He knew he was lucky. He could remember always being lucky. But somehow, his memories from Emond's Field did not show him as lucky as he had been since leaving. Certainly he had gotten away with a great deal, but he could remember also being caught in pranks he had been sure would succeed. His mother had always seemed to know what he was up to, and Nynaeve able to see through whatever defenses he put up. But it was not just since leaving the Two Rivers that he had become lucky. The luck had come once he took the dagger from Shadar Logoth. He remembered playing at dice back home, with a sharpeyed, skinny man who worked for a merchant come down from Baerlon to buy tabac. He remembered the strapping his father had given him, too, on learning Mat owed the man a silver mark and four pence.
“But I'm free of the bloody dagger,” he mumbled. “Those bloody Aes Sedai said I was.” He wondered how much he had won tonight.
When he dug into his coat pockets, he found them filled with loose coins, crowns and marks, both silver and gold that glittered and glinted in the light from nearby windows. He had two purses now, it seemed, and both fat. He undid the strings, and found more gold. And still more stuffed into his belt pouch between and around and on top of his dice cups, crumpling Elayne's letter and the Amyrlin's paper. He had a memory of tossing silver pence to serving girls because they had pretty smiles or pretty eyes or pretty ankles, and because silver pence were not worth keeping.
Not worth keeping? Maybe they weren't. Light, I'm rich! I am bloody rich! Maybe it was something the Aes Sedai did. Something they did Healing me. By accident, maybe. That could be it. Better that the other. Those bloody Aes Sedai must have done it to me.
A big man moved out from the tavern, the door already swinging shut to cut off the light that might have shown his face.
Mat pressed his back close against the wall, stuffed the purses back into his coat, and firmed his grip on the quarterstaff. Wherever his luck tonight had come from, he did not mean to lose all that gold to a footpad.
The man turned toward him, peered, then gave a start. “Ccool night,” he said drunkenly. He staggered closer, and Mat saw that most of his size was fat. “I have to... I have to...” Stumbling, the fat man moved on up the street, talking to himself disjointedly.
“Fool!” Mat muttered, but he was not sure whether he meant it for the fat man or for himself. “Time to find a ship to take me away from here.” He squinted at the black sky, trying to estimate how long till dawn. Two, maybe three hours, he thought. “Past time.” His stomach growled at him; he dimly recalled eating in some of the inns, but he did not remember what. The fever of the dice had had him by the throat. A hand pushed into the script found only crumbs. “Way past time. Or one of them will come pick me up with her fingers and stick me in her pouch.” He pushed away from the wall and started for the docks, where the ships would be.
At first he thought the faint sounds behind him were echoes of his boots on the cobblestones. Then he realized someone was following him. And trying to be stealthy. Well, these are footpads, for sure.
Hefting the quarterstaff, he briefly considered turning to confront them. But it was dark, and the footing on cobblestones uncertain, and he had no idea how many there were. Just because you did well against Gawyn and Galad doesn't make you a bloody hero out of a story.
He turned down a narrower, twisting side street, trying to walk on tiptoe and move quickly at the same time. Every window was dark here, and most shuttered. He was almost to the end when he saw movement ahead, two men peering into the side street from where it let out onto another. And he heard slow footsteps behind him, soft scrapes of boot leather on stone.
In an instant he ducked into the shadowy corner where one building stuck out further than the next. It seemed the best he could do for the moment. Gripping the quarterstaff nervously, he waited.