Authors: Robert Jordan
He gave a start, then rose and moved aside, wordlessly staring from her to Elayne to Nynaeve as though they were some sort of puzzle. Well, Nynaeve and Elayne were looking at him in much the same way, and they surely had better reason.
She dusted the cushions before replacing them in the chair with a fond thought for Chesa. After two days, she did not need them any longer, not really, but either she gave up bathing or accepted cushions until not a hint of a bruise showed. Chesa would remove the cushions if Egwene said to. Sweaty face or cool, Egwene was the Amyrlin Seat, before whom kings bowed and queens curtsied, even if none had yet, who would have Elaida tried and executed in short order and all put right with the White Tower, and thus with the world. Chesa would do it, and give Egwene such hurt, reproachful glances for not being allowed to take care of her that leaving the cushions there was much easier to bear.
Settling herself with her hands folded on the table, she said, “Mat—” He broke in immediately.
“This really is madness, you know,” he said quietly. Quietly, but quite firmly. “You will end with your head off, Egwene. All of you will. Your heads—cut—off.”
“Mat,” she said in a stronger tone, but he went right on.
“Listen, you can still get out of this. If they think you’re the Amyrlin, you can come out with me to . . . to inspect the Band. You make a gateway, and we’ll be gone before this bunch of goat-brained lunatics can blink.”
Nynaeve had seen
saidar
fail around him, but she had dealt with recalcitrant men long before she learned to channel. With a muttered growl of “Warm
my
bottom?” that Egwene did not think was intended to be heard, Nynaeve deftly hiked up her skirts and kicked Mat squarely in
his
, so hard that he staggered all the way to the wall before catching himself with a hand. Elayne burst into laughter, and suppressed it just as quickly, but she still quivered, and her eyes shone.
Egwene bit her lip to keep from laughing too. It really was comical. Mat turned his head slowly to stare at Nynaeve, all wide-eyed indignation and outrage. Then his brows lowered, and jerking his undone coat as if to straighten it, he began to stalk slowly toward her. Slowly because he was limping. Egwene covered her mouth. It really would not do to laugh.
Nynaeve drew herself up sternly, and then perhaps a few things occurred to her. She might be angry enough to channel, but
saidar
was apparently useless with him. Mat was tall for a Two Rivers man, considerably taller than she, considerably stronger, and there was a decidedly dangerous glint in his eye. She glanced at Egwene, and smoothed her dress, trying to maintain her stern face. Mat stalked nearer, face like thunder. Another hasty glance, worry beginning to show, was followed by a small step back.
“Mat,” Egwene said in a level tone. He did not stop. “Mat, stop cutting the fool. You are in quite a predicament, but I should be able to get you out of it, if you listen to reason.”
Finally he halted. With a glare and a warning shake of his finger at Nynaeve, he turned his back on her and planted his fists on the writing table. “
I
am in a predicament? Egwene, you’ve jumped out of a tree toward a bear pit, and you think everything is fine because you haven’t landed yet!”
She smiled at him calmly. “Mat, not many here in Salidar think very well of Dragonsworn. Lord Bryne certainly doesn’t, nor his soldiers. We have heard some very disturbing stories. And some sickening ones.”
“Dragonsworn!” he yelped. “What do they have to do with me? I’m no bloody Dragonsworn!”
“Of course you are, Mat.” She made it sound the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was, if you only thought. “You go where Rand sends you. What else are you but Dragonsworn? But if you listen to me, I can stop them from putting
your
head on a pike. Actually, I don’t think Lord Bryne would use a pike—he always complains he doesn’t have enough—but I am sure he would figure out something.”
Mat looked at the other two women, and Egwene compressed her lips for an instant. She had made herself plain, but he appeared to be hunting for a clue to what she was talking about. Elayne gave him back a tight smile and a decisively confirming nod. She might not see where Egwene was going, yet she knew she was not talking for the sound of her voice. Nynaeve, still struggling to keep a severe face and tugging at her braid, only glared at him, but maybe that was even better. Though she was beginning to sweat; Nynaeve lost concentration when she grew angry.
“Now, listen, Egwene,” Mat said. Then again, maybe neither response was really enough. He managed to combine a reasonable tone with indulgence in the most offensive way possible. “If you want to call yourself Amyrlin, you can call yourself Amyrlin. Rand would welcome you with open arms in Caemlyn even if you don’t bring all these Aes Sedai to him, but I know he will be overjoyed if you do. Whatever your problems are with Elaida, he can work them out. She knows he’s the Dragon Reborn. Light, you remember her letter. Why, you will have your White Tower all mended before you can say Jak o’ the Wisps. No battles. No bloodshed. You know you don’t want bloodshed, Egwene.”
That she did not. Once the first blood was shed between Salidar and Tar Valon, it would be difficult to make the Tower whole again. Once the
first Aes Sedai blood was shed, it might be impossible. Still, Elaida had to be brought down, and Egwene would do what she had to do. She just did not like it. And she did not like Mat telling her what she knew, liked it the less so for being right. Definitely the less so in that tone. It was a real effort to keep her hands still on the table. She wanted to stand and box his ears.
“However I deal with Rand,” she said coolly, “you can be sure it will not be by leading Aes Sedai to swear fealty to him or any other man.” Cool, and not at all arguing; a calm statement of simple facts. “How I deal with Elaida is my concern, and none of yours. If you have any sense at all, Mat, you will keep your mouth shut as long as you are in Salidar and walk small. You start telling other Aes Sedai what Rand is going to do just as soon they kneel to him, and you might not like the answers you get. Talk about carrying me off, or Nynaeve or Elayne, and you will be
very
lucky not to get a sword through you.”
He jerked upright with a glare. “I’ll talk to you again when you’re ready to listen to reason, Egwene. Is Thom Merrilin around?” She gave a curt nod. What did he want with Thom? Probably to douse himself in wine. Well, good luck to him finding a tavern here. “When you’re ready to listen,” he repeated grimly, and stalked—limped—to the door.
“Mat,” Elayne said, “I would not try to leave were I you. Getting into Salidar is much easier than getting out.”
He grinned at her insolently, and the way he eyed her up and down, he was lucky Elayne did not slap him hard enough to loosen all his teeth. “You, my fine Lady, I am taking back to Caemlyn if I have to tie you up in a package to hand to Rand, burn me if I don’t. And I will bloody well leave when I choose.” His bow was mocking, to Elayne and to Egwene. Nynaeve got only a glower and another shake of his finger.
“How
can
Rand have such a low, insufferable lout for a friend?” Elayne asked no one in particular before the door was well closed behind him.
“His language has certainly slipped downhill,” Nynaeve grumbled darkly, tossing her head so her braid swung over her shoulder. Egwene thought she might be afraid she would pull it out by the roots if she did not put it out of reach.
“I should have let him do as he wanted, Nynaeve. You have to remember you’re Aes Sedai now. You can’t go around kicking people, or boxing their ears, or thumping them with sticks.” Nynaeve stared at her, mouth working, face growing redder and redder. Elayne began assiduously studying the carpet.
With a sigh, Egwene folded the striped stole and laid it on the table to
one side. That was her way of making sure Elayne and Nynaeve remembered they were alone; sometimes the stole made them start talking to the Amyrlin Seat instead of Egwene al’Vere. As usual, it worked. Nynaeve took a very deep breath.
Before she could speak, though, Elayne said, “Do you mean to join him and this Band of the Red Hand to Gareth Bryne?”
Egwene shook her head. The Warders said there were six or seven thousand in Mat’s Band now, more than she remembered from Cairhien, and a considerable number, if not nearly so many as those two captured men claimed, but Bryne’s soldiers truly would not take kindly to Dragonsworn. Besides, she had her own scheme, which she explained while they drew the other chairs to the table. It was very like sitting in a kitchen talking. She moved the stole farther over.
“That is brilliant.” Elayne’s grin said she meant it. But then, Elayne always said what she meant. “I didn’t think the other would work either, but this really is
brilliant
.”
Nynaeve sniffed irritably. “What makes you think Mat will go along? He’ll stick a pole through the spokes just for the fun of it.”
“I think he made a promise,” Egwene said simply, and Nynaeve nodded. Slowly, reluctantly, but she nodded. Elayne looked lost, of course; she did not know him. “Elayne, Mat does exactly as he pleases; he always has.”
“No matter how many turnips he had to peel for it,” Nynaeve muttered, “or how often he was switched.”
“Yes, that is Mat,” Egwene sighed. He had been the most irresponsible boy in Emond’s Field, maybe in the Two Rivers. “But if he gives his word, he keeps it. And I think he promised Rand to see you back in Caemlyn, Elayne. You notice he retreated to asking me”—in a way he had—“but you he never changed a hair on. I think he’ll try to stay as close to you as your belt pouch. But we won’t let him even see you unless he does as we want.” She paused. “Elayne, if you want to go with him, you can. To Rand, I mean. As soon as we squeeze all of the good out of Mat and his Band.”
Elayne hardly hesitated before shaking her head, and she shook it firmly. “No, Ebou Dar is too important.” That had been one victory, surprisingly won with a mere suggestion. Elayne and Nynaeve were to join Merilille at Tylin’s court. “At least if he stays close, I’ll have a few days to try for a look at the
ter’angreal
he is carrying. It has to be that, Egwene. Nothing else could explain it.”
Egwene could only agree. She had simply meant to wrap him up in Air where he stood, just a gentle reminder of who he was trying to manhandle,
but the flows touched him, and melted. That was the only way to explain it. They ceased to exist where they touched him. She still felt the shock of that moment, remembering, and she realized she was not the only one suddenly adjusting skirts that needed no adjusting.
“We could have some Warders turn out his pockets.” Nynaeve sounded more than satisfied with the image. “We’ll see how Master Mat Cauthon likes that.”
“If we take things away from him,” Egwene said patiently, “don’t you think he might balk when we start telling him what to do?” Mat had never taken orders very well, and his usual response to Aes Sedai and the One Power was to take the first chance to slip away. Maybe his promise to Rand would stop that—there
had
to be one; nothing else explained his behavior—but she was not going to risk it. Nynaeve nodded, rather grudgingly.
“Maybe. . . .” Tapping her fingers on the table, Elayne stared at nothing thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe we could take him to Ebou Dar. That way, I might have a better chance at the
ter’angreal.
Though if it stops
saidar
, I can’t see how I’ll
ever
manage to study it.”
“Take that young ruffian along!” Nynaeve sat up straight. “You can’t mean it, Elayne. He would make every day a misery; he’s very good at that. He’ll never do what he’s told. Besides, he will never stand still for it. He’s so wrapped up in taking you to Caemlyn, you could not budge him from it with a prybar and a team of horses.”
“But if he means to keep an eye on me until I reach Caemlyn,” Elayne told her, “he’ll have no choice but to go. It is perfect.”
“It might not be a bad idea,” Egwene put in while Nynaeve was searching for another argument. Sending them after the bowl still seemed right, but the more she thought of where they would have to search, the more she worried. “A few soldiers might be a very good idea, unless you’ve picked out Warders without letting me know. Thom and Juilin are all very well, and Birgitte, but it is a rough place you’re going.”
“A
few
soldiers might be well enough,” Elayne said, coloring slightly. “So long as they know to follow orders.”
Nynaeve did not quite glance at Elayne, but there was a distinct pause before she shook her head irascibly. “We’re hardly going to be fighting duels, Egwene, however touchy these Ebou Dari are. Thom and Juilin will do quite well enough. Myself, I think all these stories we’ve been hearing are just meant to make us decide to give it over.” Everybody had heard tales of Ebou Dar since word had spread that they were going; Chesa had
heard several, each more pitiful and horrific than the last, strangers killed for a wrong glance before they could blink, women widowed and children orphaned over a word,
women
fighting in the streets with knives. “No, if we could survive Tanchico with just Thom and Juilin, and Liandrin and some of her Black sisters around in the bargain, we will do very well in Ebou Dar without Mat Cauthon or any soldiers either. Mat commanding soldiers! He never even remembered to milk his father’s cows unless he was put on the stool and handed the bucket.”
Egwene gave a faint sigh. Any mention of Birgitte did that; they started as if goosed, then either stammered around her or else went on as if she had not been mentioned at all. One look had convinced Egwene that the woman following Elayne and Nynaeve about—especially Elayne, for some reason—was the woman she had seen in
Tel’aran’rhiod.
Birgitte of the legends, the archer who never missed, one of the dead heroes awaiting the call of the Horn of Valere. A dead hero, not a live woman walking the streets of Salidar, but the same woman nonetheless. Elayne still had provided no explanation, only a careful, embarrassed mumble about not being able to talk of what they had agreed not to talk of. Birgitte herself, the hero of legends, turned the other way or went down alleys if she saw Egwene coming. Ordering the woman to her study and demanding an explanation was out of the question; she had promised, after all, no matter how much a fool the situation made her feel. Anyway, there hardly seemed any harm. She just wished she knew the why of it. And the how.