The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,216

somewhere to dice and drink, but that won’t stop it. Nothing will.”

“You’re ta’veren, lad,” Thom said.

“I didn’t ask to be. Burn me, I wish they’d all just go bother Rand. He likes it.” He shook his head, dispelling the image that formed, showing Rand asleep in his bed, Min curled up beside him.

“You really think that?” Thom asked.

Mat hesitated. “I wish I did,” he admitted. “It would make things easier.”

“Lies never make things easier in the long run. Unless they’re to exactly the right person—usually a woman—at exactly the right time. When you tell them to yourself, you just bring more trouble.”

“I brought those people trouble. In the village.” He glanced toward the back of the camp, where the two Warders sat, guarding the still-bound serving girls. They continued to struggle. Light! Where did they get the strength? It was inhuman.

“I don’t think this was you, Mat,” Thom said thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t disagree that trouble hunts you—the Dark One himself seems to do so. But Hinderstap . . . well, when I was singing in that common room, I heard some tidbits. They seemed like nothing. But looking back, it strikes me that the people were expecting this. Or something like it.”

“How could they have been?” Mat said. “If this had happened before, they’d all be dead.”

“Don’t know,” Thom said thoughtfully. Then something seemed to strike him. He began fishing inside his cloak. “Oh, I forgot. Maybe there is some connection between you and what happened. I managed to take this away from a man who was too drunk for his own good.” The gleeman pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Mat.

Mat took the paper, frowning, and unfolded it. He squinted in the diffuse moonlight, leaning close, and grunted when he made out what the paper contained—not words, but a very accurate drawing of Mat’s face, hat atop his head. It even had the foxhead medallion drawn in around his neck. Bloody ashes.

He contained his annoyance. “Handsome fellow. Good nose, straight teeth, dashing hat.”

Thom snorted.

“I saw some men showing a paper to the mayor,” Mat said, refolding the drawing. “I didn’t see what was on it, but I’ll bet it was the same as this. What did the man you took this from say about it?”

“An outlander woman in some village north of here is giving them out and offering a reward to anyone who has seen you. The man got the paper from a friend, so he didn’t have a description of her or the town’s name. Either his friend kept him ignorant, wanting the reward for himself, or he was just too drunk to remember.”

Mat tucked the paper into his coat pocket. The light of false dawn was beginning to glow to the east. He’d sat up all night, but he didn’t feel tired. Just . . . drained. “I’m going back,” he said.

“What?” Thom asked, surprised. “To Hinderstap?”

Mat nodded, rising. “As soon as it’s light. I need to—”

A muffled curse interrupted him. He spun, reaching for his ashandarei. Thom had a pair of knives in his hands in the blink of an eye. Fen, Joline’s Saldaean Warder, was the one who had cursed. He stood, hand on his sword, searching the ground around him. Blaeric stood by the Aes Sedai, sword out, alert and on guard.

“What?” Mat asked tersely.

“The prisoners,” Fen said.

Mat started, realizing that the lumps that had lain near the Warders were gone. He dashed over, cursing. Talmanes’ snores stopped as the sounds woke him and he sat up. The bonds made from strips of Joline’s dress lay on the ground, but the serving girls were gone.

“What happened?” Mat asked, looking up.

“I . . .” The dark-haired Warder looked dumbfounded. “I have no idea. They were here just a moment ago!”

“Did you doze off?” Mat demanded.

“Fen wouldn’t have done such a thing,” Joline said, sitting up in her bedroll, her voice calm. She still wore only that dressing robe.

“Lad,” Thom said, “we both saw those girls here barely a minute ago.”

Talmanes cursed and woke the five Redarms. Delarn was looking a great deal better, his weakness from the Healing barely seeming to bother him as he climbed to his feet. The Warders called for a search, but Mat just turned back to the village below. “The answers are there,” Mat said. “Thom, you’re with me. Talmanes, watch the women.”

“We have little need of being ‘watched,’ Matrim,” Joline said grumpily.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Thom, you’re with me. Joline, you watch the