“I already did,” Olver said. “And Thom too. And Talmanes.”
Talmanes? He was not going with them into the Tower! Light, how much had Olver been spreading the news around?
“Olver,” Mat said, squatting down to be on eye level with the boy, “you need to keep quieter. We don’t want too many people knowing what we’re doing.”
“I didn’t tell nobody we don’t trust, Mat,” Olver said. “Don’t worry. Most were Redarms.”
Great, Mat thought. What would the soldiers think of their commander planning to go off and fight a bunch of creatures from children’s stories? Hopefully they would see Olver’s comments as the fancies of a young boy.
“Just be careful,” Mat said. “I’ll come stop by your inn tomorrow, and we can play a game then and talk about it. All right?”
Olver nodded. “All right, Mat. But…blood and bloody ashes!” He turned and walked away.
“And stop swearing!” Mat called after him, then shook his head. Bloody soldiers would have Olver corrupted by the time he was twelve.
Mat continued on his way, leaning his spear on his shoulder again. He found Thom and Talmanes mounted at the front of the camp along with a force of fifty Redarms. Thom wore an extravagant wine-red coat and trousers, gold work at the arms, with a shirt bearing white lace at the cuffs and a silken cravat tied at the neck. The buttons were of gleaming gold. His mustaches had been trimmed and neatly combed. The entire outfit was new, including the black cloak, its inner lining of gold.
Mat froze in place. How had the man so perfectly transformed from an old scamp of a gleeman into a royal courtier? Light!
“I see from your reaction that the presentation is effective,” Thom said.
“Blood and bloody ashes!” Mat exclaimed. “What happened? Did you take ill from a bad sausage at breakfast?”
Thom whipped his cloak back, revealing that he had his harp out and at his side. He looked like a court-bard! “I figured that if—after all of these years—I was going to make an appearance in Caemlyn, I should look the part.”
“No wonder you’ve been singing for coin every day,” Mat said. “The people in those taverns have way too much money.”
Talmanes raised an eyebrow—as good as a grin, from that man. At times, he seemed so dour as to make thunderclouds feel cheerful. He also wore a fine outfit, his of deep cobalt and silver. Mat felt at his cuffs. He could have used some lace. If Lopin had been here, he would have set out the proper outfit without Mat even asking. A little lace was good for a man. Made him look presentable.
“Is that what you’re wearing to visit the Queen, Mat?” Talmanes asked.
“Of course it is.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. “It’s a good coat.” He walked over to take Pips’ reins.
“Good for sparring in, maybe,” Talmanes said.
“Elayne is the Queen of Andor now, Mat,” Thom said. “And queens are a particular lot. You should show her respect.”
“I am showing her bloody respect,” Mat said, handing his spear to one of the soldiers, then climbing into the saddle. He took the spear back, then turned Pips so he could regard Thom. “This is a good enough coat for a farmer.”
“You’re not a farmer anymore, Mat,” Talmanes said.
“I am too,” Mat said stubbornly.
“But Musenge called you—” Thom began.
“He was mistaken,” Mat said. “Just because a man marries someone doesn’t mean he suddenly becomes bloody nobility.”
Thom and Talmanes exchanged a look.
“Mat,” Thom said. “That’s actually exactly how it works. It’s pretty much one of the only ways to become nobility.”
“That’s the way we do it here, maybe,” Mat said. “But Tuon is from Seanchan. Who knows what they do there? We all know how strange they can be. We can’t know anything until we talk to her.”
Thom frowned. “I’m certain, from things she said, that—”
“We can’t know anything until we talk to Tuon,” Mat repeated, louder this time. “Until then, I’m Mat. None of this Prince of Whatever nonsense.”
Thom looked confused, but Talmanes’ lips turned ever so slightly up at the side. Burn that man. Mat was inclined to think his solemn nature was all an act. Was he secretly laughing inside?
“Well, Mat,” Talmanes said, “you never have made any sense, so why should we expect you to now? Onward, then, to meet the Queen of Andor. Certain you don’t want to roll in the mud first?”
“I’ll be fine,” Mat said dryly, pulling his hat down as a soldier tied his pack to the back of his saddle.
He kicked Pips into motion, and the procession began the now-familiar ride to Caemlyn. Mat spent most of the time going over his plan in his head. He had Aludra’s papers tucked into a leather folder, and they included her demands. Every bellfounder in Caemlyn, large quantities of bronze and iron, and powders worth thousands of crowns. And she claimed that was the minimum of what she needed.
How under the Light was Mat going to get bloody Elayne Trakand to give him all that? He would have to do a lot of smiling. But Elayne had proven resistant to his smiles before, and Queens were not like ordinary folk. Most women, they would smile back or they would scowl at you, so you knew where you stood. Elayne seemed the type to smile at you, then toss you in prison all the same.
For once, it would be nice if his luck could see him off somewhere enjoying a pipe and a game of dice, with a pretty serving girl on his knee and no cares beyond his next throw. Instead, he was married to a Seanchan High Blood and was off to beg the Queen of Andor for her help. How did he get into these situations? Sometimes he thought that the Creator must be like Talmanes. Straight of face, but secretly having a grand time laughing at Mat.
His procession passed numerous camps on the open plains around Caemlyn. All mercenaries were required to stay at least a league away, but the forces of the lords could camp closer. That put Mat in a rough place. There was always tension between sell-swords and loyal armsmen, and with the mercenaries so far from Caemlyn, fights were common. The Band was right in the middle of it.
He did some quick figuring based on the trails of campfire smoke he saw twisting into the air. There were at least ten thousand mercenaries in the area. Did Elayne know what a bubbling kettle she was brewing here? Too much heat, and the whole bloody thing would boil over!
Mat’s procession drew attention. He had one of the men flying the banner of the Band of the Red Hand, and his men were developing a reputation. By Mat’s count, they were the largest single group—mercenary or lord’s force—outside Caemlyn’s walls. They were as organized and disciplined as a regular army, and were under the leadership of a personal friend of the Dragon Reborn. His men could not help bragging about that, though Mat would much rather that they had kept quiet.
They passed groups of men waiting by the side of the road, curious to catch a glimpse of “Lord Mat.” He kept his eyes forward. If they had expected some fop in a rich coat, then they would be disappointed! Though perhaps he could have chosen a better coat. This one was stiff, and the collar itched.
Of course, more than a few seemed to think Talmanes was “Lord Mat” from the way they pointed, probably because of how he was dressed. Bloody ashes!
This conversation with Elayne was going to be tough. But Mat had a hidden card, one he hoped would be enough to get her to look past the expense of Aludra’s proposal. Though he was more afraid she would see what he was doing and want to take part in it. And when a woman wanted to be “part” of something, that meant she wanted to be in charge.
They approached the gate in Caemlyn’s white-gray walls, passing the growing outer city. The soldiers waved him on. Mat gave them a tip of the hat, and Thom gave a flourishing wave to the small crowd gathered here. They cheered. Great. Just bloody great.
The march through the New City was uneventful save for more crowds watching. Would someone recognize his face from those drawings? Mat wanted to get off the main thoroughfares, but Caemlyn’s narrow streets were a twisting mess. A force of fifty horsemen was too large to move through those streets.
They eventually passed through the brilliant white walls of the Inner City, where the roads were wider, the Ogier-built buildings less cramped, and the population thinner. Here, they passed more groups of armed men, including Guardsmen in white and red. Mat could make their camp out ahead, covering the gray paving stones of the courtyard with their tents and horselines.
The Caemlyn palace was like another little city within the city inside the city. It had a low fortified wall, and while its peaks and spires rose into the air, it had more of the look of a war bunker than the Sun Palace did. Odd, how he had never noticed that when he was younger. If Caemlyn fell, this palace could hold on its own. They needed more barracks, though, within that wall. This camping out in the courtyard was ridiculous.
Mat took Talmanes, Thom and a force of ten Redarms as an escort. A tall man in a burnished breastplate, three golden knots on the shoulder of his cloak, waited at the palace entrance. He was a young man, but the way he stood—relaxed, yet poised, hand on the pommel of his sword—indicated he was a practiced soldier. Too bad he had such a pretty face. A life in the military would probably end up wrecking that.
The man nodded to Mat, Thom and Talmanes. “Lord Cauthon?” he asked Mat.
“Just Mat.”
The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “My name is Charlz Guybon. I’ll lead you to Her Majesty.”
She had sent Guybon himself to escort Mat. He was high-ranking, second-in-command of the armies. That was unexpected. Was Elayne afraid of him, or was she was honoring him? Maybe Guybon had wanted to see Mat for himself. She would not honor Mat, not after making him wait so long to get an audience! A fine greeting for an old friend. His suspicions were confirmed when Guybon did not lead them to the Grand Hall, but down to a quiet area of the Palace.
“I’ve heard much about you, Master Cauthon,” Guybon said. He seemed like one of those stiff soldiers. Solid, but maybe a little too solid. Like a bow without enough spring to it.
“From who?” Mat asked. “Elayne?”
“Mostly rumors around the city. People like to talk about you.”
They do? Mat thought. “I didn’t do half of what they say,” he grumbled, “and the other half wasn’t my bloody fault.”
Guybon laughed. “What of the story of you hanging from a tree for nine days?”
“Didn’t happen,” Mat said, resisting the urge to tug at the scarf around his neck. Nine days? Where did that come from? He had not even hung for nine bloody minutes! Nine seconds had been too long.
“They also say,” Guybon continued, “that you never lose at dice or at love, and that your spear never misses its target.”
“Wish those second two were true. Burn me, but I wish they were.”
“But you do always win at dice?”
“Near enough,” Mat said, tugging down the brim of his hat. “But don’t spread that one, or I’ll never find a game.”