The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

And a rich one. Mat heeled his mount on up the crowded street. Lost! I can find my bloody way. The sickness appeared to have erased parts of his memory. He could look at an inn, its upper floors sticking out over the ground floor all the way around and its sign creaking in the breeze, and remember seeing it before, yet not recall another thing he could see from that spot. A hundred paces of street might abruptly spark in his memory, while the parts before and after remained as mysterious as dice still in the cup.

  Even with the holes in his memory he was sure he had never been to the Inner City or the Royal Palace—I couldn’t forget that!—yet he did not need to remember the way. The streets of the New City—he remembered that name suddenly; it was the part of Caemlyn less than two thousand years old—ran every which way, but the main boulevards all led to the Inner City. The Guards at the gates made no effort to stop anyone.

  Within those white walls were buildings that could almost have fit in Tar Valon. The curving streets topped hills to reveal thin towers, their tiled walls sparkling with a hundred colors in the sunlight, or to look down on parks laid out in patterns made to be viewed from above, or to show sweeping vistas across the entire city to the rolling plains and forests beyond. It did not really matter which streets he took here. They all spiraled in on what he sought, the Royal Palace of Andor.

  In no time, he found himself crossing the huge oval plaza before the Palace, riding toward its tall, gilded gates. The pure white Palace of Andor would certainly not have been out of place among Tar Valon’s wonders, with its slender towers and golden domes shining in the sun, its high balconies and intricate stonework. The gold leaf on one of those domes could have kept him in luxury for a year.

  There were fewer people in the plaza than elsewhere, as if it were reserved for great occasions. A dozen of the Guards stood before the closed gates, bows slanted, all at exactly the same angle, across their gleaming breastplates, faces hidden by the steel bars of their burnished helmets’ face-guards. A heavyset officer, with his red cloak thrown back to reveal a knot of gold braid on his shoulder, was walking up and down the line, eyeing each man as if he thought he might find rust or dust.

  Mat drew rein and put on a smile. “Good morning to you, Captain.”

  The officer turned, staring at him through the bars of his face-guard with deep, beady eyes, like a pudgy rat in a cage. The man was older than he had expected—surely old enough to have more than one knot of rank—and fat rather than stocky. “What do you want, farmer?” he demanded roughly.

  Mat drew a breath. Make it good. Impress this fool so he doesn’t keep me waiting all day. I don’t want to have to flash the Amyrlin’s paper around to keep from kicking my heels. “I come from Tar Valon, from the White Tower, bearing a letter from—”

  “You come from Tar Valon, farmer?” The fat officer’s stomach shook as he laughed, but then his laughter cut off as if severed with a knife, and he glared. “We want no letters from Tar Valon, rogue, if you have such a thing! Our good Queen—may the Light illumine her!—will take no word from the White Tower until the Daughter-Heir is returned to her. I never heard of any messenger from the Tower wearing a countryman’s coat and breeches. It is plain to me you are up to some trick, perhaps thinking you’ll find a few coins if you come claiming to carry letters, but you will be lucky if you don’t end in a prison cell! If you do come from Tar Valon, go back and tell the Tower to return the Daughter-Heir before we come and take her! If you’re a trickster after silver, get out of my sight before I have you beaten within an inch of your life! Either way, you half-wit looby, be gone!”

  Mat had been trying to edge a word in from the beginning of the man’s speech. He said quickly, “The letter is from her, man. It is from—”

  “Did I not tell you to be gone, ruffian?” the fat man bellowed. His face was growing nearly as red as his coat. “Take yourself out of my sight, you gutter scum! If you are not gone by the time I count ten, I will arrest you for littering the plaza with your presence! One! Two!”

  “Can you count so high, you fat fool?” Mat snapped. “I tell you, Elayne sent—”

  “Guards!” The officer’s face was purple now. “Seize this man for a Darkfriend!”

  Mat hesitated a moment, sure no one could take such a charge seriously, but the red-coated Guards dashed toward him, all dozen men in breastplates and helmets, and he wheeled his horse and galloped ahead of them, followed by the fat man’s shouts. The gelding was no racer, but it outdistanced men afoot easily enough. People dodged out of his way along the curving streets, shaking fists after him and shouting as many curses as the officer had.

  Fool, he thought, meaning the fat officer, then added another for himself. All I had to do was say her bloody name in the beginning. “Elayne, the Daughter-Heir of Andor, sends this letter to her mother, Queen Morgase.” Light, who could have thought they’d think that way about Tar Valon. From what he remembered of his last visit, Aes Sedai and the White Tower had been close behind Queen Morgase in the Guards’ affections. Burn her, Elayne could have told me. Reluctantly, he added, I could have asked questions, too.

  Before he reached the arched gates that let out into the New City, he slowed to a walk. He did not think the Guards from the Palace could still be chasing him, and there was no point in attracting the eyes of those at the gate by galloping through, but they looked at him no more now than when he had first entered.

  As he rode under the broad arch, he smiled and almost turned back. He had suddenly remembered something, and had an idea that appealed to him a good deal more than walking through the Palace gates. Even if that fat officer had not been watching the gates, he thought he would like it better.

  He became lost twice while searching for The Queen’s Blessing, but at last he found the sign with a man kneeling before a woman with red-gold hair and a crown of golden roses, her hand on his head. It was a broad stone building of three stories, with tall windows even up under the red roof tiles. He rode around back to the stableyard, where a horse-faced fellow, in a leather vest that could hardly be any tougher than his skin, took his horse’s reins. He thought he remembered the fellow. Yes. Ramey.

  “It has been a long time, Ramey.” Mat tossed him a silver mark. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  “Can’t say as I . . .” Ramey began, then caught the shine of silver where he had expected copper; he coughed, and his short nod turned into something that combined a knuckled forehead with a jerky bow. “Why, of course I do, young master. Forgive me. Slipped my mind. Mind no good for people. Good for horses. I know horses, I do. A fine animal, young master. I’ll take good care of him, you can be sure.” He delivered it all quickly, with no room for Mat to say a word, then hurried the gelding into the stable before he might have to come up with Mat’s name.

  With a sour grimace, Mat put the fat roll of fireworks under his arm and shouldered the rest of his belongings. Fellow couldn’t tell me from Hawkwing’s toenails. A bulky, muscular man was sitting on an upturned barrel beside the door to the kitchen, gently scratching the ear of a black-and-white cat crouched on his knee. The man studied Mat with heavy-lidded eyes, especially the quarterstaff across his shoulder, but he never stopped his scratching. Mat thought he remembered him, but he could not bring up a name. He said nothing as he went through the door, and neither did the man. No reason they should remember me. Probably have bloody Aes Sedai coming for people every day.

  In the kitchen, two undercooks and three scullions were darting between stoves and roasting spits under the direction of a round woman with her hair in a bun and a long wooden spoon that she used to point out what she wanted done. Mat was sure he remembered the round woman. Coline, and what a name for a woman that wide, but everybody called her Cook.

  “Well, Cook,” he announced, “I am back, and not a year since I left.”

  She peered at him a moment, then nodded. “I remember you.” He began to grin. “You were with that young prince, weren’t you?” she went on. “The one who looked so like Tigraine, the
Light illumine her memory. You’re his serving man, aren’t you? Is he coming back, then, the young prince?”

  “No,” he said curtly. A prince! Light! “I do not think he will be anytime soon, and I don’t think you would like it if he did.” She protested, saying what a fine, handsome young man the prince was—Burn me, is there a woman anywhere who doesn’t moon over Rand and make calf-eyes if you mention his bloody name? She’d bloody scream if she knew what he is doing now—but he refused to let her get it out. “Is Master Gill about? And Thom Merrilin?”

  “In the library,” she said with a tight sniff. “You tell Basel Gill when you see him that I said those drains need cleaning. Today, mind.” She caught sight of something one of the undercooks was doing to a beef roast and waddled over to her. “Not so much, child. You will make the meat too sweet if you put so much arrath on it.” She seemed to have forgotten Mat already.

  He shook his head as he went in search of this library he could not remember. He could not remember that Coline was married to Master Gill, either, but if he had ever heard a goodwife send instructions to her husband, that had been it. A pretty serving girl with big eyes giggled and directed him down a hall beside the common room.

  When he stepped into the library, he stopped and stared. There had to be more than three hundred books on the shelves built on the walls, and more lying on the tables; he had never seen so many books in one place in his life. He noticed a leather-bound copy of The Travels of Jain Farstrider on a table near the door. He had always meant to read that—Rand and Perrin had always been telling him things out of it—but he never did seem to get around to reading the books he meant to read.

  Pink-faced Basel Gill and Thom Merrilin were seated at one of the tables, facing each other across a stones board, pipes in their teeth trailing thin blue streamers of tabac smoke. A calico cat sat on the table beside a wooden dice cup, her tail curled over her feet, watching them play. The gleeman’s cloak was nowhere in sight, so Mat supposed he had already gotten a room.

  “You’re done sooner than I expected, boy,” Thom said around his pipestem. He tugged one long, white mustache as he considered where to place his next stone on the board’s cross-hatchings. “Basel, you remember Mat Cauthon.”

  “I remember,” the fat innkeeper said, peering at the board. “Sickly, the last time you were here, I recall. I hope you are better now, lad.”

  “I am better,” Mat said. “Is that all you remember? That I was sick?”

  Master Gill winced at Thom’s move and took his pipe out of his mouth. “Considering who you left with, lad, and considering the way things are now, maybe it’s best I remember no more than that.”

  “Aes Sedai not in such good odor now, are they?” Mat set his things in one big armchair, the quarterstaff propped against the back, and himself in another with one leg swinging over the arm. “The Guards at the Palace seemed to think the White Tower had stolen Elayne.” Thom eyed the roll of fireworks uneasily, looked at his smoking pipe, and muttered to himself before going back to his study of the board.

  “Hardly that,” Gill said, “but the whole city knows she disappeared from the Tower. Thom says she’s returned, but we’ve heard none of that here. Perhaps Morgase knows, but everyone down to a stableboy is stepping lightly so she doesn’t snap off his head. Lord Gaebril has kept her from actually sending anyone to the headsman, but I’d not say she would not do it. And he has certainly not soothed her temper toward Tar Valon. If anything, I think he has made it worse.”

  “Morgase has a new advisor,” Thom said in a dry voice. “Gareth Bryne did not like him, so Bryne has been retired to his estate to watch his sheep grow wool. Basel, are you going to place a stone or not?”

  “In a moment, Thom. In a moment. I want to set it right.” Gill clamped his teeth around his pipestem and frowned at the board, puffing up smoke.

  “So the Queen has an advisor who doesn’t like Tar Valon,” Mat said. “Well, that explains the way the Guards acted when I said I came from there.”

  “If you told them that,” Gill said, “you might be lucky you escaped without any broken bones. If it was any of the new men, at least. Gaebril has replaced half the Guards in Caemlyn with men of his choosing, and that is no mean feat considering how short a time he has been here. Some say Morgase may marry him.” He started to put a stone on the board, then took it back with a shake of his head. “Times change. People change. Too much change for me. I suppose I am growing old.”

  “You seem to mean us both to grow old before you place a stone,” Thom muttered. The cat stretched and slinked across the table for him to stroke her back. “Talking all day will not let you find a good move. Why don’t you just admit defeat, Basel?”

  “I never admit defeat,” Gill said stoutly. “I’ll beat you yet, Thom.” He set a white stone on the intersection of two lines. “You will see.” Thom snorted.

  From what Mat could see of the board, he did not think Gill had much chance. “I will just have to avoid the Guards and put Elayne’s letter right into Morgase’s hands.” Especially if they’re all like that fat fool. Light, I wonder if he’s told them all I’m a Darkfriend?

  “You did not deliver it?” Thom barked. “I thought you were anxious to be rid of the thing.”

  “You have a letter from the Daughter-Heir?” Gill exclaimed. “Thom, why did you not tell me?”

  “I am sorry, Basel,” the gleeman muttered. He glared at Mat from under those bushy eyebrows and blew out his mustaches. “The boy thinks someone is out to kill him over it, so I thought I’d let him say what he wanted and no more. Seems he does not care any longer.”

  “What kind of letter?” Gill asked. “Is she coming home? And Lord Gawyn? I hope they are. I’ve actually heard talk of war with Tar Valon, as if anyone could be fool enough to go to war with Aes Sedai. If you ask me, it is all one with those mad rumors we’ve heard about Aes Sedai supporting a false Dragon somewhere in the west, and using the Power as a weapon. Not that I can see why that would make anyone want to go to war with them; just the opposite.”

  “Are you married to Coline?” Mat asked, and Master Gill gave a start.

  “The Light preserve me from that! You would think the inn was hers now. If she was my wife . . . ! What does that have to do with the Daughter-Heir’s letter?”

  “Nothing,” Mat said, “but you went on so long, I thought you must have forgotten your own questions.” Gill made a choking sound, and Thom barked a laugh. Mat hurried on before the innkeeper could speak. “The letter is sealed; Elayne did not tell me what it says.” Thom was eyeing him sideways and stroking his mustaches. Does he think I’ll admit we opened the thing? “But I don’t think she is coming home. She means to be Aes Sedai, if you ask me.” He told them about his attempt to deliver the letter, smoothing over a few edges they had no need to know about.

  “The new men,” Gill said. “That officer sounds it, at least. I’ll wager on it. No better than brigands, most of them, except the ones with a sly eye. You wait until this afternoon, lad, when the Guards on the gate will have changed. Say the Daughter-Heir’s name right out, and just in case the new fellow is one of Gaebril’s men, too, duck your head a little. A knuckle to your forehead, and you’ll have no trouble.”

  “Burn me if I will. I pull wool and scratch gravel for nobody. Not to Morgase herself. This time, I’ll not go near the Guards at all.” I would just as soon not know what word that fat fellow has spread. They stared at him as if he were mad.

  “How under the Light,” Gill said, “do you mean to enter the Royal Palace without passing the Guards?” His eyes widened as if he were remembering something. “Light, you don’t mean to. . . . Lad, you’d need the Dark One’s own luck to escape with your life!”

  “What are you going on about now, Basel? Mat, what fool thing do you intend to try?”

  “I am lucky, Master Gill,” Mat said. “You just have a good meal waiting when I come back.” As he stood, he picked up the dice cup and spun the dice out beside the
stones board for luck. The calico cat leaped down, hissing at him with her back arched. The five spotted dice came to rest, each showing a single pip. The Dark One’s Eyes.

  “That’s the best toss or the worst,” Gill said. “It depends on the game you are playing, doesn’t it. Lad, I think you mean to play a dangerous game. Why don’t you take that cup out into the common room and lose a few coppers? You look to me like a fellow who might like a little gamble. I will see the letter gets to the Palace safely.”

  “Coline wants you to clean the drains,” Mat told him, and turned to Thom while the innkeeper was still blinking and muttering to himself. “It doesn’t seem to make any odds whether I get an arrow in me trying to deliver that letter or a knife in my back waiting. It’s six up, and a half dozen down. Just you have that meal waiting, Thom.” He tossed a gold mark on the table in front of Gill. “Have my things put in a room, innkeeper. If it takes more coin, you will have it. Be careful of the big roll; it frightens Thom something awful.”

  As he stalked out, he heard Gill say to Thom, “I always thought that lad was a rascal. How does he come by gold?”

  I always win, that’s how, he thought grimly. I just have to win once more, and I’m done with Elayne, and that’s the last of the White Tower for me. Just once more.

  CHAPTER

  46

  A Message Out of the Shadow

  Even as he returned to the Inner City on foot, Mat was far from certain that what he intended would actually work. It would, if what he had been told was true, but it was the truth of that he was not sure of. He avoided the oval plaza in front of the Palace, but wandered around the sides of the huge structure and its grounds, along streets that curved with the contours of the hills. The golden domes of the Palace glittered, mockingly out of reach. He had made his way almost all the way around, nearly back to the plaza, when he saw it. A steep slope thick with low flowers, rising from the street to a white wall of rough stone. Several leafy tree limbs stuck over the top of the wall, and he could see the tops of others beyond, in a garden of the Royal Palace.