Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time 11)

"He was a fool," Noal said grimly before Mat could open his mouth, though Olver did get his open, and left it gaping while the old man continued. "He went gallivanting about the world and left a good and loving wife to die of a fever without him there to hold her hand while she died. He let himself be made into a tool by—" Abruptly Noal's face went blank. Staring through Mat, he rubbed at his forehead as though attempting to recall something.

"Jain Farstrider was a great man," Olver said fiercely. His hands curled into small fists, as though he was ready to fight for his hero. "He fought Trollocs and Myrddraal, and he had more adventures than anyone else in the whole world! Even Mat! He captured Cowin Gemallan after Gemallan betrayed Malkier to the Shadow!"

Noal came to himself with a start and patted Olver's shoulder. "He did that, boy. That much is to his credit. But what adventure is worth leaving your wife to die alone?" He sounded sad enough to die on the spot himself.

Olver had no answer to that, and his face fell. If Noal had put the boy off his favorite book, Mat was going to have words with the old man. Reading was important—he read himself; sometimes, he did— and he had made sure Olver had books he enjoyed.

Standing, Tuon leaned across the table to rest a hand on Noal's arm. The stern look had vanished from her face, replaced by tenderness. A wide belt of dark yellow tooled leather cinched her waist, emphasizing her slim curves. More of his coin spent. Well, coin was always easy to come by for him, and if she did not spend it, likely he would throw it away on some other woman. "You have a good heart, Master Charin." She gave everybody their bloody names except for Mat Cauthon!

"Do I, my Lady?" Noal said, sounding as though he really wanted to hear an answer. "Sometimes I think—" Whatever he thought sometimes, they were not to learn it now.

The door swung open and Juilin put his head into the wagon. The Tairen thief-catcher's conical red cap was at its usual jaunty angle, but his dark face was worried. "Seanchan soldiers are setting up across the road. I'm going to Thera. She'll take a fright if she hears it from anybody else." And as quickly as that he was gone again, leaving the door swinging.

CHAPTER 7 A Cold Medallion

Seanchan soldiers. Blood and bloody ashes! That was all Mat needed, with the dice spinning his head. "Noal, find Egeanin and warn her. Olver, you warn the Aes Sedai, and Bethamin and Seta." Those five would all be together or at least close by one another. The two former sul'dam shadowed the sisters whenever they left the wagon they all shared. Light, he hoped none of them had gone into the town again. That could put a weasel in the chicken yard for sure! "I'll go down to the entrance and try to see whether we're in any trouble."

"She won't answer to that name." Noal muttered, sliding out from the table. He moved spryly for a fellow who looked to have had half the bones in his body broken one time or another. "You know she won't."

"You know who I mean." Mat told him sharply, frowning at Tuon and Selucia. This name foolishness was their fault. Selucia had told Egeanin that her name was now Leilwin Shipless, and that was the name Egeanin was using. Well, he was not about to put up with that sort of thing, not for himself and not for her. She had to come to her senses, soon or late.

"I'm just saying," Noal said. "Come on, Olver."

Mat slid out after them, but before he reached the door, Tuon spoke. "No warnings for us to remain inside, Toy? No one left to guard us?"

The dice said he should find Hainan or one of the other Redarms and plant him outside just to guard against accidents, but he did not hesitate. "You gave your word." he said, settling his hat on his head. The smile he got in reply was worth the risk. Burn him, but it lit up her face. Women were always a gamble, but sometimes a smile could be win enough.

He saw from the entrance that Jurador's days without a Seanchan presence had come to an end. Directly across the road from the show, several hundred men were taking off armor, unloading wagons, setting up tents in ordered rows, establishing horselines. All very efficiently done. He saw Taraboners with mail veils hanging from their helmets and bars of blue, yellow and green painted across their breastplates, and men who were clearly infantry, stacking long pikes and racking bows much shorter than a Two Rivers bow, in armor painted the same. He thought those must be Amadicians. Neither Tarabon nor Altara ran much to foot, and Altarans in service to the Seanchan had their armor marked differently for some reason. There were actual Seanchan, of course, perhaps twenty or thirty that he could see. There was no mistaking that painted armor of over-lapping plates or those strange, insectile helmets.

Three of the soldiers came ambling across the road, lean, hardbitten men. Their blue coats, with the collars striped green-and-yellow, were plain enough despite the colors and showed the wear of armor use, but no signs of rank. Not officers, then, but still maybe as dangerous as red adders. Two of the fellows could have been from Andor or Murandy or even the Two Rivers, but the third had eyes tilted like a Saldaean's, and his skin was the color of honey. Without slowing, they started into the show.

One of the horse handlers at the entrance gave a shrill three-note whistle that began to echo through the show while the other, a squint-eyed fellow named Bollin, pushed the glass pitcher in front of the three. "Price is a silver penny each, Captain," he said with deceptive mildness. Mat had heard the big man speak in the same tone a heartbeat before he thumped another horse handler over the head with a stool. "Children is five coppers if they's more than waist-high on me, and three if they's shorter, but only children as has to be carried gets in free."

The honey-skinned Seanchan raised a hand as if to push Bollin out of his way, then hesitated, his face growing harder, if that was possible. The other two squared up beside him, fists clenched, as pounding boots announced the arrival of every man in the show, it seemed, performers in their flashy garb and horse handlers in coarse wool. Every man had a club of some sort in his hand, including Luca, in a brilliant red coat embroidered with golden stars to his turned-down boot-tops, and even the bare-chested Petra, who possessed the mildest nature of any man Mat had ever met. Petra's face was a thunderhead now, though.

Light, this had the makings of a massacre, with these fellows' companions not a hundred

paces away and all their weapons to hand. It was a good place for Mat Cauthon to take himself out of. Surreptitiously he touched the throwing knives hidden up his sleeves and shrugged just to feel the one hanging down behind the back of his neck. No way to check those under his coat or in his boots without being noticed, though. The dice seemed like continuous thunder. He began to plan how to get Tuon and the others away. He had to hang onto her a while longer, yet.

Before disaster could open the door, another Seanchan appeared, in blue-green-and-yellow striped armor but carrying her helmet on her right hip. She had the tilted eyes and honey-colored skin, and there was a scattering of white in her close-cropped black hair. She was near a foot shorter than any of the other three, and there were no plumes on her helmet, just a small crest like a bronze arrowhead at the front, but the three soldiers stood up very straight when they saw her. "Now why am I not surprised to find you here at what looks to be the fine beginnings of a riot, Murel?" Her slurred accent had a twang in it. "What's this all about then?"

"We paid our money, Standardbearer," the honey-skinned man replied in the same twangy accents, "then they said we had to pay more on account of us being soldiers of the Empire."

Bollin opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a raised hand. She had that kind of presence. Running her eyes over the men gathered in a thick semicircle with their clubs, and pausing a moment to shake her head over Luca, she settled on Mat. "Did you see what happened?"

"I did," Mat replied, "and they tried to walk in without paying."

"That's good for you, Murel," she said, getting a surprised blink from the man. "Good for all three of you. Means you won't be out your coin. Because you're all confined to camp for ten days, and I doubt this show will be here that long. You're all docked ten days' pay, as well. You're supposed to be unloading wagons so the homefolks don't get the idea we think we're better than they are. Or do you want a charge of causing dissension in the ranks?" The three men paled visibly. Apparently that was a serious charge. "I didn't think so. Now get out of my sight and get to work before I make it a full month instead of a week."

"Yes, Standardbearer," they snapped out as one, then ran back across the road as hard as they could go while tugging off their coats. Hard men, yet the Standardbearer was harder.

She was not finished, however. Luca stepped forward, bowing with a grand flourish, but she cut off whatever thanks he was about to offer. "I don't much like fellows threatening my men with cudgels," she drawled, resting her free hand on her sword hilt, "not even Murel, not at these odds. Still, shows you have backbone. Any of you fine fellows want a life of glory and adventure? Step across the road with me, and I'll sign you up. You there in that fancy red coat. You have the look of a born lancer, to me. I'll wager I can whip you into a proper hero in no time." A ripple of head-shaking ran through the assembled men, and some, seeing that no trouble was likely now, began slipping away. Petra was one of those. Luca looked as though he had been poleaxed. A number of others appeared almost as stunned by the offer. Performing paid better than soldiering, and you avoided the risk of people sticking swords into you. "Well, as long as you're standing here, maybe I can convince you. Not likely you'll get rich, but the pay is usually on time, and there always the chance of loot if the order is given. Happens now and then. The food varies, but it's usually hot, and there's usually enough to fill your belly. The days are long, but that just means you're tired enough to get a good night's sleep. When you don't have to work the night, too. Anyone interested yet?"

Luca gave himself a shake. "Thank you, Captain, but no," he said, sounding half-strangled. Some fools thought soldiers were flattered by someone thinking they had a higher rank than they did. Some fool soldiers were. "Excuse me, if you please. We have a show to put on. And people who aren't going to be pleased if they have to wait much longer to see it.'' With a last, wary look at the woman, as if he feared she might try to drag him off by his collar, he rounded on the men behind him. "All of you get back to your stands. What are you doing lounging around here? I have everything well in hand. Get back to your stands before people start demanding their money back." That would have been a disaster in his book. Given the choice between handing back coin and having a riot, Luca would have been unable to decide which was worse.

With the showfolk dispersing and Luca hurrying away while shooting glances at her over his shoulder, the woman turned to Mat, the only man remaining aside from the two horse handlers. "And what about you? From the look of you, you might be made an officer and get to give me orders." She sounded amused by the notion.

He knew what she was doing. The people in the line had seen three Seanchan soldiers sent running, and who could say for sure why they had run, but now they had seen her disperse a much larger crowd by herself. He would have given her a place in the Band as a Bannerman in a breath. "I'd make a terrible soldier, Standardbearer," he said, tipping his hat, and she laughed.