Something moved over Tuon’s shoulder. Mat tensed, peering into that darkness. Ah, it was just a gardener. An ordinary-looking fellow with a cap on his head and freckled cheeks. Barely worth noticing. Mat put him out of his mind and leaned forward to take a better look at Tuon. He smiled at her beauty.
Why would a gardener be out at this time? he thought. Must be a strange type of fellow.
Mat glanced at the man again, but had trouble picking him out. The gardener stepped between two members of the Deathwatch Guard. They did not seem to care. Mat should not either. They must trust the man . . .
Mat reached into his sleeve and freed a knife. He raised it without letting himself think about why. In doing so, his hand brushed one of the branches ever so softly.
Tuon's eyes snapped open, and despite the dim light, she focused directly on Mat. She saw the knife in his hand, ready to throw.
Then she looked over her shoulder.
Mat threw, the knife reflecting blue light as it spun. It passed less than a finger’s width from Tuon’s chin, hitting the gardener in the shoulder as he raised a knife of his own. The man gasped, stumbling back. Mat would have preferred to take him in the throat, but he had not wanted to risk hitting Tuon.
Rather than doing the sensible thing and moving away, Tuon leaped for the man, hands shooting toward his throat. That made Mat smile. Unfortunately, the man had just enough time—and she was just enough off-balance—that he managed to push backward and scramble between the baffled Deathwatch Guards. Mat’s second dagger hit the ground behind the assassin’s heel as he vanished into the night.
A second later, three men—each weighing roughly the same as a small building—crashed down on top of Mat, slamming his face against the dry ground. One stepped on his wrist, and another ripped his ashandarei away from him.
"Stop!" Tuon barked. "Release him! Go after the other one, you fools!"
"Other one, Majesty?" one of the guards asked. "There was no other one".
"Then to whom does that blood belong?" Tuon asked, pointing at the dark stain on the ground that the assassin had left behind. "The Prince of the Ravens saw what you did not. Search the area!"
The Deathwatch Guards slowly climbed off Mat. He let out a groan. What did they feed these men? Bricks? He did not like being called "Highness", but a little respect would have been nice here. If it had prevented him from being sat upon, that was.
He climbed to his feet, then held out his hand to a sheepish Death-watch Guard. The fellow’s face had more scars than skin. He handed Mat the ashandarei, then went off to help search the garden.
Tuon folded her arms, obviously unshaken. "You have chosen to delay your return to me, Matrim".
"Delay my . . . I came to bloody warn you, not return to you. I’m my own man".
"You may pretend whatever you wish", Tuon said, looking over her shoulder as the Deathwatch Guards beat at the shrubbery. "But you must not stay away. You are important to the Empire, and I have use for you".
"Sounds delightful", Mat grumbled.
"What was it?" Tuon asked softly. "I did not see the man until you drew attention. These guards are the best of the Empire. I have seen Daruo there catch an arrow in flight with his bare hand, and Barrin once stopped a man from breathing on me because he suspected an assassin whose mouth was filled with poisons. He was right".
"It’s called a Gray Man", Mat said, shivering. "There’s something freakishly ordinary about them—they’re hard to notice, hard to fixate upon".
"Gray Man", Tuon said idly. "More myths come to life. Like your Trollocs".
"Trollocs are real, Tuon. Bloody—"
"Of course Trollocs are real", she said. "Why wouldn’t I believe that they are?" She looked at him defiantly, as if daring him to mention the times she had called them myths. "This Gray Man appears to be real as well. There is no other explanation for why my guards let him pass".
"I trust the Deathwatch Guards well enough", Mat said, rubbing his shoulder where one of them had placed his knee. "But I don’t know, Tuon. General Galgan is trying to have you killed; he could be working with the enemy".
"He’s not serious about having me killed", Tuon said indifferently.
"Are you bloody insane?" Mat asked.
"Are you bloody stupid?" she asked. "He hired assassins from this land only, not true killers".
"That Gray Man is from this land", Mat pointed out.
That quieted her. "With whom did you gamble away that eye?"
Light! Was everyone going to ask him about it that way? "I went through a rough patch", he said. "I made it through alive, which is all that matters".
"Hmm. And did you save her? The one you went to rescue?"
"How did you know about that?"
She did not reply. "I have decided not to be jealous. You are fortunate. The missing eye suits you. Before, you were too pretty".
Too pretty? Light. What did that mean?
"Good to see you, by the way", Mat said. He waited a few moments. "Usually, when a fellow says something like that, it’s customary to tell them that you’re happy to see them as well".
"I am the Empress now", Tuon said. "I do not wait upon others, and do not find it good that someone has returned. Their return is expected, as they serve me".
"You know how to make a fellow feel loved. Well, I know how you feel about me".
"And how is that?"
"You looked over your shoulder".
She shook her head. "I had forgotten that you are supremely good at saying that which has no meaning, Matrim".
"When you saw me", Mat explained, "with a dagger in hand—as if to throw at you—you didn’t call for your guards. You didn’t fear I was here to kill you. You looked over your shoulder to see what I was aiming at. That’s the most loving gesture I think a man could receive from a woman. Unless you’d like to sit on my knee for a little while . . ".
She did not reply. Light, but she seemed cold. Was it all going to be different, now that she was the Empress? He could not have lost her already, could he?
Furyk Karede, the captain of the Deathwatch Guard, soon arrived with Musenge walking behind him. Karede looked like he had just found his house on fire. The other Deathwatch Guards saluted him and seemed to wither before him.
"Empress, my eyes are lowered", Karede said, going down on his belly before her. "I will join those who failed you in spilling our lives before you as soon as a new squad has arrived to see to your protection".
"Your lives are mine", Tuon said, "and you do not end them unless I give you leave. This assassin was not of natural birth, but a creation of the Shadow. Your eyes are not lowered. The Prince of the Ravens will teach you how to spot this kind of creature, so you will not be so surprised again". Mat was fairly certain that Gray Men were of natural birth, but then, so were Trollocs and Fades. It did not seem appropriate to point this out to Tuon. Besides, something else in her orders drew his attention.
"I’m going to do what, now?" Mat asked.
"Teach them", Tuon said softly. "You are Prince of the Ravens. This will be part of your duties".
"We need to talk about that", Mat said. "Everyone calling me ‘Highness’ is not going to do, Tuon. It just won’t".
She did not reply. She waited as the search proceeded, and made no move to retreat to the palace.
Finally, Karede approached again. "Highest One, there is no sign of the thing in the gardens, but one of my men has found blood on the wall. I suspect the assassin fled into the city".
"He is unlikely to try again tonight", Tuon said, "while we are alerted. Do not spread news of this to the common soldiers or guards. Inform my Voice that our ruse has stopped being effective, and that we will need to consider a new one".
"Yes, Empress", Karede said, bowing low again.
"For now", Tuon said, "clear out and secure the perimeter. I will be spending time with my consort, who has requested that I ‘make him feel loved.’ "
"That’s not exactly—" Mat said as the members of the Deathwatch Guard faded into the darkness.
Tuon studied Mat for a moment, then began to disrobe.
"Light!" Mat said. "You meant it?"
"I’m not going to sit on your knee", Tuon said, pulling one arm out of her robe, exposing her br**sts, "though I may allow you to sit on mine. Tonight, you have saved my life. That will earn you special privilege. It—"
She cut off as Mat grabbed her and kissed her. She was tense with surprise. In the bloody garden, he thought. With soldiers standing all about, well within earshot. Well, if she expected Matrim Cauthon to be shy, she had a surprise coming.
He released her lips from the kiss. Her body was pressed against his, and he was pleased to find her breathless.
"I won’t be your toy", Mat said sternly. "I won’t have it, Tuon. If you intend it to be that way, I will leave. Mark me. Sometimes, I do play the fool. With Tylin, I did for sure. I won’t have that with you".
She reached up and touched his face, surprisingly tender. "I would not have said the words I did if I had found in you only a toy. A man missing an eye is no toy anyway. You have known battle; everyone who sees you now will know that. They will not mistake you for a fool, and I have no use for a toy. I shall have a prince instead".
"And do you love me?" he asked, forcing the words out.
"An empress does not love", she said. "I am sorry. I am with you because the omens state it so, and so with you I will bring the Seanchan an heir".
Mat had a sinking feeling.
"However", Tuon said. "Perhaps I can admit that it is . . . good to see you".
Well, Mat thought, guess I can take that. For now.
He kissed her again.
CHAPTER 16
A Silence Like Screaming
Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, had secretly always wanted to be hasty.
Humans fascinated him, of that he made no secret. He was sure most of his friends knew, though he could not be certain. It amazed him what humans didn’t hear. Loial could speak to them all day, then find that they had heard only part. Did they think that someone would speak without intending for others to listen?
Loial listened when they spoke. Every word out of their mouths revealed more about them. Humans were like the lightning. A flash, an explosion, power and energy. Then gone. What would it be like?
Hastiness. There were things to learn from hastiness. He was starting to wonder if he had learned that particular lesson too well.
Loial strode through a forest of too-silent trees, Erith at his side, other Ogier surrounding them. All held axes on shoulders or carried long knives as they marched toward the battlefront. Erith’s ears twitched; she was not a Treesinger, but she could sense that the trees did not feel right.
It was horrible, horrible indeed. He could not explain the sense of a healthy stand of trees any more than he could explain the sensation of wind on his skin. There was a rightness, like the scent of morning rain, to healthy trees. It was not a sound, but it felt like a melody. When he sang to them, he found himself swimming in that rightness.