell a man off to watch you.”
“What under the Light . . . ?” Thom murmured.
“That’s all changed,” Mat said firmly. The ship was casting off the last mooring line; the furled triangular sails still made thick, pale bundles on the long, slanted booms, but men were readying the sweeps. He pulled the Amyrlin’s paper out of his pouch and thrust it in the dockmaster’s face. “As you can see, I’m on the business of the Tower, at the order of the Amyrlin Seat herself. And I have to leave on that very vessel there.”
The dockmaster read the words, then read them again. “I never saw such a thing in my life. Why would the Tower say you couldn’t go, then give you . . . that?”
“Ask the Amyrlin, if you want,” Mat told him in a weary voice that said he did not think anyone could possibly be stupid enough to do that, “but she’ll have my hide, and yours, if I do not sail on that ship.”
“You’ll never make it,” the dockmaster said, but he was already cupping his hands to his mouth. “Aboard the Gray Gull there! Stop! The Light burn you, stop!”
The shirtless fellow at the tiller looked back, then spoke to a tall companion in a dark coat with puffy sleeves. The tall man never took his eyes off the crewmen just dipping the sweeps into the water. “Give way together,” he called, and sweepblades curled up froth.
“I’ll make it,” Mat snapped. The first ship I said, and the first ship I meant! “Come on, Thom!”
Without waiting to see if the gleeman followed, he ran down the wharf, dodging around men and barrows stacked with cargo. The gap between the Gray Gull’s stern and the wharf widened as the sweeps bit deeper. Hefting his quarterstaff, he hurled it ahead of him toward the ship like a spear, took one more step, and jumped as hard as he could.
The dark water passing beneath his feet looked icy, but in a heartbeat he had cleared the ship’s rail and was rolling across the deck. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard a grunt and a curse behind him.
Thom Merrilin hoisted himself up on the railing with another curse, and climbed over onto the deck. “I lost my stick,” he muttered. “I’ll want another.” Rubbing his right leg, he peered down at the still widening strip of water behind the vessel and shivered. “I had a bath today already.” The shirtless steersman stared wide-eyed from him to Mat and back again, clutching the tiller as if wondering whether he could use it to defend himself from madmen.
The tall man seemed nearly as stunned. His pale blue eyes bulged, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His dark beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with rage, and his narrow face grew purple. “By the Stone!” he bellowed finally. “What is the meaning of this? I’ve no room on this vessel for as much as a ship’s cat, and I’d not take vagabonds who leap onto my decks if I did. Sanor! Vasa! Heave this rubbish over the side!” Two extremely large men, barefoot and stripped to the waist, straightened from coiling lines and started toward the stern. The men at the sweeps continued their work, bending to lift the blades, taking three long steps along the deck, then straightening and walking backwards, hauling the ship ahead on their blades.
Mat waved the Amyrlin’s paper toward the bearded man—the captain, he supposed—with one hand, and fished a gold crown out of his pouch with the other, taking care even in his haste that the fellow saw there were more where that came from. Tossing the heavy coin to the man, he spoke quickly, still waving the paper. “For the inconvenience of our boarding as we did, Captain. More to come for passage. On business of the White Tower. Personal command of the Amyrlin Seat. Imperative we sail immediately. To Aringill, in Andor. Utmost urgency. The blessings of the White Tower on all who aid us; the Tower’s wrath on any who impede us.”
Certain the man had seen the Flame of Tar Valon seal by that time—and little more, Mat hoped—he folded the paper again and thrust it back out of sight. Eyeing the two big men uneasily as they came up on either side of the captain—Burn me, they both have arms like Perrin’s!—he wished he had his quarterstaff in hand. He could see it lying where it had landed, further down the deck. He tried to look sure and confident, the sort of man others had better not trifle with, a man with the power of the White Tower behind him. A long way behind me, I hope.
The captain looked at Mat doubtfully, and even more so at Thom in his gleeman’s cloak and none too steady afoot, but he motioned Sanor and Vasa to stop where they were. “I would not anger the Tower. Burn my soul, for the time being the river trade takes me from Tear to this den of. . . . I come too often to anger . . . anyone.” A tight smile appeared on his face. “But I spoke the truth. By the Stone, I did! Six cabins I have for passengers, and all full. You can sleep on deck and eat with the crew for another gold crown. Each.”
“That is ridiculous!” Thom snapped. “I don’t care what the war has done downriver, that is ridiculous!” The two large sailors shifted their bare feet.
“It is the price,” the captain said firmly. “I do not want to anger anyone, but I’d as soon not have any business you can be on aboard my vessel. Like letting a man pay you so he can coat you with hot tar, mixing in that business. You pay the price, or you go over the side, and the Amyrlin Seat herself can dry you off. And I’ll keep this for the trouble you’ve given me, thank you.” He stuffed the gold crown Mat has tossed him into a pocket of his puffy-sleeved coat.
“How much for one of the cabins?” Mat asked. “To ourselves. You can put whoever is in it now with someone else.” He did not want to sleep out in the cold night. And if you don’t overwhelm a fellow like this, he’ll steal your breeches and say he is doing you a favor. His stomach rumbled loudly. “And we eat what you eat, not with the crew. And plenty of it!”
“Mat,” Thom said, “I’m the one who is supposed to be drunk here.” He turned to the captain, flourishing his patch-covered cloak as well as he could with blanketroll and instrument cases hung about him. “As you may have noticed, Captain, I am a gleeman.” Even in the open air, his voice suddenly seemed to echo. “For the price of our passages, I would be more than glad to entertain your passengers and your crew—”
“My crew is aboard to work, gleeman, not be entertained.” The captain stroked his pointed beard; his pale eyes priced Mat’s plain coat to the copper. “So you want a cabin, do you?” He barked a laugh. “And my meals? Well, you can have my cabin and my meals. For five gold crowns from each of you! Andoran weight!” Those were the heaviest. He began to laugh so hard his words came out in wheezes. Flanking him, Sanor and Vasa grinned wide grins. “For ten crowns, you can take my cabin, and my meals, and I’ll move in with the passengers and eat with the crew. Burn my soul, I will! By the Stone, I swear it! For ten gold crowns. . . .” Laughter choked off anything else.
He was still laughing and gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes when Mat pulled out one of his two purses, but laughter stopped by the time Mat had counted five crowns into his hands. The captain blinked in disbelief; the two big crewmen looked poleaxed.
“Andoran weight, you said?” Mat asked. It was hard to judge without scales, but he laid seven more on the pile. Two actually were Andoran, and he thought the others made up the weight. Close enough, for this fellow. After a moment, he added another two gold Tairen crowns. “For whoever you’ll be pushing out of the cabin they paid for.” He did not think the passengers would see a copper of it, but it sometimes paid to appear generous. “Unless you mean to share with them? No, of course not. They ought to have something for having to crowd in with others. There’s no need for you to eat with your crew, Captain. You are welcome to share Thom’s meals and mine in your cabin.” Thom stared at him as hard as the others did.
“Are you . . . ?” The bearded man’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Are you . . . by any chance . . . a young lord in disguise?”
“I am no lor
d.” Mat laughed. He had reason to laugh. The Gray Gull was well out into the darkness of the harbor, now, with the wharf a band of light pointing up the black gap, not far ahead now, where the water gates let out onto the river. The sweeps drove the vessel toward that gap quickly. Men were already swinging the long, slanting booms around preparatory to unlashing the sails. And with gold in his hands, the captain no longer seemed ready to throw anyone overboard. “If you don’t mind, Captain, could we see our cabin? Your cabin, I mean. It’s late, and I for one want a few hours’ sleep.” His stomach spoke to him. “And supper!”
As the vessel put its bow into the blackness, the bearded man himself led the way down a ladder to a short, narrow passage lined with doors set close together. While the captain cleared his things from his cabin—it ran the width of the stern, with its bed and all of its furnishings built into the walls except two chairs and a few chests—and saw that Mat and Thom were settled, Mat learned a great deal, beginning with the fact that the man would not be pushing any passengers out of their quarters. He had too much respect for the coin they had paid, if not for them, to allow that. The captain would take his first’s cabin, and that officer would take the second’s bed, pushing each lower man down till the deckmaster would end sleeping up in the bow with the crew.
Mat did not think that information could be very useful, but he listened to everything the man said. It was always best to know not only where you were going, but who you were dealing with, or they might just take your coat and boots and leave you to walk home through the rain in bare feet.
The captain was a Tairen named Huan Mallia, and he spoke with great volubility once he had worked out Mat and Thom to his own satisfaction. He was not nobly born, he said, not him, but he would not have anyone think he was a fool. A young man with more gold than any young man should have by right might be a thief, if everyone did not know thieves never escaped Tar Valon with their haul. A young man dressed like a farmboy but with the air and confidence of the lord he denied being—“By the Stone, I’ll not say you are, if you say you are not.” Mallia winked and chuckled and tugged the point of his beard. A young man carrying a paper bearing the Amyrlin Seat’s seal and bound for Andor. There was no secret that Queen Morgase had visited Tar Valon, though her reason certainly was. It was obvious to Mallia something was afoot between Caemlyn and Tar Valon. And Mat and Thom were messengers—for Morgase, he thought, by Mat’s accent. Anything he could do to help in so great an enterprise would be his pleasure, not that he meant to poke where he was not wanted.
The Wheel of Time Page 243