In the kitchen, two undercooks and three scullions were darting between stoves and roasting spits under the direction of a round woman with her hair in a bun and a long wooden spoon that she used to point out what she wanted done. Mat was sure he remembered the round woman. Coline, and what a name for a woman that wide, but everybody called her Cook.
“Well, Cook,” he announced, “I am back, and not a year since I left.”
She peered at him a moment, then nodded. “I remember you.” He began to grin. “You were with that young prince, weren’t you?” she went on. “The one who looked so like Tigraine, the Light illumine her memory. You’re his serving man, aren’t you? Is he coming back, then, the young prince?”
“No,” he said curtly. A prince! Light! “I do not think he will be anytime soon, and I don’t think you would like it if he did.” She protested, saying what a fine, handsome young man the prince was—Burn me, is there a woman anywhere who doesn’t moon over Rand and make calf-eyes if you mention his bloody name? She’d bloody scream if she knew what he is doing now—but he refused to let her get it out. “Is Master Gill about? And Thom Merrilin?”
“In the library,” she said with a tight sniff. “You tell Basel Gill when you see him that I said those drains need cleaning. Today, mind.” She caught sight of something one of the undercooks was doing to a beef roast and waddled over to her. “Not so much, child. You will make the meat too sweet if you put so much arrath on it.” She seemed to have forgotten Mat already.
He shook his head as he went in search of this library he could not remember. He could not remember that Coline was married to Master Gill, either, but if he had ever heard a goodwife send instructions to her husband, that had been it. A pretty serving girl with big eyes giggled and directed him down a hall beside the common room.
When he stepped into the library, he stopped and stared. There had to be more than three hundred books on the shelves built on the walls, and more lying on the tables; he had never seen so many books in one place in his life. He noticed a leather-bound copy of The Travels of Jain Farstrider on a table near the door. He had always meant to read that—Rand and Perrin had always been telling him things out of it—but he never did seem to get around to reading the books he meant to read.
Pink-faced Basel Gill and Thom Merrilin were seated at one of the tables, facing each other across a stones board, pipes in their teeth trailing thin blue streamers of tabac smoke. A calico cat sat on the table beside a wooden dice cup, her tail curled over her feet, watching them play. The gleeman’s cloak was nowhere in sight, so Mat supposed he had already gotten a room.
“You’re done sooner than I expected, boy,” Thom said around his pipestem. He tugged one long, white mustache as he considered where to place his next stone on the board’s cross-hatchings. “Basel, you remember Mat Cauthon.”
“I remember,” the fat innkeeper said, peering at the board. “Sickly, the last time you were here, I recall. I hope you are better now, lad.”
“I am better,” Mat said. “Is that all you remember? That I was sick?”
Master Gill winced at Thom’s move and took his pipe out of his mouth. “Considering who you left with, lad, and considering the way things are now, maybe it’s best I remember no more than that.”
“Aes Sedai not in such good odor now, are they?” Mat set his things in one big armchair, the quarterstaff propped against the back, and himself in another with one leg swinging over the arm. “The Guards at the Palace seemed to think the White Tower had stolen Elayne.” Thom eyed the roll of fireworks uneasily, looked at his smoking pipe, and muttered to himself before going back to his study of the board.
“Hardly that,” Gill said, “but the whole city knows she disappeared from the Tower. Thom says she’s returned, but we’ve heard none of that here. Perhaps Morgase knows, but everyone down to a stableboy is stepping lightly so she doesn’t snap off his head. Lord Gaebril has kept her from actually sending anyone to the headsman, but I’d not say she would not do it. And he has certainly not soothed her temper toward Tar Valon. If anything, I think he has made it worse.”
“Morgase has a new advisor,” Thom said in a dry voice. “Gareth Bryne did not like him, so Bryne has been retired to his estate to watch his sheep grow wool. Basel, are you going to place a stone or not?”
“In a moment, Thom. In a moment. I want to set it right.” Gill clamped his teeth around his pipestem and frowned at the board, puffing up smoke.
“So the Queen has an advisor who doesn’t like Tar Valon,” Mat said. “Well, that explains the way the Guards acted when I said I came from there.”
“If you told them that,” Gill said, “you might be lucky you escaped without any broken bones. If it was any of the new men, at least. Gaebril has replaced half the Guards in Caemlyn with men of his choosing, and that is no mean feat considering how short a time he has been here. Some say Morgase may marry him.” He started to put a stone on the board, then took it back with a shake of his head. “Times change. People change. Too much change for me. I suppose I am growing old.”
“You seem to mean us both to grow old before you place a stone,” Thom muttered. The cat stretched and slinked across the table for him to stroke her back. “Talking all day will not let you find a good move. Why don’t you just admit defeat, Basel?”
“I never admit defeat,” Gill said stoutly. “I’ll beat you yet, Thom.” He set a white stone on the intersection of two lines. “You will see.” Thom snorted.
From what Mat could see of the board, he did not think Gill had much chance. “I will just have to avoid the Guards and put Elayne’s letter right into Morgase’s hands.” Especially if they’re all like that fat fool. Light, I wonder if he’s told them all I’m a Darkfriend?
“You did not deliver it?” Thom barked. “I thought you were anxious to be rid of the thing.”
“You have a letter from the Daughter-Heir?” Gill exclaimed. “Thom, why did you not tell me?”
“I am sorry, Basel,” the gleeman muttered. He glared at Mat from under those bushy eyebrows and blew out his mustaches. “The boy thinks someone is out to kill him over it, so I thought I’d let him say what he wanted and no more. Seems he does not care any longer.”
“What kind of letter??
? Gill asked. “Is she coming home? And Lord Gawyn? I hope they are. I’ve actually heard talk of war with Tar Valon, as if anyone could be fool enough to go to war with Aes Sedai. If you ask me, it is all one with those mad rumors we’ve heard about Aes Sedai supporting a false Dragon somewhere in the west, and using the Power as a weapon. Not that I can see why that would make anyone want to go to war with them; just the opposite.”
“Are you married to Coline?” Mat asked, and Master Gill gave a start.
“The Light preserve me from that! You would think the inn was hers now. If she was my wife . . . ! What does that have to do with the Daughter-Heir’s letter?”
“Nothing,” Mat said, “but you went on so long, I thought you must have forgotten your own questions.” Gill made a choking sound, and Thom barked a laugh. Mat hurried on before the innkeeper could speak. “The letter is sealed; Elayne did not tell me what it says.” Thom was eyeing him sideways and stroking his mustaches. Does he think I’ll admit we opened the thing? “But I don’t think she is coming home. She means to be Aes Sedai, if you ask me.” He told them about his attempt to deliver the letter, smoothing over a few edges they had no need to know about.
“The new men,” Gill said. “That officer sounds it, at least. I’ll wager on it. No better than brigands, most of them, except the ones with a sly eye. You wait until this afternoon, lad, when the Guards on the gate will have changed. Say the Daughter-Heir’s name right out, and just in case the new fellow is one of Gaebril’s men, too, duck your head a little. A knuckle to your forehead, and you’ll have no trouble.”