A Crown of Swords (The Wheel of Time 7)

“We promised no such thing, Matrim Cauthon,” Nynaeve snapped, going up on her toes. “I promised no such thing!” She looked about to fling herself at him again. Even her braid seemed to bristle.

Elayne kept a better rein on her temper. They would get nowhere bludgeoning him. “We will listen to your advice, and accept it if it is reasonable, Master . . . Mat,” she chided gently. Surely he could not really believe they had promised to . . . Looking at him, though, she saw that he did. Oh, Light! Nynaeve was right. He was going to be trouble.

She held that rein firmly. Channeling again, she lifted his coat from the chair to a proper place on one of the pegs on the wall so she could sit, back straight, arranging her skirts carefully. Keeping her promises to Master Cauthon — Mat — and to herself was going to be difficult, but nothing he said or did could touch her. Nynaeve eyed the only other place to sit, a low carved wooden footstool, and remained standing. One hand moved toward her braid, before she folded her arms. Her foot tapped ominously.

“The Atha’an Miere call it the Bowl of the Winds, Master . . . Mat. It is a ter’angreal . . . ”

By the end, a light of excitement shone through his sickliness. “Now, that would be a thing to find,” he murmured. “In the Rahad.” He shook his head, and flinched. “I’ll tell you this now. Neither of you is setting foot on the other side of the river without four or five of my Redarms each. Not outside the palace, for that matter. Did Birgitte tell you about the note that was stuffed in my coat? I’m sure I told her. And there’s Carridin and his Darkfriends; you can’t tell me he isn’t up to something.”.

“Any sister who supports Egwene as Amyrlin is in danger from the Tower.” Bodyguards everywhere? Light! A dangerous light shone in Nynaeve’s eyes, and her foot tapped faster. “We cannot hide, Mast . . . Mat, and we will not. Jaichim Carridin will be taken care of in due course.” They had not promised to tell him everything, and they could not let him be diverted. “There are more important matters afoot.”

“Due course?” he began, voice rising in disbelief, but Nynaeve cut him short.

“Four or five each?” she said sourly. “That’s ridic—” Her eyes shut for a moment, and her tone became milder. Slightly milder. “I mean to say, it isn’t sensible. Elayne and me, Birgitte and Aviendha. You don’t have that many soldiers. Anyway, all we really need is you.” That last came out as though dragged. It was much too much an admission.

“Birgitte and Aviendha don’t need minders,” he said absently. “I suppose this Bowl of the Winds is more important than Carridin, but . . . It doesn’t seem right, letting Darkfriends walk loose.”

Slowly Nynaeve’s face turned purple. Elayne checked her own in the stand-mirror, relieved to see she was maintaining her composure. On the outside, anyway. The man was reprehensible! Minders? She was not sure which would be worse: that he had flung that offhand insult on purpose, or that he had done so without realizing. She eyed herself in the mirror again and lowered her chin a trifle. Minders! She was poise itself.

He studied them with those bloodshot eyes, but saw nothing, apparently. “Was that all Birgitte told you?” he asked, and Nynaeve snapped back, “That was quite enough, I’d think, even for you.” Inexplicably, he looked surprised, and quite pleased.

Nynaeve gave a start, then folded her arms around herself tighter. “Since you’re in no condition to go anywhere with us now — don’t scowl at me, Mat Cauthon; that isn’t demeaning, it’s simple truth! — you can spend the morning moving yourself into the palace. And you needn’t think we’ll help carry your things. I didn’t promise to be a pack-horse.”

“The Wandering Woman is plenty good enough,” he began angrily, then stopped, a wondering expression spreading over his face. A horrified expression, Elayne would have said. That should teach him to growl when he had a head like a melon. At least, that was what hers had felt like, the time she drank too much. Of course he would not learn from it. Men kept sticking their hands in the fire thinking this time it would not burn, so Lini always said.

“You can hardly expect we’ll find the Bowl the first time we try,” Nynaeve went on, “ta’veren or no. Going out each day will be much simpler if you don’t have to come across the square.” If they did not have to wait for him every morning, was what she meant. According to her, drunkenness was not the only excuse he could find for lying in bed till all hours, far from it.

“Besides,” Elayne added, “that way, you can keep an eye on us.” Nynaeve made a sound in her throat, very close to a groan. Did she not see that he must be enticed? It was not as if she had promised to actually allow him to keep an eye on them.

He seemed not to have heard her or Nynaeve. Haggard eyes stared right through her. “Why did they bloody well have to stop now?” he moaned, so softly she barely heard. What under the Light did he mean by that?

“The rooms are fit for a king, Master . . . Mat. Tylin herself chose them, just down from her own. She has taken a very personal interest. Mat, you wouldn’t have us offend the Queen, would you?”

One look at his face, and Elayne hurriedly channeled to push open the window and empty the washbasin through it. If she had ever seen a man about to lose the contents of his stomach, he was staring red-eyed at her right that minute.

“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss,” she said. Actually, she supposed she did. Some of the serving women here probably let him paw them, but she doubted many in the palace would, if any. He would not be able to drink and gamble his nights away, either. Tylin surely would not allow a bad example for Beslan. “We all must make sacrifices.” With an effort she stopped there, not telling him that his was small and only right, theirs monstrous and unjust, no matter what Aviendha said. Nynaeve had certainly railed against any sacrifice.

He put his head in his hands again, makin

g strangled noises while his shoulders shook. He was laughing! She hefted the basin on a flow of Air, considering hitting him with it. When he raised his eyes again, though, he looked outraged for some reason. “Sacrifices?” he snarled. “If I asked you to make the same, you’d box every ear in sight and pull the roof down on my head!” Could he still be drunk?

She decided to ignore his frightful glare. “Speaking of your head, if you would like Healing, I’m sure Nynaeve would oblige.” If she had ever been angry enough to channel, she was now.

Nynaeve gave a small jerk and glanced at her from the corner of one eye. “Of course,” she said hurriedly. “If you want.” The color in her cheeks confirmed all of Elayne’s suspicions about that morning.

Gracious as ever, he sneered. “You just forget my head. I do very well without Aes Sedai.” And then, just to confuse matters she was sure, he added in a hesitant voice, “I thank you for asking, though.” Almost as if he meant it!

Elayne managed not to gape. Her knowledge of men was limited to Rand and what Lini and her mother had told her. Was Rand going to be as confusing as Mat Cauthon?

Last thing before going, she remembered to secure a promise that he would start moving to the palace immediately. He kept his word once given, so Nynaeve had made clear, however reluctantly, but leave one crack, and he could find a hundred ways to slip through. That she had been all too eager to emphasize. He gave his promise with a bleak, resentful grimace; or maybe that was just his eyes again. When she set the basin down at his feet, he actually looked grateful. She would not feel sympathy. She would not.

Once back in the corridor, with the door to Mat’s room closed, Nynaeve shook her fist at the ceiling. “That man could try the patience of a stone! I’m glad he wants to cuddle with his head! Do you hear me? Glad! He will make trouble. He will.”

“You two will make more trouble for him than he ever could.” The speaker stalked down the hall toward them, a woman with a touch of gray in her hair, a strong face and a commanding voice. She also wore a frown little short of a scowl. Despite the marriage knife hanging into her cleavage, she was too fair for an Ebou Dari. “I couldn’t believe it when Caira told me. I doubt I’ve ever seen so much foolishness poured into just two dresses.”

Elayne eyed the woman up and down. Not even as a novice had she gotten used to being addressed in that tone. “And who might you be, my good woman?”

“I might be and am Setalle Anan, the owner of this inn, child” was the dry reply, and with that, the woman flung open a door across the hallway, seized them each by an arm, and hustled them through so fast Elayne thought her slippers had left the floor.