It felt a little safer, studying the Stone from the shadows, but not much more encouraging. The city wall was not nearly as thick as those he had seen in other places, in Caemlyn or Tar Valon, no more than a pace wide, supported by great stone buttresses cloaked in darkness, now. A pace was more than sufficient width for walking, of course, except that the fall to either side was nearly ten spans. Through the dark, to hard pavement. But some of these bloody houses back right up against it, I can make it to the top easily enough, and it bloody runs straight to the bloody Stone!
It did that, but that was no particular comfort. The sides of the Stone looked like cliffs. Eyeing the height again, he told himself he should be able to climb it. Of course, I can. Just like those cliffs in the Mountains of Mist. Over a hundred paces straight up before there was a battlement. There must be arrowslits lower down, but he could not make them out in the night. And he could not squeeze through an arrowslit. A hundred bloody paces. Maybe a hundred and twenty. Burn me, even Rand would not try to climb that. But it was the one way in he had found. Every gate he had seen had been shut tight and looked strong enough to stop a herd of bulls, not to mention the dozen or so soldiers guarding very nearly every last one, in helmets and breastplates, and swords at their belts.
Suddenly he blinked, and squinted at the side of the Stone. There was some fool climbing it, just visible as a moving shadow in the moonlight, and over halfway up already, with a drop of seventy paces to the pavement under his feet. Fool, is he? Well, I'm as big a one, because I am going up, too. Burn me, he'll probably raise an alarm in there and get me caught. He could not see the climber anymore. Who in the Light is he? What does it matter who he is? Burn me, but this is a bloody way to win a wager. I'm going to want a kiss from all of them, even Nynaeve!
He shifted to peer toward the wall, trying to choose his spot to climb, and suddenly there was steel across his throat. Without thinking, he knocked it away and swept the man's feet out from under him with his staff. Someone else kicked his own feet away and he fell almost on top of the man he had knocked down. He rolled off onto the roof tiles, loosing the bundle of fireworks — If that falls into the street, I'll break their necks! — staff whirling; he felt it strike flesh, and a second time, heard grunts. Then there were two blades at his throat.
He froze, arms outflung. The points of short spears, dull so they hardly caught the faint light of the moon at all, pressed into his flesh just short of bringing blood. His eyes followed them up to the faces of whoever was holding them, but their heads were shrouded, their faces veiled in black except for their eyes, staring at him. Burn me, I have to run into real thieves! What happened to my luck?
He put on a grin, with plenty of teeth so they could see it in the moonlight. “I do not mean to trouble you in your work, so if you let me go my way, I'll let you go yours and say nothing.” The veiled men did not move, and neither did their spears. “I want no more outcry than you. I'll not betray you.” They stood like statues, staring down at him. Burn me, I do not have time for this. Time to toss the dice. For a chilling moment he thought the words in his head had been strange. He tightened his grip on the quarterstaff, lying out to one side of him — and almost cried out when someone stepped hard on his wrist.
He rolled his eyes to see who. Burn me for a fool, I forgot the one I fell on. But he saw another shape moving behind the one standing on his wrist, and decided maybe it was as well he had not managed to bring the staff into use after all.
It was a soft boot, laced to the knee, that rested on his arm: It tugged at his memory. Something about a man met in mountains. He eyed the nightcloaked shape the rest of the way up, trying to make out the cut and colors of his clothes — they seemed all shadow, colors that blended with the darkness too well to see them clearly — past a longbladed knife at the fellow's waist, right up to the dark veil across his face. A blackveiled face. Blackveiled.
Aiel! Burn me, what are bloody Aiel doing here! He had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered hearing that Aiel veiled themselves when they killed.
“Yes,” said a man's voice, “we are Aiel.” Mat gave a start; he had not realized he had spoken aloud.
“You dance well for one caught by surprise,” a young woman's voice said. He thought she was the one standing on his wrist. “Perhaps another day I will have time to dance with you properly.”
He started to smile — If she wants to dance, they can't be going to kill me, at least! — then frowned instead. He seemed to remember Aiel sometimes meant something different when they said that.
The spears were pulled back, and hands hauled him to his feet. He shook them away and brushed himself off as if he were standing in a common room instead of on a nightcloaked rooftop with four Aiel. It always paid to let the other man know you had a steady nerve. The Aiel had quivers at their waists as well as knives, and more of those short spears on their backs with cased bows, the long spear points sticking up above their shoulders. He heard himself humming “I'm Down at the Bottom of the Well,” and stopped it.
“What do you do here?” the man's voice asked. With the veils, Mat was not entirely sure which one had spoken; the voice sounded older, confident, used to command. He thought he could pick out the woman, at least; she was the only one shorter than he, and that not by much. The others all stood a head taller than he or more. Bloody Aiel, he thought. “We have watched you for some little time,” the older man went on, “watched you watch the Stone. You have studied it from every side. Why?”
“I could ask the same of all of you,” another voice said. Mat was the only one who gave a start as a man in baggy breeches stepped out of the shadows. The fellow appeared to be shoeless, for better footing on the tiles. “I expected to find thieves, not Aiel,” the man went on, “but do not think your numbers frighten me.” A slim staff no taller than his head made a blur and a hum as he whirled it. “My name is Juilin Sandar, and I am a thiefcatcher, and I would know why you are on the rooftops, staring at the Stone.”
Mat shook his head. How many bloody people are on the roofs tonight? All that was needed was for Thom to appear and play his harp, or someone to come looking for an inn. A bloody thieftaker! He wondered why the Aiel were just standing there.
“You stalk well, for a city man,” the older man's voice said. “But why do you follow us? We have stolen nothing. Why have you looked so often at the Ston
