The great hunt - By Robert Jordan Page 0,198

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 court-bard 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 gold-and-silver 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 gold-and-silver 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 weren’t fool enough to try keeping it tuned,” he muttered. “Could have ruined it.”

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