He clamped a hand over Mat’s mouth. “Softly.” The dark shape was lost in the darkness. Where? “It’s gone, now. I think. I hope.” He took his hand away; the only sound Mat made was a long, indrawn breath.
The nervous man was almost to the inn door. He stopped and smoothed down his apron, visibly composing himself before he went inside.
“Strange friends you’ve got, Raimun Holdwin,” the man by the cart said suddenly. It was an old man’s voice, but strong. The speaker straightened, shaking his head. “Strange friends in the dark for an innkeeper.”
The nervous man jumped when the other spoke, looking around as if he had not seen the cart and the other man until right then. He drew a deep breath and gathered himself, then asked sharply, “And what do you mean by that, Almen Bunt?”
“Just what I said, Holdwin. Strange friends. He’s not from around here, is he? Lot of odd folk coming through the last few weeks. Awful lot of odd folk.”
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Holdwin cocked an eye at the man by the cart. “I know a lot of men, even men from Caemlyn. Not like you, cooped up alone out on that farm of yours.” He paused, then went on as if he thought he had to explain further. “He’s from Four Kings. Looking for a couple of thieves. Young men. They stole a heron-mark sword from him.”
Rand’s breath had caught at the mention of Four Kings; at the mention of the sword he glanced at Mat. His friend had his back pressed hard against the wall and was staring into the darkness with eyes so wide they seemed to be all whites. Rand wanted to stare into the night, too—the Halfman could be anywhere—but his eyes went back to the two men in front of the inn.
“A heron-mark sword!” Bunt exclaimed. “No wonder he wants it back.”
Holdwin nodded. “Yes, and them, too. My friend’s a rich man, a . . . a merchant, and they’ve been stirring up trouble with the men who work for him. Telling wild stories and getting people upset. They’re Darkfriends, and followers of Logain, too.”
“Darkfriends and followers of the false Dragon? And telling wild stories, too? Getting up to a lot for young fellows. You did say they were young?” There was a sudden note of amusement in Bunt’s voice, but the innkeeper did not seem to notice.
“Yes. Not yet twenty. There’s a reward—a hundred crowns in gold—for the two of them.” Holdwin hesitated, then added, “They’ve sly tongues, these two. The Light knows what kind of tales they’ll tell, trying to turn people against one another. And dangerous, too, even if they don’t look it. Vicious. Best you stay clear if you think you see them. Two young men, one with a sword, and both looking over their shoulders. If they’re the right ones, my . . . my friend will pick them up once they’re located.”
“You sound almost as if you know them to look at.”
“I’ll know them when I see them,” Holdwin said confidently. “Just don’t try to take them yourself. No need for anyone to get hurt. Come tell me if you see them. My . . . friend will deal with them. A hundred crowns for the two, but he wants the pair.”
“A hundred crowns for the two,” Bunt mused. “How much for this sword he wants so bad?”
Abruptly Holdwin appeared to realize the other man was making fun of him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you,” he snapped. “You’re still fixed on that fool plan of yours, I see.”
“Not such a fool plan,” Bunt replied placidly. “There might not be another false Dragon to see before I die—Light send it so!—and I’m too old to eat some merchant’s dust all the way to Caemlyn. I’ll have the road to myself, and I’ll be in Caemlyn bright and early tomorrow.”
“To yourself?” The innkeeper’s voice had a nasty quiver. “You can never tell what might be out in the night, Almen Bunt. All alone on the road, in the dark. Even if somebody hears you scream, there’s no one will unbar a door to help. Not these days, Bunt. Not your nearest neighbor.”
None of that seemed to ruffle the old farmer at all; he answered as calmly as before. “If the Queen’s Guards can’t keep the road safe this close to Caemlyn, then we’re none of us safe even in our own beds. If you ask me, one thing the Guards could do to make sure the roads are safe would be clap that friend of yours in irons. Sneaking around in the dark, afraid to let anybody get a look at him. Can’t tell me he’s not up to no good.”
“Afraid!” Holdwin exclaimed. “You old fool, if you knew—” His teeth clicked shut abruptly, and he gave himself a shake. “I don’t know why I’m wasting time on you. Get off with you! Stop cluttering up the front of my place of business.” The door of the inn boomed shut behind him.
Muttering to himself, Bunt took hold of the edge of the cart seat and set his foot on the wheelhub.
Rand hesitated only a moment. Mat caught his arm as he started forward.
“Are you crazy, Rand? He’ll recognize us for sure!”
“You’d rather stay here? With a Fade around? How far do you think we’ll get on foot before it finds us?” He tried not to think of how far they would get in a cart if it found them. He shook free of Mat and trotted up the road. He carefully held his cloak shut so the sword was hidden; the wind and the cold were excuse enough for that.
“I couldn’t help overhearing you’re going to Caemlyn,” he said.
Bunt gave a start, jerking a quarterstaff out of the cart. His leathery face was a mass of wrinkles and half his teeth were gone, but his gnarled hands held the staff steady. After a minute he lowered one end of the staff to the ground and leaned on it. “So you two are going to Caemlyn. To see the Dragon, eh?”
Rand had not realized that Mat had followed him. Mat was keeping well back, though, out of the light, watching the inn and the old farmer with as much suspicion as he was the night.
“The false Dragon,” Rand said with emphasis.
Bunt nodded. “Of course. Of course.” He threw a sideways look at the inn, then abruptly shoved his staff back under the cart seat. “Well, if you want a ride, get in. I’ve wasted enough time.” He was already climbing to the seat.
Rand clambered over the back as the farmer flicked the reins. Mat ran to catch up as the cart started off. Rand caught his arms and pulled him aboard.
The village faded quickly into the night at the pace Bunt set. Rand lay back on the bare boards, fighting the lulling creak of the wheels. Mat stifled his yawns with a fist, warily staring into the countryside. Darkness weighed heavily on the fields and farms, dotted with the lights of farmhouses. The lights seemed distant, seemed to struggle vainly against the night. An owl called, a mourner’s cry, and the wind moaned like lost souls in the Shadow.