He cleared his throat. “Maybe we ought to wait downstairs,” he began when the door opened and Thom came in with his cloak flapping around his ankles, patches fluttering. Cased flute and harp hung on his back; the cases were reddish wood, polished by handling.
Dena made the balls disappear inside her dress and ran to throw her arms around Thom's neck, standing atiptoe to do it. “I missed you,” she said, and kissed him.
The kiss went on for some time, so long that Rand was beginning to wonder if he and Loial should leave, but Dena let her heels drop to the floor with a sigh.
“Do you know what that lackwit Seaghan's done now, girl?” Thom said, looking down at her. “He's taken on a pack of louts who call themselves 'players.' They walk around pretending to be Rogosh Eagleeye, and Blaes, and Gaidal Cain, and... Aaagh! They hang a scrap of painted canvas behind them, supposed to make the audience believe these fools are in Matuchin Hall, or the high passes of the Mountains of Dhoom. I make the listener see every banner, smell every battle, feel every emotion. I make them believe they are Gaidal Cain. Seaghan will have his hall torn down around his ears if he puts this lot on to follow me.”
“Thom, we have visitors. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan. Oh, and a boy who calls himself Rand al'Thor.”
Thom looked over her head at Rand, frowning. “Leave us for a while, Dena. Here.” He pressed some silver coins into her hand. “Your knives are ready. Why don't you go pay Ivon for them?” He brushed her smooth cheek with a gnarled knuckle. “Go on. I'll make it up to you.”
She gave him a dark look, but she tossed her cloak around her shoulders, muttering, “Ivon better have the balance right.”
“She'll be a bard one day,” Thom said with a note of pride after she was gone. “She listens to a tale once — once only, mind! — and she has it right, not just the words, but every nuance, every rhythm. She has a fine hand on the harp, and she played the flute better the first time she picked it up than you ever did.” He set the wooden instrument cases atop one of the larger trunks, then dropped into the chair she had abandoned. “When I passed through Caemlyn on the way here, Basel Gill told me you'd left in company with an Ogier. Among others.” He bowed toward Loial, even managing a flourish of his cloak despite the fact that he was sitting on it. “I am pleased to meet you, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan.”
“And I to meet you, Thom Merrilin.” Loial stood to make his bow in return; when he straightened, his head almost brushed the ceiling, and he quickly sat down again. “The young woman said she wants to be a gleeman.”
Thom's head shake was disparaging. “That's no life for a woman. Not much of a life for a man, for that. Wandering from town to town, village to village, wondering how they'll try to cheat you this time, half the time wondering where your next meal is coming from. No, I'll talk her around. She'll be Courtbard to a king or a queen before she's done. Aaaah! You didn't come here to talk about Dena. My instruments, boy. You've brought them?”
Rand pushed the bundle across the table. Thom undid it hurriedly — he blinked when he saw it was his old cloak, all covered with colorful patches like the one he wore — and opened the hard leather flute case, nodding at the sight of the goldandsilver flute nestled inside.
“I earned my bed and meals with that after we parted,” Rand said.
“I know,” the gleeman replied dryly. “I stopped at some of the same inns, but I had to make do with juggling and a few simple stories since you had my — You didn't touch the harp?” He pulled open the other dark leather case and took out a goldandsilver harp as ornate as the flute, cradling it in his hands like a baby. “Your clumsy sheepherder's fingers were never meant for the harp.”
“I didn't touch it,” Rand assured him.
Thom plucked two strings, wincing. “At least you could have kept it in tune,” he muttered.
Rand leaned across the table toward him. “Thom, you wanted to go to Illian, to see the Great Hunt set out, and be one of the first to make new stories about it, but you couldn't. What would you say if I told you you could still be a part of it? A big part?”
Loial stirred uneasily. “Rand, are you sure ... ?” Rand waved him to silence, his eyes on Thom.
Thom glanced at the Ogier and frowned. “That would depend on what part, and how. If you've reason to believe one of the Hunters is coming this way ... I suppose they could have left Illian already, but he'd be weeks reaching here if he rode straight on, and why would he? Is this one of the fellows who never went to Illian? He'll never make it into the stories without the blessing, whatever he does.”
“It doesn't matter if the Hunt has left Illian or not.” Rand heard Loial's breath catch. “Thom, we have the Horn of Valere.”
For a moment there was dead silence. Thom broke it with a great guffaw of laughter. “You two have the Horn? A shepherd and a beardless Ogier have the Horn of ...” He doubled over, pounding his knee. “The Horn of Valere!”
“But we do have it,” Loial said seriously.
Thom drew a deep breath. Small aftershocks of laughter still seemed to catch him unaware. “I don't know what you found, but I can take you to ten taverns where a fellow will tell you that he knows a man who knows the man who's already found the Horn, and he will tell you how it was found, too — as long as you buy his ale. I can take you to three men who will sell you the Horn, and swear their souls under the Light it's the real one and true. There is even a lord in the city has what he claims is the Horn locked up inside his manor. He says it's a treasure handed down in his House since the Breaking. I don't know if the Hunters will ever find the Horn, but they will hunt down ten thousand lies along the way.”
“Moiraine says it's the Horn,” Rand said.
Thom's mirth was cut short. “She does, does she? I thought you said she was not with you.”
“She isn't, Thom. I have not seen her since I left Fal Dara, in Shienar, and for a month before that she said no more than two words together to me.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. And when she did talk, I wished she'd kept on ignoring me. I'll never dance to her tune again, the Light burn her and every other Aes Sedai. No. Not Egwene. Not Nynaeve. He was conscious of Thom watching him closely. “She isn't here, Thom. I do not know where she is, and I do not care.”
“Well, at least you have sense enough to keep it secret. If you hadn't, it would be all over the Foregate by now, and half a Cairhien would be lying in wait to take it away. Half the world.”
“Oh, we've kept it secret, Thom. And I have to bring it back to Fal Dara without Darkfriends or anyone else taking it away. That's story enough for you right there, isn't it? I could use a friend who knows the world. You've been everywhere; you know things I can't even imagine. Loial and Hurin know more than I do, but we're all three floundering in deep water.”
“Hurin ... ? No, don't tell me how. I do not want to know. ” The gleeman pushed back his chair and went to stare out of the window. “The Horn of Valere. That means the Last Battle is coming. Who will notice? Did you see the people laughing in the streets out there? Let the grain barges stop a week, and they won't laugh. Galldrian will think they've all become Aiel. The nobles all play the Game of Houses, scheming to get close to the King, scheming to gain more power than the King, scheming to pull down Galldrian and be the next King. Or Queen. They will think Tarmon Gai'don is only a ploy in the Game.” He turned away from the window. “I don't suppose you are talking about simply riding to Shienar and handing the Horn to — who? — the King? Why Shienar? The legends all tie the Horn to Illian.”
Rand looked at Loial. The Ogier's ears were sagging. “Shienar, because I know who to give it to, there. And there are Trollocs and Darkfriends after us.”
“Why does that not surprise me? No. I may be an old fool, but I will be an old fool in my own way. You take the glory, boy.”