The innkeeper frowned at him, but left — prudently taking the pewter cup with him — and came back with two leather cups. Thom rolled the five bone cubes from one onto the table in front of Mat. Whether with spots or symbols, every set of dice Mat had ever seen had been either bone or wood. These had spots. He picked them up, frowning at Thom. “Am I supposed to see something?”
Thom dumped the dice from the other cup into his hand, then, almost too quickly to follow, dropped them back in and twisted the cup over to rest upside down on the table before the dice could fall out. He kept his hand on top of the cup. “Put a mark on each of them, boy. Something small, but something you'll know for your mark.”
Mat found himself exchanging puzzled glances with the innkeeper. Then they both looked at the cup upside down under Thom's hand. He knew Thom was up to something tricky — gleemen were always doing things that were impossible, like eating fire and pulling silk out of the air — but he did not see how Thom could do anything with him watching close. He unsheathed his belt knife and made a small scratch on each die, right across the circle of six spots.
“All right,” he said, setting them back on the table. “Show me your trick.”
Thom reached over and picked up the dice, then set them down again a foot away. “Look for your marks, boy.”
Mat frowned. Thom's hand was still on the upended leather cup; the gleeman had not moved it or taken Mat's dice anywhere near it. He picked up the dice... and blinked. There was not a scratch on them. The innkeeper gasped.
Thom turned his free hand over, revealing five dice. “Your marks are on these. That is what Comar is doing. It is a child's trick, simple, though I'd never have thought he had the fingers for it.”
“I do not think I want to play dice with you after all,” Mat said slowly. The innkeeper was staring at the dice, but not as if he saw any solution. “Call the Watch, or whatever you call it here,” Mat told him. “Have him arrested.” He'll kill nobody in a prison cell. Yet what if they are already dead? He tried not to listen, but the thought persisted. Then I'll see him dead, and Gaebril, whatever it takes! But they aren't, burn me! They can't be!
The innkeeper was shaking his head. “Me? Me, denounce a merchant to the Defenders? They would not even look at his dice. He could say one word, and I would be in chains working the channeldredges in the Fingers of the Dragon. He could cut me down where I stood, and the Defenders would say I had earned it. Perhaps he will go away after a while.”
Mat gave him a wry grimace. “If I expose him, will that be good enough? Will you call the Watch, or the Defenders or whoever, then?”
“You do not understand. You are a foreigner. Even if he is from off, he is a wealthy man, important.”
“Wait here,” Mat told Thom. “I do not mean to let him reach Egwene and the others, whatever it takes.” He yawned as he scraped back his chair.
“Wait, boy,” Thom called after him, soft yet urgent. The gleeman pushed himself up out of his chair. “Burn you, you don't know what you're putting your foot into!”
Mat waved for him to stay there and walked over to Comar. No one else had taken up the bearded man's challenge, and he eyed Mat with interest as Mat leaned his quarterstaff against the table and sat down.
Comar studied Mat's coat and grinned nastily. “You want to wager coppers, farmer? I do not waste my time with —” He cut off as Mat set an Andoran gold crown on the table and yawned at him, making no effort to cover his mouth. “You say little, farmer, though your manners could use improving, but gold has a voice of its own and no need of manners.” He shook the leather cup in his hand and spilled the dice out. He was chuckling before they came to rest, showing three crowns and two roses. “You'll not beat that, farmer. Perhaps you have more gold hidden in those rags that you want to lose? What did you do? Rob your master?”
He reached for the dice, but Mat scooped them up ahead of him. Comar glared, but let him have the cup. If both tosses were the same, they would throw again until one man won. Mat smiled as he rattled the dice. He did not mean to give Comar a chance to change them. If they threw the same toss three or four times in a row — exactly the same, every time — even these Defenders would listen. The whole common room would see; they would have to back his word.
He spilled the dice onto the tabletop. They bounced oddly. He felt something — shifting. It was as if his luck had gone wild. The room seemed to be writhing around him, tugging at the dice with threads. For some reason he wanted to look at the door, but he kept his eyes on the dice. They came to rest. Five crowns. Comar's eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.
“You lose,” Mat said softly. If his luck was in to this extent, perhaps it was time to push it. A voice in the back of his head told him to think, but he was too tired to listen. “I think your luck is about used up, Comar. If you've harmed those girls, it's all gone.”
“I have not even found...” Comar began, still staring at the dice, then jerked his head up. His face had gone white. “How do you know my name?”
He had not found them, yet. Luck, sweet luck, stay with me. “Go back to Caemlyn, Comar. Tell Gaebril you could not find them. Tell him they are dead. Tell him anything, but leave Tear tonight. If I see you again, I'll kill you.”
“Who are you?” the big man said unsteadily. “Who —?” The next instant his sword was out and he was on his feet.
Mat shoved the table at him, overturning it, and grabbed for his quarterstaff. He had forgotten how big Comar was. The bearded man pushed the table right back at him. Mat fell over with his chair, holding a bare grasp on his staff, as Comar heaved the table out of the way and stabbed at him. Mat threw his feet against the man's middle to stop his rush, swung the staff awkwardly, just enough to deflect the sword. But the blow knocked the staff from his fingers, and he found himself gripping Comar's wrist, instead, with the man's blade a hand from his face. With a grunt he rolled backwards, heaving as hard as he could with his legs. Comar's eyes widened as he sailed over Mat to crash onto a table, face up. Mat scrambled for his staff, but when he had it, Comar had not moved.
The big man lay with his hips and legs sprawled across the top of the table, the rest of him hanging down with his head on the floor. The men who had been sitting at the table were on their feet a safe distance away, wringing their hands and eyeing each other nervously. A low, worried buzz filled the common room, n
