The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Berelain remained impassive. “Excuse me?”

  “In the Borderlands, if a woman finds that another has been bedding her husband, she is given the option of knife combat.” That was true, though the tradition was an old one, rarely observed any longer. “The only way to clear my name is for you and me to fight.”

  “What would that prove?”

  “If nothing else, if you were dead, it would stop anyone from thinking that you are still sleeping with my husband behind my back.”

  “Are you actually threatening me in my own tent?”

  “This is not a threat,” Faile said, remaining firm. Light, she hoped this went the right way. “This is a challenge.”

  Berelain studied her, eyes calculating. “I will make a public statement. I will publicly chastise my maids for their rumors, and will tell the camp that nothing happened.”

  “Do you really think that would stop the rumors? You didn’t object to them before my return; that is seen as proof. And, of course, now you would be expected to act as if nothing happened.”

  “You can’t be serious about this…challenge.”

  “In regards to my husband’s honor, Berelain, I am always serious.” She met the woman’s eyes, and saw concern there. Berelain didn’t want to fight her. And, of course, Faile didn’t want to fight Berelain, and not just because she wasn’t certain if she could win or not. Though she had always wanted to get revenge on the First for that time when Berelain had taken her knife from her.

  “I will make the challenge formally this evening, before the entire camp,” Faile said, keeping her voice even. “You will have one day to respond or leave.”

  “I will not be a party to this foolishness.”

  “You already are,” Faile said, rising. “This is what you set in motion the moment you let those rumors begin.”

  Faile turned to walk from the tent. She had to work hard to hide her nervousness. Had Berelain seen how her brow prickled with sweat? Faile felt as if she walked on the very edge of a sword. Should word of this challenge get to Perrin, he would be furious. She had to hope that—

  “Lady Faile,” Berelain said from behind. The First’s voice was edged with concern. “Surely we can come to another accommodation. Do not force this.”

  Faile stopped, heart thumping. She turned back. The First looked genuinely worried. Yes, she believed that Faile was bloodthirsty enough to make this challenge.

  “I want you out of Perrin’s life, Berelain,” Faile said. “I will have that, one way or another.”

  “You wish me to leave?” Berelain asked. “The tasks the Lord Dragon gave me are finished. I suppose I could take my men and march another direction.”

  No, Faile didn’t want her to go. The disappearance of her troops would be a blow, in the face of that looming Whitecloak army. And Perrin would have need of the Winged Guards again, Faile suspected.

  “No,” Faile said. “Leaving will do nothing for the rumors, Berelain.”

  “It will do as much as killing me would,” the woman said dryly. “If we fight, and you somehow managed to kill me, all that would be said is that you discovered your husband’s infidelity and became enraged. I fail to see how that would help your position. It would only encourage the rumors.”

  “You see my problem, then,” Faile said, letting her exasperation show through. “There seems to be no way to be rid of these rumors.”

  Berelain studied her. The woman had once promised she would take Perrin. Had all but vowed it. She seemed to have backed off on that, in part, recently. And her eyes showed hints of worry.

  She realizes that she let this go too far, Faile thought, understanding. Of course. Berelain hadn’t expected Faile to return from Malden. That was why she’d made such a bold move.

  Now she realized she’d overextended herself. And she legitimately thought Faile unhinged enough to duel her in public.

  “I never wanted this, Berelain,” Faile said, walking back into the tent. “And neither did Perrin. Your attentions are an annoyance to us both.”

  “Your husband did little to dissuade me,” Berelain said, arms folded. “During your absence, there were points where he directly encouraged me.”

  “You understand him so little, Berelain.” It was amazing how the woman could be so blind while being so clever in other ways.

  “So you claim,” Berelain said.

  “You have two choices right now, Berelain,” Faile said, stepping up to her. “You can fight me, and one of us will die. You’re right, that wouldn’t end the rumors. But it would end your chances at Perrin. Either you’d be dead, or you’d be the woman who killed his wife.

  “Your other choice,” Faile said, meeting Berelain’s eyes, “is to come up with a way to destroy these rumors once and for all. You caused this mess. You will fix it.”

  And there was her gamble. Faile couldn’t think of a way out of the situation, but Berelain was much more accomplished in this regard than she was. So Faile came, prepared to manipulate Berelain into thinking she was ready to do something unreasonable. Then let the woman’s impressive political acumen attack the situation.

  Would it work?

  Faile met Berelain’s eyes, and allowed herself to feel her anger. Her outrage at what had happened. She was being beaten, frozen and humiliated by their common enemy. And during that, Berelain had the gall to do something like this?

  She held the First’s eyes. No, Faile did not have as much political experience as Berelain. But she had something the woman didn’t. She loved Perrin. Deeply, truly. She would do anything to keep him from being hurt.

  The First studied her. “Very well,” she said. “So be it. Be proud of yourself, Faile. It is…rare that I take myself off a prize I have long desired.”

  “You haven’t said how we could get rid of the rumors.”

  “There may be a method,” Berelain said. “But it will be distasteful.”

  Faile raised an eyebrow.

  “We will need to be seen as friends,” Berelain explained. “Fighting, being at odds, this will fuel the rumors. But if we are seen spending time with one another, it will disarm them. That, mixed with a formal renunciation on my part of the rumors, will likely be enough.”

  Faile sat down in the chair she had been using earlier. Friends? She detested this woman.

  “It would have to be a believable act,” Berelain said, rising and walking over to the serving stand at the corner of the tent. She poured herself some chilled wine. “Only that would work.”

  “You’ll find another man, as well,” Faile said. “Someone you can give your attentions to, for a time at least. To prove that you are not interested in Perrin.”

  Berelain raised the cup. “Yes,” she said. “I suspect that would help too. Can you put on such an act, Faile ni Bashere t’Aybara?”

  You believed I was ready to kill you over this, didn’t you, Faile thought. “I promise it.”

  Berelain paused, winecup halfway to her lips. Then she smiled, and drank. “We shall see, then,” she said, lowering the cup, “what comes of this.”

  Chapter 19

  Talk of Dragons

  Mat tugged on a sturdy brown coat. The buttons were brass, but other than that, it was free of ornamentation. Made of a thick wool, it had a few holes from arrows that really should have killed him. One of the holes had a bloodstain around it, but that had mostly been washed out. It was a nice coat. He would have paid good coin for a coat like this one, when he lived back in the Two Rivers.

  He rubbed his face, looking in the mirror of his new tent. He had shaved off that bloody beard, finally. How did Perrin manage that bloody itching? The man must have sandpaper for skin. Well, Mat would find another way to disguise himself, when needed.

  He had nicked himself a few times while shaving. But it was not as if he had forgotten how to take care of himself. He did not need a manservant to do what he could manage on his own. Nodding to himself, he pulled on his hat and grabbed his ashandarei from the corner of the tent; t
he ravens on the blade seemed to perch excitedly in anticipation of battles to come. “Bloody right you do,” Mat said, resting the ashandarei on his shoulder as he walked out of the tent. He grabbed his pack and slung it over his other shoulder. Starting tonight, he would be spending nights in the city.

  He strode through camp, nodding to a group of passing Redarms. He had doubled the watch. He was worried about the gholam, but also about the many military camps in the area. Half were mercenaries, half were the retainers of this minor lord or that, coming to pay respects to the Queen—suspiciously arriving after the fighting was done.

  No doubt each and every one was professing his heartfelt allegiance to Elayne, explaining that his men supported her all along. Their words probably fell a little flat, since Mat had it on good authority from three separate drunks in taverns that Elayne had used Traveling extensively in recruiting her defense. It was easier to feign a delayed arrival when you were responding to a written message.

  “Mat! Mat!”

  Mat stopped on the pathway outside his tent as Olver came racing up. The boy had taken to wearing a red band around his arm, much as the Redarms did, but he still wore his brown trousers and coat. He was carrying his rolled-up cloth for Snakes and Foxes under one arm and a pack slung over the other.

  Setalle stood in the near distance, along with Lussin and Edder, two Redarms that Mat had assigned to watch over her and the boy. They’d be departing for the city soon.

  “Mat,” Olver said, panting. “You’re leaving?”

  “I don’t have time to play with you now, Olver,” Mat said, lowering his ashandarei to the crook of his arm. “I have to go meet with a Queen.”

  “I know,” Olver said. “I figured that since we’re both going to town, we could ride together and plan. I have some ideas about how to defeat the snakes and the foxes! We’re going to show them, Mat. Burn me, but we bloody will!”

  “Who taught you that language?”

  “Mat,” he said. “This is important! We have to plan! We haven’t talked about what we’re going to do.”

  Silently, Mat cursed himself for discussing the quest to rescue Moiraine where Olver could hear. The boy was not going to take it well when he was left behind.

  “I need to think about what I’m going to say to the Queen,” Mat said, rubbing his chin. “But I guess you’re right, planning is important. Why don’t you go tell Noal about your ideas?”

  “I already did,” Olver said. “And Thom too. And Talmanes.”

  Talmanes? He was not going with them into the Tower! Light, how much had Olver been spreading the news around?

  “Olver,” Mat said, squatting down to be on eye level with the boy, “you need to keep quieter. We don’t want too many people knowing what we’re doing.”

  “I didn’t tell nobody we don’t trust, Mat,” Olver said. “Don’t worry. Most were Redarms.”

  Great, Mat thought. What would the soldiers think of their commander planning to go off and fight a bunch of creatures from children’s stories? Hopefully they would see Olver’s comments as the fancies of a young boy.

  “Just be careful,” Mat said. “I’ll come stop by your inn tomorrow, and we can play a game then and talk about it. All right?”

  Olver nodded. “All right, Mat. But…blood and bloody ashes!” He turned and walked away.

  “And stop swearing!” Mat called after him, then shook his head. Bloody soldiers would have Olver corrupted by the time he was twelve.

  Mat continued on his way, leaning his spear on his shoulder again. He found Thom and Talmanes mounted at the front of the camp along with a force of fifty Redarms. Thom wore an extravagant wine-red coat and trousers, gold work at the arms, with a shirt bearing white lace at the cuffs and a silken cravat tied at the neck. The buttons were of gleaming gold. His mustaches had been trimmed and neatly combed. The entire outfit was new, including the black cloak, its inner lining of gold.

  Mat froze in place. How had the man so perfectly transformed from an old scamp of a gleeman into a royal courtier? Light!

  “I see from your reaction that the presentation is effective,” Thom said.

  “Blood and bloody ashes!” Mat exclaimed. “What happened? Did you take ill from a bad sausage at breakfast?”

  Thom whipped his cloak back, revealing that he had his harp out and at his side. He looked like a court-bard! “I figured that if—after all of these years—I was going to make an appearance in Caemlyn, I should look the part.”

  “No wonder you’ve been singing for coin every day,” Mat said. “The people in those taverns have way too much money.”

  Talmanes raised an eyebrow—as good as a grin, from that man. At times, he seemed so dour as to make thunderclouds feel cheerful. He also wore a fine outfit, his of deep cobalt and silver. Mat felt at his cuffs. He could have used some lace. If Lopin had been here, he would have set out the proper outfit without Mat even asking. A little lace was good for a man. Made him look presentable.

  “Is that what you’re wearing to visit the Queen, Mat?” Talmanes asked.

  “Of course it is.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. “It’s a good coat.” He walked over to take Pips’ reins.

  “Good for sparring in, maybe,” Talmanes said.

  “Elayne is the Queen of Andor now, Mat,” Thom said. “And queens are a particular lot. You should show her respect.”

  “I am showing her bloody respect,” Mat said, handing his spear to one of the soldiers, then climbing into the saddle. He took the spear back, then turned Pips so he could regard Thom. “This is a good enough coat for a farmer.”

  “You’re not a farmer anymore, Mat,” Talmanes said.

  “I am too,” Mat said stubbornly.

  “But Musenge called you—” Thom began.

  “He was mistaken,” Mat said. “Just because a man marries someone doesn’t mean he suddenly becomes bloody nobility.”

  Thom and Talmanes exchanged a look.

  “Mat,” Thom said. “That’s actually exactly how it works. It’s pretty much one of the only ways to become nobility.”

  “That’s the way we do it here, maybe,” Mat said. “But Tuon is from Seanchan. Who knows what they do there? We all know how strange they can be. We can’t know anything until we talk to her.”

  Thom frowned. “I’m certain, from things she said, that—”

  “We can’t know anything until we talk to Tuon,” Mat repeated, louder this time. “Until then, I’m Mat. None of this Prince of Whatever nonsense.”

  Thom looked confused, but Talmanes’ lips turned ever so slightly up at the side. Burn that man. Mat was inclined to think his solemn nature was all an act. Was he secretly laughing inside?

  “Well, Mat,” Talmanes said, “you never have made any sense, so why should we expect you to now? Onward, then, to meet the Queen of Andor. Certain you don’t want to roll in the mud first?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mat said dryly, pulling his hat down as a soldier tied his pack to the back of his saddle.

  He kicked Pips into motion, and the procession began the now-familiar ride to Caemlyn. Mat spent most of the time going over his plan in his head. He had Aludra’s papers tucked into a leather folder, and they included her demands. Every bellfounder in Caemlyn, large quantities of bronze and iron, and powders worth thousands of crowns. And she claimed that was the minimum of what she needed.

  How under the Light was Mat going to get bloody Elayne Trakand to give him all that? He would have to do a lot of smiling. But Elayne had proven resistant to his smiles before, and Queens were not like ordinary folk. Most women, they would smile back or they would scowl at you, so you knew where you stood. Elayne seemed the type to smile at you, then toss you in prison all the same.

  For once, it would be nice if his luck could see him off somewhere enjoying a pipe and a game of dice, with a pretty serving girl on his knee and no cares beyond his next throw. Instead, he was married to a Seanchan High Blood and was off to beg the
Queen of Andor for her help. How did he get into these situations? Sometimes he thought that the Creator must be like Talmanes. Straight of face, but secretly having a grand time laughing at Mat.

  His procession passed numerous camps on the open plains around Caemlyn. All mercenaries were required to stay at least a league away, but the forces of the lords could camp closer. That put Mat in a rough place. There was always tension between sell-swords and loyal armsmen, and with the mercenaries so far from Caemlyn, fights were common. The Band was right in the middle of it.

  He did some quick figuring based on the trails of campfire smoke he saw twisting into the air. There were at least ten thousand mercenaries in the area. Did Elayne know what a bubbling kettle she was brewing here? Too much heat, and the whole bloody thing would boil over!

  Mat’s procession drew attention. He had one of the men flying the banner of the Band of the Red Hand, and his men were developing a reputation. By Mat’s count, they were the largest single group—mercenary or lord’s force—outside Caemlyn’s walls. They were as organized and disciplined as a regular army, and were under the leadership of a personal friend of the Dragon Reborn. His men could not help bragging about that, though Mat would much rather that they had kept quiet.

  They passed groups of men waiting by the side of the road, curious to catch a glimpse of “Lord Mat.” He kept his eyes forward. If they had expected some fop in a rich coat, then they would be disappointed! Though perhaps he could have chosen a better coat. This one was stiff, and the collar itched.

  Of course, more than a few seemed to think Talmanes was “Lord Mat” from the way they pointed, probably because of how he was dressed. Bloody ashes!

  This conversation with Elayne was going to be tough. But Mat had a hidden card, one he hoped would be enough to get her to look past the expense of Aludra’s proposal. Though he was more afraid she would see what he was doing and want to take part in it. And when a woman wanted to be “part” of something, that meant she wanted to be in charge.