The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,207

guess I’d take barter. You can keep the coins you won, but I’ll bet this chest for supplies. Foodstuffs for my men, a few casks of ale. A cart to carry it on.”

“There isn’t enough time.” Barlden glanced at the darkening windows.

“Surely there is,” Mat said, leaning forward. “I’ll leave after this toss. You have my word on it.”

“We don’t bend rules here,” the mayor said. “The price is too high.”

Mat expected calls from the betting men, challenging the mayor, begging him to make an exception. But there were none. Mat felt a sudden spike of fear. After all of that losing . . . if they kicked him out anyway. . . .

Desperate, he pulled open the top of the chest again, revealing the gold coins inside.

“I’ll give you the ale,” the innkeeper said suddenly. “And Mardry, you’ve got a wagon and team. It’s only a street down.”

“Yes,” said Mardry, a bluff-faced man with short dark hair. “I’ll bet that.”

Men began to call that they could offer food—grain from their pantries, potatoes from their cellars. Mat looked to the mayor. “There’s still got to be what, half an hour until nightfall? Why don’t we see what they can gather? The village store can have a piece of this too, if I lose. I’ll bet you could use the extra coin, what with the winter we had.”

Barlden hesitated, then nodded, still watching the chest of coins. Men whooped and ran about, fetching the wagon, rolling out the ale. More than a few galloped off for their homes or the village store. Mat watched them go, waiting in the quickly emptying tavern room.

“I see what you’re doing,” the mayor said to Mat. He didn’t seem to be in a rush to gather anything.

Mat turned toward him, questioningly.

“I won’t have you cheating us with a miracle win at the end of the evening.” Barlden folded his arms. “You’ll use my dice. And you’ll move nice and slow as you toss. I know you lost many games here as the men report, but I suspect that if we search you, we’ll find a couple of sets of dice hidden on your person.”

“You’re welcome to give me a search,” Mat said, raising his arms to the side.

Barlden hesitated. “You will have thrown them away, of course,” he finally said. “It’s a fine scheme, dressing like a lord, loading dice so they make you lose instead of win. Never heard of a man bold enough to throw away gold like that on fake dice.”

“If you’re so certain that I’m cheating,” Mat said, “then why go through with this?”

“Because I know how to stop you,” the mayor replied. “Like I said, you’ll use my dice on this throw.” He hesitated, then smiled, grabbing a pair of dice off the table that Mat had been using. He tossed them. They came up a one and a two. He tossed them again, and got the same result.

“Better yet.” The mayor smiled deeply. “You’ll use these. In fact . . . I’ll make the throw for you.” Barlden’s face in the dim light took on a decidedly sinister cast.

Mat felt a stab of panic.

Talmanes took his arm. “All right, Mat,” he said. “I think we should go.”

Mat held up a hand. Would his luck work if someone else threw? Sometimes it worked to prevent him from being wounded in combat. He was sure of that. Wasn’t he?

“Go ahead,” he said to Barlden.

The man looked shocked.

“You can make the throw,” Mat said. “But it counts the same as if I’d tossed. A winning hand, and I walk away with everything. A losing hand, and I’ll be on my way with my hat and my horse, and you can keep the bloody chest. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Mat stuck out his hand for a shake, but the mayor turned away, holding the dice in his hand. “No,” he said. “You’ll get no chance to swap these dice, traveler. Let’s just go out front and wait. And you keep your distance.”

They did as he said, leaving the muggy, ale-soaked stench of the tavern for the clear street outside. Mat’s soldiers brought the chest. Barlden demanded that the chest remain open so that it couldn’t be switched. One of his thugs poked around inside it, biting the coins, making certain that it really was full and that the coins were authentic. Mat waited, leaning against the door as a wagon rolled up, and men from inside the tavern began rolling casks of ale onto its bed.

The sun