Bloody stories. They were supposed to leave Mat alone. Some he could trace back to the Band—like the story of a city full of the dead awakening. But many of the people claimed that the stories had come from their uncle, or cousin, or nephew.
Mat flicked Chet a copper. The man tipped his hat politely and went to get himself another drink. Mat did not feel like drinking. He had a suspicion that those pictures of him were part of why the stories were spreading so quickly. In the last tavern he had visited, someone had actually pulled out a copy of the sketch—folded and wrinkled—and shown it to him. Nobody had recognized him so far, though.
The hearthfire continued to crackle. Low Caemlyn was growing, and enterprising men had realized that providing rooms and drinks for the transients could make a healthy profit. So shanties had started to become taverns, and those had begun to grow into full inns.
Wood was in high demand, and many of the mercenary bands had taken to woodcutting. Some worked honestly, paying the Queen’s levy for claims. Others worked less legally. There had already been hangings for it. Who would have thought? Men hanging for poaching trees? What next? Men hanging for stealing dirt?
Low Caemlyn had changed drastically, roads springing up, buildings being enlarged. A few years, and Low Caemlyn would be a city itself! They’d have to build another wall to close it in.
The room smelled of dirt and sweat, but no more so than other taverns. Spills were quickly cleaned up and the serving girls looked eager to have work. One in particular gave him a quiet smile, refilling his mug and showing some ankle. Mat made sure to remember her; she would be good for Talmanes.
Mat lifted up his scarf enough to drink. He felt like a fool wearing the scarf this way. But it was too hot for a hooded cloak, and the beard had been torture. Even with the scarf on his face, he did not stand out too much in Low Caemlyn; he was not the only tough walking around with his face obscured. He explained that he had a bad scar he wanted to cover; others assumed he had a bounty on his head. Both were actually true, unfortunately.
He sat for a time, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth. Chet’s warning caused an uncomfortable pit to open in Mat’s stomach. The greater his reputation grew, the more likely he would be challenged. There would be great notoriety in killing the Prince of the Ravens. Where had they gotten that name? Blood and bloody ashes!
A figure joined him at the fire. Lanky and bony, Noal looked like a scarecrow who had dusted himself off and decided to go to town. Despite his white hair and leathery face, Noal was as spry as men half his age. When he was handling a weapon, anyway. Other times he seemed as clumsy as a mule in a dining parlor.
“You’re quite the notable man,” Noal said to Mat, holding out his palms to the fire. “When you stumbled across me in Ebou Dar, I had no idea what illustrious company I’d find myself in. Give this a few more months and you’ll be more famous than Jain Farstrider.”
Mat hunkered down farther into his chair.
“Men always think it would be grand to be known in every tavern and every city,” Noal said softly. “But burn me if it isn’t just a headache.”
“What do you know of it?”
“Jain complained about it,” Noal said softly.
Mat grunted. Thom arrived next. He was dressed as a merchant’s servant, wearing a blue outfit that was not too fine, but also not in disrepair. He was claiming to have come to Low Caemlyn to determine whether his master would be well advised to put a shopfront here.
Thom pulled off the disguise with aplomb, waxing his mustaches to points and speaking with a faint Murandian accent. Mat had offered to come up with a backstory for his act, but Thom had coughed and said that he already had one worked out. Flaming liar of a gleeman.
Thom pulled up a chair, seating himself delicately, as if he were a servant who thought highly of himself. “Ah, what a waste of my time this was! My master insists that I associate with such rabble as this! And here I find the worst of the lot.”
Noal chuckled softly.
“If only,” Thom said dramatically, “I had been instead sent to the camp of the majestic, amazing, indestructible, famous Matrim Cauthon! Then I would certainly have—”
“Burn me, Thom,” Mat said. “Let a man suffer in peace.”
Thom laughed, waving over the serving girl and buying drinks for the three of them. He gave her an extra coin and quietly asked her to keep casual ears from getting too close to the hearth.
“Are you sure you want to meet here?” Noal asked.
“It’ll do,” Mat said. He did not want to be seen back in camp, lest the gholam look there for him.
“All right, then,” Noal said. “We know where the tower is, and can get there, assuming Mat procures us a gateway.”
“I will,” Mat said.
“I haven’t been able to find anyone who has gone inside,” Noal continued.
“Some say it’s haunted,” Thom said, taking a slurp from his mug. “Others say it’s a relic from the Age of Legends. The sides are said to be of smooth steel, without an opening. I did find a captain’s widow’s younger son who once heard a story of someone who found great treasures in the tower. He didn’t say how the lad had gotten in, though.”
“We know how to get in,” Mat said.
“Olver’s story?” Noal asked skeptically.
“It’s the best we have,” Mat said. “Look, the game and the rhyme are about the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. People knew about them once. Those bloody doorframes are proof of that. So they left the game and the rhyme as warning.”
“That game can’t be won, Mat,” Noal said, rubbing his leathery chin.
“And that’s the point of it. You need to cheat.”
“But maybe we should try a deal,” Thom said, playing with the waxed tip of a mustache. “They did give you answers to your questions.”
“Bloody frustrating ones,” Mat said. He had not wanted to tell Thom and Noal about his questions—he still had not told them what he had asked.
“But they did answer,” Thom said. “It sounds like they had some kind of deal with the Aes Sedai. If we knew what it was the Aes Sedai had that the snakes and foxes wanted—the reason they were willing to bargain—then maybe we could trade it to them for Moiraine.”
“If she’s still alive,” Noal said grimly.
“She is,” Thom said, staring straight ahead. “Light send it. Sh