The Dragon Reborn - By Robert Jordan Page 0,216

look of a squadman, an experienced leader of ten or so. Squinting into the setting sun, he reminded Mat of Uno, though he had both his eyes. He looked almost as tired as the people he was chivying. “Move along,” he was shouting in a hoarse voice. “You can’t bloody stay here. Move along. Into the town with you.”

Mat stationed himself squarely in front of the soldier and put on a smile. “Your pardon, Captain, but can you tell me where I might find a decent inn? And a stable with good horses to sell. We have a long way to go, come morning.”

The soldier eyed him up and down, examined Thom and his gleeman’s cloak, then shifted back to Mat. “Captain, is it? Well, boy, you’ll have the Dark One’s own luck if you find a stable to sleep in. Most of this lot are sleeping under hedges. And if you find a horse that hasn’t been slaughtered for cooking, you’ll likely have to fight the man who owns it to make him sell.”

“Eating horse!” Thom muttered disgustedly. “Has it really become that bad on this side of the river? Isn’t the Queen sending food?”

“It is bad, gleeman.” The soldier looked as if he wanted to spit. “They’re crossing over faster than the mills can grind flour, or wagons carry foodstuffs from the farms. Well, it will not last much longer. The order has come down. Tomorrow, we stop letting anyone across, and if they try, we send them back.” He scowled at the people milling on the dock as if it were all their fault, then brought the same hard look to bear on Mat. “You are taking up space, traveler. Move along.” His voice rose to a shout again, directed at everyone within hearing. “Move along! You cannot bloody stay here! Move along!”

Mat and Thom joined the thin stream of people, carts, and sledges flowing toward the gates in the town wall, and into Aringill.

The main streets were paved with flat gray stones, but they were crowded with so many people that it was difficult to see the stones under your own boots. Most appeared to be moving aimlessly, with nowhere to go, and those who had given up squatted dejectedly along the sides of the street, the lucky ones with bundled belongings in front of them or some cherished possession clutched in their arms. Mat saw three men holding clocks, and a dozen or more with silver goblets or platters. The women held children to their breasts, mainly. A babble filled the air, a low, wordless hum of worry. He pushed through the crowd with a frown on his face, searching for the sign that would mark an inn. The buildings were every sort, wood and brick and stone all cheek by jowl, with roofs of tile, or slate, or thatch.

“It does not sound like Morgase,” Thom said after a time, half to himself. His bushy eyebrows were pulled down like a white arrow pointing to his nose.

“What does not sound like her?” Mat asked absently.

“Stopping the crossings. Sending people back. She always had a temper like lightning, but she always had a soft heart, too, for anyone poor or hungry.” He shook his head.

Mat saw a sign, then—The Riverman, it said, and showed a barefoot, shirtless fellow doing a jig—and turned that way, forcing an angle across the flow with the quarterstaff. “Well, it had to be her. Who else could it be? Forget Morgase, Thom. We’ve a long way to Caemlyn, yet. First let us see how much gold it takes to buy a bed for the night.”

The common room of The Riverman looked as crowded as the street outside, and when the innkeeper heard what Mat wanted, he laughed till his chins shook. “I am sleeping four to a bed, now. If my own mother came to me, I could not give her a blanket by the fire.”

“As you must have noticed,” Thom said, his voice taking on that echoing quality, “I am a gleeman. Surely you can find at least pallets in a corner in return for me entertaining your patrons with stories and juggling, eating of fire, and sleight of hand.” The innkeeper laughed in his face.

As Mat pulled him back into the street, Thom growled in his normal voice, “You never gave me a chance to ask after his stable. Surely I could have gotten us a place in the hayloft, at least.”

“I have slept in enough stables and barns