The road led to arched gates twenty feet high, standing open under the watchful eye of redcoated Queen's Guards in their shining breastplates — they eyed Thom and him no more than anyone else, not even the quarterstaff slanted across his saddle in front of him; all they cared was that people keep moving, it seemed — and then they were within. Slender towers here rose even taller than those along the walls, and gleaming domes shone white and gold above streets teeming with people. Just inside the gates the road split into two parallel streets, separated by a wide strip of grass and trees. The hills of the city rose like steps toward a peak, which was surrounded by another wall, shining as white as Tar Valon's, with still more domes and towers within. That was the Inner City, Mat recalled, and atop those highest hills stood the Royal Palace.
“No point waiting,” he told Thom. “I'll take the letter straight on.” He looked at the sedan chairs and carriages making their way through the crowds, the shops with all their goods displayed. “A man could earn some gold in this city, Thom, once he found a game of dice, or cards.” He was not quite so lucky at cards as at dice, but few except nobles and the wealthy played those games anyway. Now that's who I should find a game with.
Thom yawned at him and hitched at his gleeman's cloak as if it were a blanket. “We have ridden all night, boy. Let's at least find something to eat, first. The Queen's Blessing has good meals.” He yawned again. “And good beds.”
“I remember that,” Mat said slowly. He did, in a way. The innkeeper was a fat man with graying hair, Master Gill. Moiraine had caught up to Rand and him there, when he had thought they were finally free of her. She's off playing her game with Rand, now. Nothing to do with me. Not anymore. “I will meet you there, Thom. I said I'd have this letter out of my hands an hour after I arrived, and I mean to. You go on.”
Thom nodded and turned his horse aside, calling over his shoulder through a yawn. “Do not become lost, boy. It's a big city, Caemlyn.”
And a rich one. Mat heeled his mount on up the crowded street. Lost! I can find my bloody way. The sickness appeared to have erased parts of his memory. He could look at an inn, its upper floors sticking out over the ground floor all the way around and its sign creaking in the breeze, and remember seeing it before, yet not recall another thing he could see from that spot. A hundred paces of street might abruptly spark in his memory, while the parts before and after remained as mysterious as dice still in the cup.
Even with the holes in his memory he was sure he had never been to the Inner City or the Royal Palace — I couldn't forget that! — yet he did not need to remember the way. The streets of the New City — he remembered that name suddenly; it was the part of Caemlyn less than two thousand years old — ran every which way, but the main boulevards all led to the Inner City. The Guards at the gates made no effort to stop anyone.
Within those white walls were buildings that could almost have fit in Tar Valon. The curving streets topped hills to reveal thin towers, their tiled walls sparkling with a hundred colors in the sunlight, or to look down on parks laid out in patterns made to be viewed from above, or to show sweeping vistas across the entire city to the rolling plains and forests beyond. It did not really matter which streets he took here. They all spiraled in on what he sought, the Royal Palace of Andor.
In no time, he found himself crossing the huge oval plaza before the Palace, riding toward its tall, gilded gates. The pure white Palace of Andor would certainly not have been out of place among Tar Valon's wonders, with its slender towers and golden domes shining in the sun, its high balconies and intricate stonework. The gold leaf on one of those domes could have kept him in luxury for a year.
There were fewer people in the plaza than elsewhere, as if it were reserved for great occasions. A dozen of the Guards stood before the closed gates, bows slanted, all at exactly the same angle, across their gleaming breastplates, faces hidden by the steel bars of their burnished helmets' faceguards. A heavyset officer, with his red cloak thrown back to reveal a knot of gold braid on his shoulder, was walking up and down the line, eyeing each man as if he thought he might find rust or dust.
Mat drew rein and put on a smile. “Good morning to you, Captain.”
The officer turned, staring at him through the bars of his faceguard with deep, beady eyes, like a pudgy rat in a cage. The man was older than he had expected — surely old enough to have more than one knot of rank — and fat rather than stocky. “What do you want, farmer?” he demanded roughly.
Mat drew a breath. Make it good. Impress this fool so he doesn't keep me waiting all day. I don't want to have to flash the Amyrlin's paper around to keep from kicking my heels. “I come from Tar Valon, from the White Tower, bearing a letter from —”
“You come from Tar Valon, farmer?” The fat officer's stomach shook as he laughed, but then his laughter cut off as if severed with a knife, and he glared. “We want no letters from Tar Valon, rogue, if you have such a thing! Our good Queen — may the Light illumine her! — will take no word from the White Tower until the DaughterHeir is returned to her. I never heard of any messenger from the Tower wearing a country man's coat and breeches. It is plain to me you are up to some trick, perhaps thinking you'll find a few coins if you come claiming to carry letters, but you will be lucky if you don't end in a prison cell! If you do come from Tar Valon, go back and tell the Tower to return the DaughterHeir before we come and take her! If you're a trickster after silver, get out of my sight before I have you beaten within an inch of your life! Either way, you halfwit looby, be gone!”
Mat had been trying to edge a word in from the beginning of the man's speech. He said quickly, “The letter is from her, man. It is from —”
“Did I not tell you to be gone, ruffian?” the fat man bellowed. His face was growing nearly as red as his coat. “Take yourself out of my sight, you gutter scum! If you are not gone by the time I count ten, I will arrest you for littering the plaza with your presence! One! Two!”
“Can you count so high, you fat fool?” Mat snapped. “I tell you, Elayne sent —”
“Guards!” The officer's face was purple now. “Seize this man for a Darkfriend!”
Mat hesitated a moment, sure no one could take such a charge seriously, but the redcoated Guards dashed toward him, all dozen men in breastplates and helmets, and he wheeled his horse and galloped ahead of them, followed by the fat man's shouts. The gelding was no racer, but it outdistanced men afoot easily enough. People dodged out of his way along the curving streets, shaking fists after him and shouting as many
