The Gathering Storm

Show them what? That he couldn't be beaten? What did that prove? As Mat waited, the cart piled higher and higher with foodstuffs, and he began to feel a strange sense of guilt.

I'm not doing anything wrong, he thought. I've got to feed my men, don't I? These men are betting fair, and I'm betting fair. No loaded dice. No cheating.

Except his luck. Well, his luck was his own—just as every man's luck was his own. Some men were born with a talent for music, and they became bards and gleemen. Who begrudged them earning coin with what the Creator gave them? Mat had luck, and so he used it. There was nothing wrong with that.

Still, as the men came back into the inn, he started to see what it was that Talmanes had noticed. There was an edge of desperation to these men. Had they been too eager to gamble? Had they been foolhardy with their betting? What was that look in their eyes, a look that Mat had mistaken for weariness? Had they been drinking to celebrate the end of the day, or had they been drinking to banish that haunted cast in their eyes?

"Maybe you were right," Mat said to Talmanes, who was watching the sun with almost as much anxiety as the mayor. Its last light was dusting the tops of the peaked homes, coloring the tan tile a deeper orange. The sunset was a blaze behind the clouds.

"We can go, then?" the Talmanes asked.

"No," Mat said. "We're staying."

And the dice stopped rattling in his head. It was so sudden, the silence so unexpected, that he froze. It was enough to make him think he'd made the wrong decision.

"Burn me, we're staying," he repeated. "I've never backed down from a bet before, and I don't plan to now."

A group of riders returned, bearing sacks of grain on their horses. It was amazing what a little coin could do for motivation. As more riders arrived, a young boy came trotting up the road. "Mayor," he said, tugging on Barlden's purple vest. That vest bore a crisscross of patched rips across the front. "Mother says that the outlander women aren't done bathing. She's trying to hurry them, but. . . ."

The mayor tensed. He glanced at Mat angrily.

Mat snorted. "Don't think I can do anything to hurry that lot," he said. "If I were to go rush them, they'd likely dig in like mules and take twice as long. Let someone else bloody have a turn dealing with them."

Talmanes kept glancing at the lengthening shadows along the road. "Burn me," he muttered. "If those ghosts start appearing again, Mat. . . ."

"This is something else," Mat said as the newcomers threw their grain onto the wagon. "It feels different."

The wagon was already loaded high with foodstuffs; a good haul to have purchased from a village this size. It was just what the Band needed, enough to nudge them along, keep them fed until they reached the next town. That food wasn't worth the gold in the coffer, of course, but it was about equal to what he'd lost dicing inside, particularly with the wagon and horses thrown in. They were good draft animals, sturdy, well cared for from the look of coat and hoof.

Mat opened his mouth to say it was enough, then hesitated as he noticed that the mayor was talking quietly with a group of men. There were six of them, their vests drab and ragged, their black hair unkempt. One was gesturing toward Mat and holding what looked to be a sheet of paper in his hand. Barlden shook his head, but the man with the paper gestured more insistently.

"Here now," Mat said softly. "What's this?"

"Mat, the sun . . ." Talmanes said.

The mayor pointed sharply, and the ragged men sidled away. The men who had brought the food were crowding around the dimming street, keeping to the center of it. Most were looking toward the horizon.

"Mayor," Mat called. "That's good enough. Make the throw!"

Barlden hesitated, glancing at him, then looked down at the dice in his hand almost as if he'd forgotten them. The men around him nodded anxiously, and so he raised his hand in a fist, rattling the dice. The mayor looked across the street to meet Mat's eyes, then threw the dice onto the ground between them. They seemed too loud, a tiny rattling thunderstorm, like bones cracking against one another.

at moment, the door the inn slammed open and the burly mayor entered, accompanied by the men who had joined him earlier, although they'd left their axes behind. They didn't look pleased to find half the village inside the tavern gambling with Mat.

"Mat," Talmanes began again.

Mat raised a hand, cutting him off. "This is what we've been waiting for."

"It is?" Talmanes asked.

Mat turned back to the dicing table, smiling. He'd gone through most of his bags of coins, but he had enough for a few more throws—not counting what he'd brought along outside, of course. He picked up the dice and counted out some gold crowns, and the crowd began to throw down coins of their own—many of which, by now, were gold ones they'd won from Mat.

He tossed and lost, causing a roar of excitement from those watching. Barlden looked as if he wanted to toss Mat out—it was getting late, and sunset couldn't be far off—but the man hesitated when he saw Mat pull out another handful of gold coins. Greed nibbled every man, and strict "rules" could be bent if opportunity walked past and winked suggestively enough.

Mat tossed again, and lost. More roars. The mayor folded his arms.

Mat reached into his pouch and found nothing but air. The men around him looked crestfallen, and one called for a round of drinks to "help the poor young lord forget about his luck."

Not bloody likely, Mat thought, covering a smile. He stood up, raising his hands. "I see it's getting late," he said to the room.