“It does not sound like Morgase,” Thom said after a time, half to himself. His bushy eyebrows were pulled down like a white arrow pointing to his nose.
“What does not sound like her?” Mat asked absently.
“Stopping the crossings. Sending people back. She always had a temper like lightning, but she always had a soft heart, too, for anyone poor or hungry.” He shook his head.
Mat saw a sign, then — the Riverman, it said, and showed a barefoot, shirtless fellow doing a jig — and turned that way, forcing an angle across the flow with the quarterstaff. “Well, it had to be her. Who else could it be? Forget Morgase, Thom. We've a long way to Caemlyn, yet. First let us see how much gold it takes to buy a bed for the night.”
The common room of The Riverman looked as crowded as the street outside, and when the innkeeper heard what Mat wanted, he laughed till his chins shook. “I am sleeping four to a bed, now. If my own mother came to me, I could not give her a blanket by the fire.”
“As you must have noticed,” Thom said, his voice taking on that echoing quality, “I am a gleeman. Surely you can find at least pallets in a corner in return for me entertaining your patrons with stories and juggling, eating of fire, and sleight of hand.” The innkeeper laughed in his face.
As Mat pulled him back into the street, Thom growled in his normal voice, “You never gave me a chance to ask after his stable. Surely I could have gotten us a place in the hayloft, at least.”
“I have slept in enough stables and barns since leaving Emond's Field,” Mat told him, “and under enough bushes, too. I want a bed.”
But at the next four inns he found, the innkeeper gave him the same answer as the first; the last two almost threw him out bodily when he offered to dice for a bed. And when the owner of the fifth told him he could not give a pallet to the Queen herself — this at a place called The Good Queen — he sighed and asked, “What about your stable, then? Surely we can bed down in the hayloft for a price.”
“My stable is for horses,” the roundfaced man said, “not that many are left in the city.” He had been polishing a silver cup; now he opened one door of a shallow cupboard standing on top of a deep, drawered chest and placed it inside with others; none of them matched. A tooledleather dice cup sat atop the chest, just beyond the arc of the cupboard's doors. “I do not put people in there to frighten the horses, and perhaps make off with them. Those who pay me for stabling their animals want them well tended, and I've two of my own in there, besides. There are no beds in my stable for you.”
Mat eyed the dice cup thoughtfully. He pulled a gold Andoran crown out of his pocket and set it atop the chest. The next coin was a silver Tar Valon mark, then a gold one, and a gold Tairen crown. The innkeeper looked at the coins and licked his plump lips. Mat added two silver Illianer marks and another gold Andoran crown, and looked at the roundfaced man. The innkeeper hesitated. Mat reached for the coins. The innkeeper's hand reached them first.
“Perhaps just the two of you would not disturb the horses too greatly.”
Mat smiled at him. “Speaking of horses, what price for those two of yours? With saddles and bridles, of course.”
“I will not sell my horses,” the man said, clutching the coins to his chest.
Mat picked up the dice cup and rattled it. “Twice as much again against the horses, saddles, and bridles.” He shook his coat pocket to make the loose coins rattle, too, to show he had more to cover the wager. “My one toss against the best of your two.” He almost laughed as greed lit the innkeeper's entire face.When Mat walked into the stable, the first thing he did was check along the halfdozen stalls with horses in them for a pair of brown geldings. They were nondescript animals, but they were his. They needed currying badly, but otherwise they seemed in good condition, especially considering that all the stablemen but one had run off. The innkeeper had been extremely disparaging of their complaints that they could no longer live on what he paid them, and he seemed to think it a crime that the one man who remained had actually had the audacity to say he was going home to bed just because he was tired from doing three men's work.
“Five sixes,” Thom muttered behind him. The looks he cast around the stable did not seem as enthralled as they might, seeing that he had suggested it in the first place. Dust motes shone in the last light of the setting sun coming through the big doors, and the ropes used to hoist hay bales hung like vines from pulleys in the roof beams. The hayloft was dim in the gloom above; “When he threw four sixes and a five on his second toss, he thought you'd lost for sure, and so did I. You have not been winning every toss of late.”
“I win enough.” Mat was just as relieved not to be winning every throw. Luck was one thing, but remembering that night still sent shivers down his back. Still, for one moment as he shook that dice cup, he had all but known what the pips would be. As he tossed the quarterstaff up into the loft, thunder crashed in the sky. He scrambled up the ladder, calling back to Thom. “This was a good idea. I'd think you would be happy to be in out of the rain tonight.”
Most of the hay was in bales stacked against the outer walls, but there was more than enough loose for him to make a bed with his cloak over it. Thom appeared at the top of the ladder as he was pulling two loaves of bread and a wedge of greenveined cheese from his leather script. The innkeeper — his name was Jeral Florry — had parted with the food for merely enough coin to have bought one of those horses in more peaceful days. They ate while rain began drumming on the roof, washing the food down with water from their waterbottles — Florry had had no wine at any price — and when they were done, Thom dug out his tinderbox and thumbed his longstemmed pipe full of tabac and settled back for a smoke.
Mat was lying on his back, staring at the shadowed roof and wondering if the rain would break before morning — he wanted that letter out of his hands as quickly as possible — when he heard an axle creak into the stable. Rolling to the edge of the loft, he peered down. There was enough dusk left for him to see.
A slender woman was straightening from the shafts of the highwheeled cart she had just dragged in out of the rain, pulling off her cloak and muttering to herself as she shook the wet from it. Her hair was plaited in a multitude of small braids, and her silk dress — he thought it was a pale green — was elaborately embroidered across her breasts. The dress had been fine, once, but now it was tattered and stained. She knuckled her back, still talking to herself in a low voice, and hurried to the stable doors to peer out into the rain. Just as hurriedly, she ducked out to pull the big doors shut, enclosing the stable in darkness. There was a rustling below, a clink and a slosh, and suddenly a small flare of light bloomed into a lantern in her hands. She looked around, found a hook on a stall post, hung the lantern, and went to dig under the roped
