Birgitte trotted down the hallway, glancing out a window when she passed. The sky leaked a strengthening drizzle. Utterly dreary. Gaidal would have liked this weather. He loved the rain. On occasion, she’d joked that drizzle suited his face better, making him less likely to frighten children. Light, but she missed that man.
The most direct route to the Plum Gate took her through the servants’ quarters. In many palaces, this would have meant entering a section of the building that was more drab, meant for less important people. But this building had been Ogier built, and they had particular views about such things. The marble stonework here was as grand as it was elsewhere, with tiled mosaics of red and white.
The rooms, while small by royal standards, were each large enough to hold an entire family. Birgitte generally preferred to take her meals in the servants’ large, open dining hall. Four separate hearths crackled here in defiance of the dreary night, and off-duty servants and Guards laughed and chatted. Some said you could judge a monarch by the way he treated those who served him. If that were the case, then the Andoran palace had been designed in a way to encourage the best in its queens.
Birgitte reluctantly passed by the inviting scents of food, and instead pushed her way out into the cold summer storm. The chill wasn’t biting. Just uncomfortable. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and crossed the slick paving down to the Plum Gate. The gatehouse was alight with an orange glow, and the Guardsmen on watch stood outside in wet cloaks, halberds held to the side.
Birgitte marched up to the gatehouse, water dripping from the lip of her hood, then pounded on the thick oak door. It opened, revealing the bald-headed, mustached face of Renald Macer, sergeant on duty. A stout man, he had wide hands and a calm temperament. She always thought he should be in a shop somewhere making shoes, but the Guard took all types, and dependability was often more important than skill with the sword.
“Captain-General!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting rained on,” she snapped.
“Oh, my!” He stepped back, making way for her to enter the gatehouse. It had a single crowded room. The soldiers were on storm shift—meaning twice as many men would work the gate as usual, but they would only have to stand outside an hour before rotating with the men warming inside the gatehouse.
Three Guardsmen sat at a table, throwing dice into a dicing box while an open-fronted iron stove consumed logs and warmed tea. Dicing with the four soldiers was a wiry man with a black scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face. His clothing was scruffy, his head topped by a mop of wet brown hair sticking out in all directions. Brown eyes glanced at Birgitte over the top of the scarf, and the man sank down a little in his seat.
Birgitte took off her cloak and shook it free of rainwater. “This is your intruder, I assume?”
“Why, yes,” the sergeant said. “How did you hear about that?”
She eyed the intruder. “He tried to sneak onto the palace grounds, and now you’re dicing with him?”
The sergeant and the other men looked sheepish. “Well, my Lady—”
“I’m no lady.” Not this time at least. “I work for a living.”
“Er, yes,” Macer continued. “Well, he gave up his sword readily, and he doesn’t seem that dangerous. Just another beggar wanting scraps from the kitchens. Right nice fellow. Thought we’d get him warm before sending him out into that weather again.”
“A beggar,” she said. “With a sword?”
Sergeant Macer scratched his head. “I guess that is kind of odd.”
“You could charm the helmet off a general on a battlefield, couldn’t you, Mat?” she said.
“Mat?” the man asked in a familiar voice. “I don’t know what you mean, my good woman. My name is Garard, a simple beggar who has a quite interesting past, if you care to listen to it—”
She eyed him with a firm gaze.
“Oh, bloody ashes, Birgitte,” he complained, taking off the scarf. “I only wanted to get warm for a spell.”
“And win the coin off my men.”
“A friendly game never hurt a man,” Mat said.
“Unless it was against you. Look, why are you sneaking into the palace?”
“It took too much bloody work to get in last time,” Mat said, sitting back in his chair. “Thought I might pass that up this time.”
Sergeant Macer glanced at Birgitte. “You know this man?”
“Unfortunately,” she said. “You can release him to my custody, Sergeant. I’ll see that Master Cauthon is properly taken care of.”
“Master Cauthon?” one of the men said. “You mean the Raven Prince?”
“Oh, for bloody…” Mat said, as he stood and picked up his walking staff. “Thanks,” he said dryly to Birgitte, throwing on his coat.
She put her cloak back on, then pushed open the door as one of the Guards handed Mat his sword, belt still attached. Since when had Mat carried a shortsword? Probably a decoy away from the quarterstaff.
The two stepped out into the rain as Mat tied on the belt. “Raven Prince?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m getting too bloody famous for my own good, that’s why.”
“Wait until it tracks you across generations,” she said, glancing up at the sky, blinking as a raindrop hit her square in the eye.
“Come on, let’s go grab a drink,” Mat said, walking toward the gate.
“Wait,” she said. “Don’t you want to go see Elayne?”
“Elayne?” Mat said. “Blood and ashes, Birgitte, I’m here to talk to you. Why do you think I let those Guards catch me? You want a drink or not?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. By putting Kaila on duty in her place, Birgitte had officially gone on break. She knew a fairly decent tavern only two streets from the Palace.
“All right,” she said, waving to the Guards and leading Mat onto the rainy street. “But I’ll need to have milk or tea instead of ale. We aren’t sure if her Warder drinking would be bad for the babies or not.” She smiled, thinking of a drunk Elayne trying to talk to her allies after the play. “Though if I make her tipsy, it might be good revenge for some of the things she’s