His fingers slipped out of a shallow groove, his balance shifted and he lost the toehold under his left foot. With a gasp, he barely caught hold of the top of the wall, and pulled himself up the rest of the way. For a moment he lay there, breathing hard. It would not have been that long a fall, but enough to break his head. Fool, letting my mind wander like that. Nearly killed myself on those cliffs that way. That was all a long time ago. His mother had likely thrown all those things out already, anyway. With one last look each way to make sure no one had seen him — the curving length of street below was still empty — he dropped inside the Palace grounds.
It was a large garden, with flagstoned walks through expanses of grass among the trees, and grapevines thick on arbors over the walks. And everywhere, flowers. White blossoms covering the pear trees, and white and pink dotting the apple trees. Roses in every color, and bright golden sunburst, and purple Emond's Glory, and many he could not identify. Some he was not sure could be real. One had odd blossoms in scarlet and gold that looked almost like birds, and another seemed no different from a sunflower except that its yellow flowers were two feet and more across and stood on stalks as tall as an Ogier.
Boots crunched on flagstone, and he crouched low behind a bush against the wall as two guardsmen marched past, their long, white collars hanging over their breastplates. They never glanced his way, and he grinned to himself. Luck. With just a little luck, they'll never see me till I hand the bloody thing to Morgase.
He slipped through the garden like a shadow, as if stalking rabbits, freezing by a bush or hard against a tree trunk when he heard boots. Two more pairs of soldiers strode by along the paths, the second close enough for him to have taken two steps and goosed them. As they vanished among the flowers and trees, he plucked a deep red starblaze and stuck the wavypetaled flower in his hair with a grin. This was as much fun as stealing applecakes at Sunday, and easier. Women always kept a sharp watch on their baking; the fool soldiers never took their eyes off the flagstones.
It was not long before he found himself against the white wall of the Palace itself, and began sliding along it behind a row of flowering white roses on slatted frames, searching for a door. There were plenty of wide, arched windows just over his head, but he thought it might be a bit harder to explain being found climbing in through a window than walking down a hall. Two more soldiers appeared, and he froze; they would pass within three paces of him. He could hear voices from the window over his head, two men, just loud enough for him to make out the words.
“— on their way to Tear, Great Master.” The man sounded frightened and obsequious.
“Let them ruin his plans, if they can.” This voice was deeper and stronger, a man used to command. “It will serve him right if three untrained girls can foil him. He was always a fool, and he is still a fool. Is there any word of the boy? He is the one who can destroy us all.”
“No, Great Master. He has vanished. But, Great Master, one of the girls is Morgase's nit.”
Mat half turned, then caught himself. The soldiers were coming closer; they did not appear to have seen his start through the thickly woven rose stems. Move, you fools! Get by so I can see who this man bloody is! He had lost some of the conversation.
“— has been far too impatient since regaining his freedom,” the deep voice was saying. “He never realized the best plans take time to mature. He wants the world in a day, and Callandor besides. The Great Lord take him! He may seize the girl and try to make some use of her. And that might strain my own plans.”
“As you say, Great Master. Shall I order her brought out of Tear?”
“No. The fool would take it as a move against him, if he knew. And who can say what he chooses to watch aside from the sword? See that she dies quietly, Comar. Let her death attract no notice at all.” His laughter was a rich rumble. “Those ignorant slatterns in their Tower will have a difficult time producing her after this disappearance. This may all be just as well. Let it be done quickly. Quickly, before he has time to take her himself.”
The two soldiers were almost abreast of him; Mat tried to will their feet to move faster.
“Great Master,” the other man said uncertainly, “that may be difficult. We know she is on her way to Tear, but the vessel she traveled on was found at Aringill, and all three of them had left it earlier. We do not know whether she has taken another ship, or is riding south. And it may not be easy to find her once she reaches Tear, Great Master. Perhaps if you —”
“Are there none but fools in the world, now?” the deep voice said harshly. “Do you think I could move in Tear without him knowing? I do not mean to fight him, not now, not yet. Bring me the girl's head, Comar. Bring me all three heads, or you will pray for me to take yours!”
“Yes, Great Master. It shall be as you say. Yes. Yes.”
The soldiers crunched past, never looking to either side. Mat only waited for their backs to pass before leaping up to catch the broad stone windowsill and pull himself high enough to see through the window.
He barely noticed the fringed Tarabon carpet on the floor, worth a fat purse of silver. One of the broad, carved doors was swinging shut. A tall man, with wide shoulders and a deep chest straining the green silk of his silverembroidered coat, was staring at the door with dark blue eyes. His black beard was close cut, with a streak of white over his chin. All in all, he looked a hard man, and one used to giving orders.
“Yes, Great Master,” he said suddenly, and Mat almost lost his grip on the sill. He had thought this must be the man with the deep voice, but it was the cringing voice he heard. Not cringing now, but still the same. “It shall be as you say, Great Master,” the man said bitterly. “I will cut the three wenches' heads off myself. As soon as I can find them!” He strode through the door, and Mat let himself back down.
For a moment he crouched there behind the rose frames. Someone in the Palace wanted Elayne dead, and had thrown in Egwene and Nynaeve as afterthoughts. What under the Light are they doing, going to Tear? It had to be them.
He pulled the DaughterHeir's letter out of the lining of his coat and frowned at it. Maybe, with this in his hand, Morgase would believe him. He could describe one of the men. But the time for skulking was past; the big fellow could be off to Tear before he even found Morgase, and whatever she did then, there was no guarantee it could stop him.
Taking a deep breath, Mat wiggled between two of the rose frames at the cost of only a few pricks and snags from the thorns, and started down the flagstone path after the soldiers. He held Elayne's letter out in front of him so the golden lily seal was plainly visible, and went over in his mind exactly what he meant to say. When he had been sneaking about, guardsmen kept popping up like mushrooms after rain, but now he walked almost the length of the garden without seeing even one. He passed several doors. It would not be so good to enter the Palace without permission — the Guards might do nasty things first and listen after — but he was beginning to think about going through a door when it opened and a helmetless young officer with one golden knot on his shoulder strode out.
The man's hand immediately went to his sword hilt, and he had a foot of steel bared before Mat could push the letter toward him. “Elayne, the DaughterHeir, sends this letter to her mother, Queen Morgase, Captain.” He held the letter so the lily seal was prominent.
The officer's dark eyes flickered to either side, as if searching for other people, without really ever leaving Mat. “How did you come into this garden?” He did not draw his sword further, but he did not sheath it, either. “Elber is on the main gates. He's a fool, but he would never let anyone wander loose into the Palace.”
“A fat man with eyes like a rat?” Mat cursed his tongue, but the officer gave a sharp nod; he almost smiled, too, but it did not seem to lessen his vigilance, or his suspicion. “He grew angry when he learned I had come from Tar Valon, and he wouldn't even give me a chance to show the letter or mention the DaughterHeir's name. He said he would arrest me if I did not go, so I climbed the wall. I promised I would deliver this to Queen Morgase herself, you see, Captain. I promised it, and I always keep my promises. You see the seal?”
“That bloody garden wall again,” the officer muttered. “It should be built three times so high.” He eyed Mat. “Guardsmanlieutenant, not captain. I am Guardsmanlieutenant Tallanvor. I recognize the DaughterHeir's seal.” His sword finally slid all the way back into the sheath. He stretched out a hand; not his sword hand. “Give me the letter, and I will take it to the Queen. After I show you out. Some would not be so gentle at finding you walking about loose.”
“I promised to put it in her hands myself,” Mat said. Light, I never thought they might not let me give it to her. “I did promise. To the DaughterHeir.”
Mat hardly realized Tallanvor's hand was moving before the officer's sword was resting against his neck. “I will take you to the Queen, countryman,” Tallanvor said softly. “But know that I can take your head before you blink if you so much as think of harming her.”
Mat put on his best grin. That slightly curved blade felt sharp on the side of his neck. “I am a loyal Andorman,” he said, “and a faithful subject of the Queen, the Light illumine her. Why, if I had been here during the winter, I'd have followed Lord Gaebril for sure.”
Tallanvor gave him a tightmouthed stare, then finally took his sword away. Mat swallowed and stopped himself from touching his throat to see if he had been cut.