The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,157

embarrass or inconvenience Matrim Cauthon. Then you could be certain the news would spread through the entire camp in a day’s time, and likely be known three villages down the road as well. His own bloody mother—leagues and leagues away—had probably heard the news by now.

“I’m not giving up gambling,” Mat muttered. “Or drinking.”

“So I believe you’ve told me,” Talmanes said. “Three or four times so far. I half believe that if I were to peek into your tent at night, I’d find you mumbling it in your sleep. ‘I’m going to keep bloody gambling! Bloody, bloody gambling and drinking! Where’s my bloody drink? Anyone want to gamble for it?’ ” He said it with a perfectly straight face, but once again, there was that hint of a smile in his eyes, if you knew just where to look.

“I just want to make sure everyone knows,” Mat said. “I don’t want anyone to start thinking I’m getting soft just because of . . . you know.”

Talmanes shot him a consoling look. “You won’t go soft just because you got married, Mat. Why, some of the Great Captains themselves are married, I believe. Davram Bashere is for certain, and Rodel Ituralde. No, you won’t go soft because you’re married.”

Mat nodded sharply. Good that was settled.

“You might go boring though,” Talmanes noted.

“All right, that’s it,” Mat declared. “Next village we find, we’re going to go dicing at the tavern. You and me.”

Talmanes grimaced. “With the kind of third-rate wine these little mountain villages have? Please, Mat. Next you’ll be wanting me to drink ale.”

“No arguing.” Mat glanced over his shoulder as he heard familiar voices. Olver—ears sticking out to the sides, diminutive face as ugly as any Mat had seen—sat astride Wind, chatting with Noal, who rode beside him on a bony gelding. The gnarled old man was nodding appreciatively to what Olver was saying. The little boy looked astonishingly solemn, and was undoubtedly explaining yet another of his theories on how to best sneak into the Tower of Ghenjei.

“Ho, now,” Talmanes said. “There’s Vanin.”

Mat turned to spot a rider approaching along the rocky path ahead. Vanin always looked so ridiculous, perched like a melon atop the back of his horse, his feet sticking out to the sides. But the man could ride, there was no doubting that.

“It is Mount Sardlen,” Vanin proclaimed as he rode up to them, wiping his sweaty, balding brow. “The village is just ahead; it’s called Hinderstap on the map. These are bloody good maps,” he added grudgingly.

Mat exhaled in relief. He’d begun to think that they might end up wandering these mountains until the Last Battle came and went. “Great,” he began, “we can—”

“A village?” a curt female voice demanded.

Mat turned with a sigh as three riders forced their way up to the front of the column. Talmanes reluctantly raised a hand to the soldiers behind, halting the march as the Aes Sedai descended on poor Vanin. The rotund man squatted down in his saddle, looking for all the world as though he’d rather have been discovered stealing horses—and therefore on his way to execution—than have to sit there and be interrogated by Aes Sedai.

Joline led the pack. Once, Mat might have described her as a pretty girl, with her slender figure and large, inviting brown eyes. But that ageless Aes Sedai face was an instant warning for him now. No, he wouldn’t dare think of the Green as pretty now. Begin letting yourself think of Aes Sedai as pretty, and in two clicks of the tongue you’d find yourself wrapped around her finger and hopping at her command. Why, Joline had already hinted that she’d like to have Mat as a Warder!

Was she still sore at him because he’d paddled her? She couldn’t hurt him with the Power, of course—even without his medallion, since Aes Sedai were sworn not to use the Power to kill except in very specific instances. But he was no fool. He’d noticed that those oaths of theirs didn’t say anything about using knives.

The two with Joline were Edesina, of the Yellow Ajah, and Teslyn, of the Red. Edesina was pleasant enough to look at, save for that ageless face, but Teslyn was about as appetizing as a stick. Sharp of face, the Illianer woman was bony and scrappy, like an aged cat left too long on its own. But she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, from what Mat had seen, and he’d found her treating him