The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,155

to be seen by any who didn’t have to know he was there. He’d paid the butcher too much so far. He wanted out of this hangman’s noose of a country.

“Well,” Mat said, reining Pips back to ride beside Vanin, “which of those mountains is it? Maybe we should go ask Master Roidelle again.”

The map belonged to the master mapmaker; it was only because of his presence that they’d been able to find this roadway in the first place. But Vanin insisted on being the one to guide the troop—a mapmaker wasn’t the same thing as a scout. You didn’t have a dusty cartographer ride out and lead the way for you, Vanin insisted.

In truth, Master Roidelle didn’t have a lot of experience being a guide. He was a scholar, an academic. He could explain a map for you perfectly, but he had as much trouble as Vanin making sense of where they were, since this roadway was so disjointed and broken, the pines high enough to obscure landmarks, the hilltops all nearly identical.

Of course, there was also the fact that Vanin seemed threatened by the presence of the mapmaker, as if he were worried about being unseated from his position guiding Mat and the Band. Mat had never expected such an emotion from the overweight horsethief. It might have been enough to make him amused if they weren’t lost so much of the flaming time.

Vanin scowled. “I think that has to be Mount Sardlen. Yes. It’s got to be.”

“Which means . . . ?”

“Which means we keep heading along the roadway,” Vanin said. “The same thing I told you an hour ago. We can’t bloody march an army through a forest this thick, now can we? That means staying on the stones.”

“I’m just asking,” Mat said, pulling down the brim of his hat against the sun. “A commander’s got to ask things like this.”

“I should ride ahead,” Vanin said, scowling again. He was fond of scowls. “If that is Mount Sardlen, there should be a village of fair size an hour or two further along. I might be able to spot it from the next rise.”

“Go, then,” Mat said. They had advance scouts out, of course, but none of them were as good as Vanin. Despite his size, the man could sneak close enough to an enemy fortification to count the whiskers in the camp guards’ beards and never be seen. He’d probably make off with their stew, too.

Vanin shook his head as he regarded the map again. “Actually,” he muttered, “now that I think about it, maybe that’s Favlend Mountain. . . .” He set off at a trot before Mat could object.

Mat sighed, heeling Pips to catch up to Talmanes. The Cairhienin shook his head. He could be an intense one, Talmanes. Early in their association, Mat had assumed him to be stern, unable to have fun. He was learning better. Talmanes wasn’t stern, he was just reserved. But at times, there seemed to be a twinkle to the nobleman’s eyes, as if he were laughing at the world, despite that set jaw and his unsmiling lips.

Today, he wore a red coat, trimmed with gold, and his forehead was shaved and powdered after Cairhienin fashion. It looked bloody ridiculous, but who was Mat to judge? Talmanes might have terrible fashion sense, but he was a loyal officer and a good man. Besides, he had excellent taste in wine.

“Don’t look so glum, Mat,” Talmanes said, puffing on his gold-rimmed pipe. Where’d he gotten that, anyway? Mat didn’t remember him having it before. “Your men have full bellies, full pockets, and they just won a great victory. Not much more than that a soldier can ask for.”

“We buried a thousand men,” Mat said. “That’s no victory.” The memories in his head—the ones that weren’t his—said he should be proud. The battle had gone well. But there were still those dead who had depended on him.

“There are always losses,” Talmanes said. “You can’t let them eat you up, Mat. It happens.”

“There aren’t losses when you don’t fight in the first place.”

“Then why ride to battle so often?”

“I only fight when I can’t avoid it!” Mat snapped. Blood and bloody ashes, he only fought when he had to. When they trapped him! Why did that seem to happen every time he turned around?

“Whatever you say, Mat,” Talmanes said, taking out his pipe and pointing it at Mat knowingly. “But something’s got you on edge. And it isn’t the men we lost.”

Flaming