Towers of Midnight

52 Boots

Elayne settled herself in Glimmer’s saddle. The mare was one of the prizes of the royal stable; she was of fine Saldaean stock with a brilliant white mane and coat. The saddle itself was rich, the leather trimmed with wine-red and gold. It was the sort of saddle you used when parading.

Birgitte rode Rising, a tall dun gelding, also one of the fastest in the royal stables. The Warder had chosen both horses. She expected to have to run.

Birgitte wore one of Elayne’s foxhead copies, though it had a different shape, a thin silver disc with a rose on the front. Elayne carried another wrapped in cloth inside her pocket.

She’d tried making another this morning, but it had melted, nearly setting her dresser on fire. She was having a great deal of difficulty without the original to study. Her dreams of arming all of her personal Guards with medallions was looking less and less possible, unless she somehow managed to persuade Mat to give her the original again.

Her honor guard fell into mounted ranks around her and Birgitte in the Queen’s Plaza. She was bringing only a hundred soldiers—seventy-five Guardsmen and an inner ring of twenty-five Guardswomen. It was a tiny force, but she’d have gone without those hundred if she’d been able to get away with it. She couldn’t afford to be seen as a conqueror.

“I don’t like this,” Birgitte said.

“You don’t like anything, lately,” Elayne said. “I swear, you’re becoming more irritable by the day.”

“It’s because you’re becoming more foolhardy by the day.”

“Oh, come now. This is hardly the most foolhardy thing I’ve done.”

“Only because you’ve set a very high benchmark for yourself, Elayne.”

“It will be fine,” Elayne said, glancing southward.

“Why do you keep looking in that direction?”

“Rand,” Elayne said, feeling that warmth again, pulsing from the knot of emotions in her mind. “He’s getting ready for something. He feels troubled. And peaceful at the same time.” Light, but that man could be confusing.

The meeting would happen in one day, if his original deadline still held. Egwene was right; breaking the seals would be foolish. But Rand would see reason.

Alise rode up to her, accompanied by three Kinswomen. Sarasia was a plump woman with a grandmotherly air; dark-skinned Kema kept her black hair in three long braids, and prim Nashia with a youthful face wore a baggy dress.

The four took up positions beside Elayne. Only two of them were strong enough for a gateway—many of the Kin were weaker than most Aes Sedai. But that would be enough, assuming Elayne had trouble embracing the Source.

“Can you do something to prevent archers from hitting her?” Birgitte asked Alise. “Some kind of weave?”

Alise cocked her head thoughtfully. “I know of one that might help,” she said, “but I’ve never tried it.”

Another Kinswoman wove a gateway up ahead. It opened to a span of rough, brown-grassed land outside of Cairhien. A much larger army waited there, wearing the cuirasses and bell-shaped helmets of Cairhienin troops. The officers were easy to spot with their dark clothing, in the colors of the Houses they served. They wore con rising over their backs.

Tall, narrow-faced Lorstrum sat his mount at the front of his army, which wore dark green with crimson slashes; Bertome was on the other side. Their forces looked to be about the same size. Five thousand each. The other four Houses had fielded smaller armies.

“If they wanted to take you captive,” Birgitte said grimly, “you’re handing them the chance.”

“There’s no way to do this and remain safe, not unless I want to hide in my palace and send my troops in. That would only lead to rebellion in Cairhien and potential collapse in Andor.” She glanced at the Warder. “I’m Queen now, Birgitte. You’re not going to be able to keep me from danger, no more than you could keep a lone soldier safe on the battlefield.”

Birgitte nodded. “Stay close to me and Guybon.”

Guybon approached, on a large dappled gelding. With Birgitte on one side of her and Guybon on the other—and with both of their horses taller than Elayne’s—a would-be assassin would have great difficulty picking her off without first hitting her friends.

So it would be for the rest of her life. She nudged Glimmer into motion, and her troop made its way through the gateway and onto Cairhienin soil. The noblemen and noblewomen ahead bowed or curtsied from horseback, and those oblations were deeper this time than they had been when meeting Elayne in her throne room. The show had begun.

The city was just ahead, walls still blackened from fires during the fight with the Shaido. Elayne could sense Birgitte’s tension as the gateway vanished behind. The Kin around Elayne embraced the source, and Alise wove an unfamiliar weave, placing it in the air around the inner ring of troops. It made a small—but swift—wind spinning in the air.

Birgitte’s anxiety was contagious, and Elayne found herself holding her reins in a tight grip as Glimmer moved forward. The air was drier here in Cairhien, with a faint dusty scent to it. The sky was overcast.

The Cairhienin troops formed around her small group of Andorans in white and red. Most of the Cairhienin forces were foot, though there was some heavy cavalry, horses in shiny barding and men carrying lances pointed high into the air. All marched in perfect lines, protecting Elayne. Or keeping her captive.

Lorstrum moved his bay stallion closer to Elayne’s outer ranks. Guybon glanced at her, and she nodded, so the captain allowed him to approach.

“The city is nervous, Your Majesty,” Lorstrum said. Birgitte was still careful to keep her mount between his and Elayne’s. “There are… unfortunate rumors surrounding your ascension.”

Rumors you probably initiated, Elayne thought, before you decided to support me instead. “Surely they won’t rise against your troops?”

“I hope they will not.” He eyed her from under his flat cap of forest green. He wore a black coat that went down to his knees and slashes of color across it all the way down, to denote his House. It was the type of clothing he’d wear if going to a ball. That projected a sense of confidence. His force wasn’t seizing the city, it was escorting the new queen with an honorary parade. “It is unlikely that there will be armed resistance. But I wanted to warn you.”

Lorstrum nodded to her with respect. He knew she was manipulating him, but he also accepted that manipulation. She would have to keep a careful watch on him in the years to come.

Cairhien was such a boxish city, all straight lines and fortified towers. Though some of its architecture was beautiful, there was no comparing the place to Caemlyn or Tar Valon. They rode directly in through the northern gates, the River Alguenya to their right.

Crowds waited inside. Lorstrum and the others had done their work well. There were cheers, probably started by carefully placed courtiers. As Elayne entered the city, the cheers grew louder. That surprised her. She had expected hostility. And yes, there was some of that—the occasional thrown piece of refuse, hurled from the back of the crowd. She caught a jeer here and there. But most seemed pleased.

As she rode down that broad passageway, lined with the rectangular buildings Cairhienin favored, she realized that perhaps these people had been waiting for an event like this. Talking of it, spreading tales. Some of those tales had been hostile, and those were what Norry had reported. But they now seemed to her more a sign of worry than hostility. Cairhien had been too long without a monarch, their king dead by unknown hands, the Lord Dragon seemingly abandoning them.

Her confidence grew. Cairhien was a wounded city. The burned and broken remnants of the Foregate outside. Cobbles had been torn up to be thrown from the walls. The city had never fully recovered from the Aiel War, and the unfinished Topless Towers—symmetrical in design, but woefully forlorn in appearance—were a lofty declaration of that fact.

That bloody Game of Houses was nearly as bad a scourge. Could she change that? The people around her sounded hopeful, as if they knew what a twisted mess their nation had become. One could sooner take away an Aiel’s spears than cut the craftiness out of the Cairhienin, but perhaps she could teach them a greater loyalty to country and throne. So long as they had a throne worth that loyalty.

The Sun Palace stood at the exact center of the city. Like the rest of the city, it was square and angular, but here the architecture gave a sense or imposing strength. It was a grand building, despite the broken wing where the attempt on Rand’s life had taken place.

More nobles waited here, standing on covered steps or in front of ornate carriages. Women in formal gowns with wide hoops, the men in neat coats of dark colors, caps on the heads. Many looked skeptical, and some amazed.

Elayne shot Birgitte a satisfied smile. “It’s working. Nobody expected me to ride to the palace escorted by a Cairhienin army.”

Birgitte said nothing. She was still tense—and probably would be until Elayne returned to Caemlyn.

Two women stood at the foot of the steps, one a pretty woman with bells in her hair, the other with curly hair and a face that did not seem Aes Sedai, for all the fact that she had been one for years. That was Sashalle Anderly, and the other woman—who did have an ageless face—was Samitsu Tamagowa. From what Elayne’s sources had been able to determine, these two were as close to “rulers” as the city had in Rand’s absence. She’d corresponded with both, and found Sashalle remarkably keen at understanding the Cairhienin way of thinking. She’d offered Elayne the city, but had implied that she understood that being offered it and taking it were two different things.

Sashalle stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” she said formally, “let it be known that the Lord Dragon gives you all rights and claim to this land. All formal control he had over the land is ceded to you, and the position of steward over the nation is dissolved. May you rule in wisdom and peace.”

Elayne nodded to her regally from horseback, but inside she seethed. She’d said she didn’t mind Rand’s help taking this throne, but it wasn’t like she wanted her nose rubbed in it. Still, Sashalle seemed to take her position seriously, though from what Elayne had discovered, that position was in large measure self-created.

Elayne and her procession dismounted. Had Rand thought that it would be as easy as that to give her the throne? He’d stayed in Cairhien long enough to know how they schemed. One Aes Sedai making a proclamation would never have been enough. But having powerful nobles support her directly should be enough to do it.

Their procession made its way up the steps. They entered, and each of those supporting her brought a smaller honor guard of fifty. Elayne brought her entire force; it was crowded, but she didn’t intend to leave any behind.

The inner hallways were straight, with peaked ceilings and golden trim. The symbol of the Rising Sun emblazoned each door. There were alcoves for riches to be displayed, but many were empty. The Aiel had taken their fifth from this palace.

Upon reaching the entrance to the Grand Hall of the Sun, Elayne’s Andoran Guardsmen and Guardswomen arranged themselves lining the outer hallway. Elayne took a deep breath, then strode into the throne room with a group of ten. Blue-streaked marble columns rose to the ceiling at the sides of the room, and the Sun Throne sat on its blue marble dais at the back of the large hall.

The seat was of gilded wood, but was surprisingly unassuming. Perhaps that was why Laman had decided to build himself a new throne, using Avendoraldera itself as a material. Elayne walked up to the dais, then turned as the Cairhienin nobility entered, her supporters first, then the others, ranked according to the complicated dictates of Does Dae’mar. Those rankings could change by the day, if not the hour.

Birgitte eyed each one who entered, but the Cairhienin were models of propriety. None would show anything like Ellorien’s audacity in Andor. She was a patriot, if one who frustratingly continued to disagree with Elayne. In Cairhien, one did not do such things.

Once the crowd had stilled, Elayne took a deep breath. She’d considered a speech, but her mother had taught her that sometimes, decisive action made for the best speech. Elayne moved to sit down in the throne.

Birgitte caught her arm.

Elayne glanced at her questioningly, but the Warder was eyeing the throne. “Wait a moment,” she said, bending down.

The nobles began murmuring one to another, and Lorstrum stepped up to Elayne. “Your Majesty?”

“Birgitte,” Elayne said, blushing, “is this really necessary?”

Birgitte ignored her, prodding at the seat’s cushion. Light! Was the Warder determined to embarrass her in every possible situation? Surely the—

“Aha!” Birgitte said, yanking something from the pillowed cushion.

Elayne started, the stepped closer, Lorstrum and Bertome at her side. Birgitte was holding up a small needle, tipped black. “Hidden in the cushion.”

Elayne paled.

“It was the only place they knew you’d be, Elayne,” Birgitte said softly. She knelt down and began prodding for more traps.

Lorstrum had grown flushed. “I will find who did this, Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice. A dangerous voice. “They will know my wrath.”

“Not if they know mine first,” stocky Bertome said, looking over the needle.

“Obviously an assassination attempt intended for the Lord Dragon, Your Majesty,” Lorstrum said in a louder voice, for the benefit of the audience. “None would dare try to kill you, our beloved sister from Andor.”

“That is good to hear,” Elayne said, eyeing him. That expression of hers said to everyone in the room that she would put up with this ruse, intended to save his face. As her strongest supporter, the shame of an assassination attempt fell on him.

Agreeing to let him save face would cost him. He lowered his eyes briefly in understanding. Light, she hated this game. But she would play it. And she would play it well.

“Is it safe?” she asked Birgitte.

The Warder rubbed her chin. “One way to find out,” she said, then plopped herself down in the throne with an unceremonious amount of force.

Not a few of the nobles in the hall gasped, and Lorstrum grew more pale.

“Not very comfortable,” Birgitte said, leaning to the side, then pushing her back up against the wood. “I would have expected a monarch’s throne to be more cushioned, what with your delicate backside and all.”

“Birgitte!” Elayne hissed, feeling her face grow red again. “You can’t sit in the Sun Throne!”

“I’m your bodyguard,” Birgitte said. “I can taste your food if I want, I can walk through doorways before you, and I can bloody sit in your chair if I think it will protect you.” She grinned. “Besides,” she added in a lower voice, “I always wondered what one of these felt like.” The Warder stood up, still wary, but also satisfied.

Elayne turned and faced the nobility of Cairhien. “You have waited long for this,” she said. “Some of you are dissatisfied, but remember that half of my blood is Cairhienin. This alliance will make both of our nations great. I do not demand your trust, but I do demand your obedience.” She hesitated, then added, “Remember again, this is as the Dragon Reborn wishes it to be.”

She saw that they understood. Rand had conquered this city once, though it had been to liberate it from the Shaido. They would be wise not to tempt him to come back and conquer it again. A queen used the tools that she had at hand. She had taken Andor on her own; she would let Rand help her with Cairhien.

She sat down. Such a simple thing, but the implications would be far-reaching indeed. “Gather your individual forces and House guards,” she commanded to the collected nobles. “You will be marching, with the forces of Andor, through gateways to a place known as the Field of Merrilor. We will be meeting the Dragon Reborn.”

The nobles seemed surprised. She would come in, take the throne, then command their armies from the city the same day? She smiled. Best to act quickly and decisively; it would build precedent for obeying her. And would begin to ready them for the Last Battle.

“Also,” she announced as they began to whisper, “I want you to gather every man in this realm who can hold a sword and conscript them into the Queen’s army. There won’t be much time for training, but every man will be needed in the Last Battle—and those women who wish to fight may report as well. Also, send word to the bellfounders in your city. I will need to meet with them within the hour.”

“But,” Bertome said, “the coronation feast, Your Majesty…”

“We will feast when the Last Battle has been won and Cairhien’s children are safe,” Elayne said. She needed to distract them from their plots, give them work to keep them busy, if possible. “Move! Pretend the Last Battle is on your doorstep, and will arrive on the morrow!” For, indeed it might.

Mat leaned against a dead tree, looking over his camp. He breathed in and out, smiling, feeling the beautiful comfort of knowing that he was no longer being chased. He had forgotten how good that felt. Better than a pretty serving girl on each knee, that feeling was. Well, better than one serving girl, anyway.

A military camp at evening was one of the most comfortable places in all the world, even if half the camp was empty, the men there having gone to Cairhien. The sun had set, and some of those who remained had turned in. But for those who had pulled afternoon duty the next day, there was no reason to sleep just yet.

A dozen firepits smoldered through the camp, men sitting to share tales of exploits, of women left behind, or of rumors from far off. Tongues of flames flickered as men laughed, sitting on logs or rocks, someone occasionally digging into the coals with a twisted branch and stirring tiny sparks into the air as his friends sang “Come Ye Maids” or “Fallen Willows at Noon.”

The men of the Band were from a dozen different nations, but this camp was their true home. Mat strode through them, hat on his head, ashandarei over his shoulder. He had gotten a new scarf for his neck. People knew about his scar, but there was no reason to show it off like one or Luca’s bloody wagons.

The scarf he had chosen this time was red. In memory of Tylin and the others who had fallen to the gholam. For a short time, he had been tempted to choose pink. A very short time.

Mat smiled. Though songs rang from several of the campfires, none were loud, and there was a healthy stillness about the camp. Not a silence. Silence was never good. He hated silence. Made him wonder who was trying so hard to sneak up on him. No, this was a stillness. Men snoring softly, fires crackling, other men singing, weeds crunching as those on watch passed by. The peaceful noises of men enjoying their lives.

Mat found his way back to his table outside his darkened tent. He sat down, looking over the papers he had stacked here. The inside of the tent had been too stuffy. Besides, he had not wanted to wake Olver.

Mat’s tent rippled in the wind. His seat did look odd, the fine oak table sitting in a patch of hensfoot, Mat’s chair beside it, a pitcher of mulled cider on the ground beside him. The papers on his table were weighed down with various rocks he had picked up, lit by a single flickering lamp.

He should not have to have stacks of paper. He should be able to sit at one of those fires and sing “Dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.” He could faintly make out the words of the song from a nearby campfire.

Papers. Well, he had agreed to Elayne’s employment, and there were papers for that sort of thing. And papers about setting up the dragon crews. Papers about supplies, discipline reports, and all kinds of nonsense. And a few papers he had been able to wiggle out of her royal majesty, spy reports he had wanted to look over. Reports on the Seanchan.

Much of the news was not new to him; by courtesy of Verin’s gateway, Mat had traveled to Caemlyn more quickly than most rumors. But Elayne had gateways of her own, and some of the news from Tear and Illian was fresh. There was talk of the new Seanchan Empress. So Tuon really had crowned herself, or whatever it was the Seanchan did to name a new leader.

That made him smile. Light, but they did not know what they were in for! They probably thought they did. But she would surprise them, sure as the sky was blue. Or, well, it had been gray lately.

There was also talk of Sea Folk in alliance with the Seanchan. Mat dismissed that. The Seanchan had captured enough Sea Folk vessels to give that impression, but it was not the truth. He found some pages with news about Rand, too, most of it unspecific or untrustworthy.

Blasted colors. Rand was sitting around and talking with some people in a tent. Perhaps he was in Arad Doman, but he could not be both there and fighting in the Borderlands, now could he? One rumor said that Rand had killed Queen Tylin. Which bloody idiots thought that?

He turned over the reports on Rand quickly. He hated having to banish those flaming colors over and over again. At least Rand was wearing clothes this time.

The last page was curious. Wolves running in enormous packs, congregating in clearings and howling in chorus? The skies shining red at night? Livestock lining up in the fields, all facing toward the north, watching silently? The footprints of Shadowspawn armies in the middle of fields?

These things smelled of simple hearsay, passed on from farmwife to farm-wife until they reached the ears of Elayne’s spies.

Mat looked over the sheet, then—without even thinking of it—realized he had pulled Verin’s envelope out of his pocket. The still-sealed letter was looking worn and dirty, but he had not opened it. It seemed like the most difficult thing he had ever done, resisting that urge.

“Now that is a sight of some irregularity,” a woman’s voice said. Mat looked up to see Setalle strolling toward him. She wore a brown dress that laced over her ample bosom. Not that Mat spent any time looking at it.

“You like my den?” Mat asked. He set the envelope aside, then put the last of the spy reports on a stack, just beside a series of sketches he’d been doing on some new crossbows, based on the ones Talmanes had bought The papers threatened to blow away. As he had no rock for this stack, he pulled off one of his boots and set it on the top.

“Your den?” Setalle asked, sounding amused.

“Sure,” Mat said, scratching the bottom of his stockinged foot. “You’ll have to make an appointment with my steward if you want to come in.”

“Your steward?”

“The stump right over there,” Mat said, nodding. “Not the little one, the big one with moss growing on the top.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“He’s quite good,” Mat said. “Hardly ever lets anyone in I don’t want to see.”

“You are an interesting creature, Matrim Cauthon,” Setalle said, seating herself on the larger stump. Her dress was after the Ebou Dar style, with the side pinned up to reveal petticoats colorful enough to scare away a Tinker.

“Did you want anything specific?” Mat asked. “Or did you just drop by so that you could sit on my steward’s head?”

“I heard that you visited the palace again today. Is it true that you know the Queen?”

Mat shrugged. “Elayne’s a nice enough girl. Pretty thing, that’s for certain.”

“You don’t shock me anymore, Matrim Cauthon,” Setalle noted. “I’ve realized that the things you say are often intended to do that.”

They were? “I say what I’m thinking, Mistress Anan. Why does it matter to you if I know the Queen?”

“Merely another piece of the puzzle that you represent,” Setalle said. “I received a letter from Joline today.”

“What did she want from you?”

“She didn’t ask for anything. She merely wanted to send word that they had arrived safely in Tar Valon.”

“You must have read it wrong.”

Setalle gave him a chiding stare. “Joline Sedai respects you, Master Cauthon. She often spoke highly of you, and the way that you rescued not only her, but the other two. She asked after you in the letter.”

Mat blinked. “Really? She said things like that?”

Setalle nodded.

“Burn me,” he said. “Almost makes me feel bad for painting her mouth blue. But you wouldn’t have known she thought that way, considering how she treated me.”

“Speaking such things to a man inflates his opinion of himself. One would think that the way she treated you would have been enough.”

“She’s Aes Sedai,” Mat muttered. “She treats everyone like they’re mud to be scraped off her boots.”

Setalle glared at him. She had a stately way about her, part grandmother, part court lady, part no-nonsense innkeeper.

“Sorry,” he said. “Some Aes Sedai aren’t as bad as others. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I’ll take that for a compliment,” Setalle said. “Though I’m not Aes Sedai.”

Mat shrugged, finding a nice small rock at his feet. He used it to replace his boot atop the stack of paper. The rains of the last few days had passed, leaving a crisp freshness to the air. “I know you said it didn’t hurt,” Mat said. “But… what does it feel like? The thing you lost?”

She pursed her lips. “What is the most delightful food you enjoy, Master Cauthon? The one thing that you would eat above all others?”

“Ma’s sweet pies,” Mat said immediately.

“Well, it is like that,” Setalle said. “Knowing that you used to be able to enjoy those pies every day, but now they have been denied you. Your friends, they can have as many of those pies as they want. You envy them, and you hurt, but at the same time you’re happy. At least someone can enjoy what you cannot.”

Mat nodded slowly.

“Why is it that you hate Aes Sedai so, Master Cauthon?” Setalle asked.

“I don’t hate them,” Mat said. “Burn me, but I don’t. But sometimes, a man can’t seem to do two things without women wanting him to do one of those things a different way and ignore the other one completely.”

“You aren’t forced to take their advice, and I warrant that much of the time, you eventually admit it is good advice.”

Mat shrugged. “Sometimes, a man just likes to do what he wants without someone telling him what’s wrong with it and what’s wrong with him. That’s all.”

“And it has nothing to do with your… peculiar views of nobles? Most Aes Sedai act as if they were noblewomen, after all.”

“I have nothing against nobles,” Mat said, straightening his coat. “I just don’t fancy being one myself.”

“Why is that, then?”

Mat sat for a moment. Why was it? Finally, he looked down at his foot then replaced his boot. “It’s boots.”

“Boots?” Setalle looked confused.

“Boots,” Mat said with a nod, tying his laces. “It’s all about the boots.”

“But—”

“You see,” Mat said, pulling the laces tight, “a lot of men don’t have to worry much about what boots to wear. They’re the poorest of folks. If you ask one of them ‘What boots are you going to wear today, Mop?’ their answer is easy. ‘Well, Mat. I only have one pair, so I guess I’m gonna wear that pair.’”

Mat hesitated. “Or, I guess they wouldn’t say that to you, Setalle, since you’re not me and all. They wouldn’t call you Mat, you understand.”

“I understand,” she said, sounding amused.

“Anyway, for people that have a little coin, the question of which boots to wear is harder. You see, average men, men like me…” He eyed her. “And I’m an average man, mind you.”

“Of course you are.”

“Bloody right I am,” Mat said, finishing with his laces and sitting up. “An average man might have three pairs of boots. Your third best pair of boots, those are the boots you wear when you’re working at something unpleasant. They might rub after a few paces, and they might have a few holes, but they’re good enough to keep your footing. You don’t mind mucking them up in the fields or the barn.”

“All right,” Setalle said.

“Then you have your second best pair of boots,” Mat said. “Those are your day-to-day boots. You wear those if you are going over to dinner at the neighbors. Or, in my case, you wear those if you’re going to battle. They’re nice boots, give you good footing, and you don’t mind being seen in them or anything.”

“And your best pair of boots?” Setalle asked. “You wear those to social events, like a ball or dining with a local dignitary?”

“Balls? Dignitaries? Bloody ashes, woman. I thought you were an inn-keeper.”

Setalle blushed faintly.

“We’re not going to any balls,” Mat said. “But if we had to, I suspect we’d wear our second best pair of boots. If they’re good enough for visiting old lady Hembrew next door, then they’re bloody well good enough for stepping on the toes of any woman fool enough to dance with us.”

“Then what are the best boots for?”

“Walking,” Mat said. “Any farmer knows the value of good boots when you go walking a distance.”

Setalle looked thoughtful. “All right. But what does this have to do with being a nobleman?”

“Everything,” Mat said. “Don’t you see? If you’re an average fellow, you know exactly when to use your boots. A man can keep track of three pairs of boots. Life is simple when you have three pairs of boots. But noblemen… Talmanes claims he has forty different pairs of boots at home. Forty pairs, can you imagine that?”

She smiled in amusement.

“Forty pairs,” Mat repeated, shaking his head. “Forty bloody pairs. And, they aren’t all the same kind of boots either. There is a pair for each outfit, and a dozen pairs in different styles that will match any number of half your outfits. You have boots for kings, boots for high lords, and boots for normal people. You have boots for winter and boots for summer, boots for rainy days and boots for dry days. You have bloody shoes that you wear only when you’re walking to the bathing chamber. Lopin used to complain that I didn’t have a pair to wear to the privy at night!”

“I see… So you’re using boots as a metaphor for the onus of responsibility and decision placed upon the aristocracy as they assume leadership of complex political and social positions.”

“Metaphor for…” Mat scowled. “Bloody ashes, woman. This isn’t a metaphor for anything! It’s just boots!”

Setalle shook her head. “You’re an unconventionally wise man, Matrim Cauthon.”

“I try my best,” he noted, reaching for the pitcher of mulled cider. “To be unconventional, I mean.” He poured a cup and lifted it in her direction. She accepted graciously and drank, then stood. “I will leave you to your own amusements, then, Master Cauthon. But if you have made any progress on that gateway for me…”

“Elayne said she would have one for you soon. In a day or two. Once I’m back from the errand I have to run with Thom and Noal, I’ll see it done.”

She nodded in understanding. If he did not return from that “errand,” she would see to Olver. She turned to leave. Mat waited until she was gone before taking a slurp of the cider straight from the pitcher. He had been doing that all evening, but he figured she would probably rather not know. It was the sort of thing women were better off not thinking about.

He turned back to his reports, but soon found his mind wandering to the Tower of Ghenjei, and those bloody snakes and foxes. Birgitte’s comments had been enlightening, but not particularly encouraging. Two months? Two bloody months spent wandering those hallways? That was a mighty, steaming bowl of worry, served up like afternoon slop. Beyond that, she had taken fire, music, and iron. Breaking the rules was not so original an idea.

He was not surprised. Likely, the day the Light made the very first man, and that man had made the first rule, someone else had thought to break it. People like Elayne made up rules to suit them. People like Mat found ways to get around the stupid rules.

Unfortunately, Birgitte—one of the legendary Heroes of the Horn—had not been able to defeat the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. That was disconcerting.

Well, Mat had something she had not had. His luck. He sat thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. One of his soldiers passed by. Clintock saluted; the Redarm checked on Mat every half-hour. They still had not gotten over the shame of letting the gholam sneak into camp.

He picked up Verin’s letter again, feeling it over in his fingers. The worn corners, the smudges of dirt on the once-white paper. He tapped it against the wood.

Then he tossed it onto the desk. No. No, he was not going to open it, even when he got back. That was that. He would never know what was in it, and he bloody did not care.

He stood up and went looking for Thom and Noal. Tomorrow, they would leave for the Tower of Ghenjei.