The Wheel of Time, page 1075
Mandevwin scratched his head. His hair was streaked with gray. “Aren’t I a little old to be an apprentice, though?”
“Nonsense,” Mat said. “You’re young at heart, and since you never married—the only woman you ever loved ran away with the tanner’s son—Thom’s arrival offered you an opportunity to start fresh.”
“But I don’t want to leave my great-aunt,” Mandevwin protested. “She’s cared for me since I was a child! It’s not honest of a man to abandon an elderly woman just because she gets a little confused.”
“There is no great-aunt,” Mat said with exasperation. “This is just a legend, a story to go with your false name.”
“Can’t I have a story that makes me more honorable?” Mandevwin asked.
“Too late,” Mat said, rifling through a stack on his desk, searching out a cluster of five pages covered in scrawled handwriting. “You can’t change now. I spent half the night working on your story. It’s the best out of the lot. Here, memorize this.” He handed it over to Mandevwin, then got out another stack of papers and began looking through them.
“Are you sure we’re not taking this a little too far, lad?” Thom asked.
“I’m not going to be surprised again, Thom,” Mat said. “Burn me, but I’m not going to let it happen. I’m tired of walking into traps unprepared. I plan to take command of my own destiny, stop running from problem to problem. It’s time to be in charge.”
“And you do that with . . .” Julin said.
“Elaborate aliases with backstories,” Mat said, handing Thom and Noal their sheets. “Bloody right I do.”
“What about me?” Talmanes asked. That twinkle to his eyes was back, though he spoke with a completely earnest voice. “Let me guess, Mat. I’m a traveling merchant who once trained with the Aiel and who has come to the village because he’s heard there’s a trout that lives in the lake who insulted his father.”
“Nonsense,” Mat said, handing him his sheets. “You’re a Warder.”
“That’s rather suspicious,” Talmanes noted.
“You’re supposed to be suspicious,” Mat said. “It’s always easier to beat a man in cards when he’s thinking about something else. Well, you’ll be our ‘something else.’ A Warder passing through town on mysterious business won’t be so grand an event that it will draw too much attention, but to those who know what to look for, it will be a good distraction. You can use Fen’s cloak. He said he’d let me borrow it; he still feels guilty for letting those serving women get away.”
“Of course, you didn’t tell him that they simply vanished,” Thom added. “And that there was no way for him to keep it from happening.”
“Didn’t see the point of telling him,” Mat said. “No use dwelling on the past, I say.”
“A Warder, is it?” Talmanes said, flipping through his stack of papers. “I’ll have to practice scowling.”
Mat regarded him with a flat expression. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“What did you ask? Is there someone who is taking this seriously?” Burn that twinkle. Had Mat really ever thought this man was slow to laugh? He just did it on the inside. That was the most infuriating way.
“Light, Talmanes,” Mat said. “A woman in that town is looking for Perrin and me. She knows what we look like so well that she can produce a drawing more accurate than my own mother could have made. That gives me a chill, like the Dark One himself standing over my shoulder. And I can’t go into the flaming place myself, since every bloody man, woman and child has a picture with my face on it and a promise of gold for information!
“Now maybe I went a little far with the preparations, but I intend to find this person before they can order a flock of Darkfriends—or worse—to cut my throat in the night. Understood?”
Mat looked each of the five men in the eyes, nodded, and started toward the tent flap, but paused beside Talmanes’s chair. Mat cleared his throat, then half mumbled, “You secretly harbor a love of painting, and you wish you could escape this life of death you’ve committed yourself to. You came through Trustair on your way south, rather than taking a more direct route, because you love the mountains. You’re hoping to hear word of your younger brother, whom you haven’t seen in years, and who disappeared on a hunting trip in southern Andor. You have a very tortured past. Read page four.”
Mat hurried on, pushing his way out into the shaded noon, though he did catch a glimpse of Talmanes rolling his eyes. Burn the man! There was good drama in those pages!
Through the pine trees he could see that the sky was cloudy. Again. When was that going to end? Mat shook his head as he walked through camp, nodding to the groups of soldiers who offered him salutes or calls of greeting to “Lord Mat.” The Band were staying here for the day—camped on a secluded, wooded hillside a half-day march from the town—while they made final preparations for the assault. The three-needle pines here were tall, and their limbs spread wide, the shade keeping underbrush to a minimum. Tents clustered in groups around the pines, and the air was cool and shaded, smelling of sap and loam.
He went about the camp, checking into the workings of his men and seeing that everything was being handled efficiently. Those old memories, the ones that the Eelfinn had given him, had begun to blend so evenly with his own that he could hardly tell which instincts came from them and which were his own.
It was good to be among the Band again; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them. It would be nice to reunite with the rest of the men, the troops led by Estean and Daerid. Hopefully, they’d had an easier time of it than Mat’s force had.
The cavalry banners came first in his rounds. They were separate from the rest of the camp—horsemen always considered themselves superior to foot. Today, as all too often, the men were worried about feed for their horses. To a good cavalryman, his horse always came first. Their trip from Hinderstap had been hard on the animals, particularly since there wasn’t much to graze on. Little was growing this spring, and the winter’s leavings were strangely sparse. Horses would refuse patches of thatch, almost as if it had gone bad, like other food stores. They didn’t have much grain; they had hoped to live off the land, as they were moving too quickly for grain wagons.
Well, he’d just have to find something to do about that. Mat assured the cavalrymen he was working on the problem, and they took him at his word. Lord Mat hadn’t let them down yet. Of course, the ones he had let down were rotting in their graves. He denied a request to fly the banner. Perhaps after the raid on Trustair.
He didn’t have any true foot with him at the moment; they were all with Estean and Daerid. Talmanes had wisely understood that they’d need mobility, and had brought the three banners of horse and nearly four thousand mounted crossbowmen. Mat checked on the crossbowmen next, pausing to watch a couple of squads drilling in firing ranks at the back of the camp.
Mat stopped beside a tall pine, its lowest branches a good two feet above his head, leaning against the trunk. The line of crossbowmen weren’t practicing their aim so much as their coordination. You didn’t really aim in most battles, which was why the crossbows worked so well. They required a tenth the training of a longbow. Sure, the latter could fire faster and farther, but if you didn’t have a lifetime to spare practicing, then these crossbows were a fine substitute.
Besides, the crossbow reloading process made it easier to train the ranks to fire together. The squad’s captain stood on the far side, slapping a rod against the side of a tree once every two seconds to give a beat. Each crack of the wood was an order. Raise crossbows to the shoulder on the first. Fire on the second. Lower on the third. Crank on the fourth. Up to the shoulder again on the fifth. The men were getting good—firing in coordinated waves made for more consistent killing. Each fourth crack let loose a wave of bolts into the trees.
We’ll need more of those, Mat thought, noticing how many of the bolts splintered during the training shots. You wasted more ammunition practicing than you did fighting, but each bolt now could be worth two or three in combat. The men were getting good indeed. If he’d had a few banners worth of these when he’d fought at Bloodwash Falls, perhaps Nashif would have learned his lesson a lot sooner.
Of course, they’d be more useful if they could fire faster. The cranking was the slow point. Not the turn of the crank itself, but the necessity of lowering the crossbow each time. It cost four seconds just to move the weapon about. These new cranks and boxes that Talmanes had learned to make from that mechanic in Murandy sped things up greatly. But the mechanic had been on his way to sell the cranks in Caemlyn, and who knew who else had bought them along the way? Before too long, everyone might have them. An advantage was negated if both you and your enemies had it.
Those boxes had given a lot to Mat’s success in Altara against the Seanchan. He was loath to surrender the advantage. Could he find a way to make the bows fire even faster?
Thoughtful, he checked on a few more things in the camp—the Altarans they’d recruited into the Band were settling in well, and other than feed for the horses and perhaps crossbow bolts, supplies looked good. Satisfied, he went looking for Aludra.
She had established herself near the back of the camp, alongside a little cleft in the rocky hillside. Though this spot was much smaller than the glade of trees the Aes Sedai and their attendants used, it was noticeably more secluded. Mat had to weave around three separate cloth sheets hanging between trees—placed carefully to block any view into Aludra’s workspace—before he reached her. And he had to stop when Bayle Domon held out a hand, holding Mat back until Aludra gave leave for him to enter.
The slender, dark-haired Illuminator sat on a stump in the center of her little camp, powders, rolls of paper, a writing board for notes and tools neatly arranged on strips of cloth on the ground around her. She no longer wore her braids, and her long hair fell loose around her shoulders. That made her look odd to Mat. Still pretty, though.
Burn it, Mat. You’re married now, he told himself. Aludra was pretty, though.
Egeanin was there, holding a nightflower shell upright for Aludra to work on. Aludra’s full-lipped face frowned in concentration as she tapped lightly on the shell. Egeanin’s dark hair was growing out, making her look less and less like one of the Seanchan nobility. Mat still had trouble trying to decide what to call the woman. She wanted to be known as Leilwin, and sometimes he thought of her like that. It was foolish to go about changing your name just because someone said you had to, but he didn’t really blame her for not wanting to rile Tuon. She was a bloody stubborn one, Tuon was. He found himself glancing to the south again, but caught himself. Blood and ashes! She’d be just fine.
Anyway, Tuon was gone now. So why did Egeanin continue the charade of calling herself Leilwin? Mat had actually called her by her old name once or twice after Tuon’s departure, but had received a curt reprimand. Women! They made no sense, and Seanchan women least of all.
Mat glanced at Bayle Domon. The muscular, bearded Illianer leaned against a tree near the entrance to Aludra’s camp, two flapping white sheets of cloth extending in either direction near him. He still held out a warning hand. As if this entire camp weren’t Mat’s in the first place!
Mat didn’t push his way past, though. He couldn’t afford to offend Aludra. She was flaming close to being done with those dragon designs of hers, and he meant to have those. But Light, if it didn’t smart to have to pass a checkpoint in his own camp!
Aludra looked up from her work, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She noted Mat, then looked back to her nightflower and began tapping with the hammer again. Bloody ashes! Seeing that reminded him why he visited Aludra so infrequently. The checkpoint was bad enough, but did the woman have to pound on something explosive with a hammer? Had she no sense at all? The entire lot of Illuminators were that way, though. Short a few foals of a full herd, as Mat’s father might say.
“He may enter,” Aludra said. “Thank you, Master Domon.”
“It do be a pleasure, Mistress Aludra,” Bayle said, lowering his hand and nodding amiably to Mat. Mat straightened his coat and walked forward, intent on asking about crossbows. Something immediately caught his eye, however. Spread out on the ground behind Aludra were a series of neat pages with detailed drawings, along with a list of notations with numbers beside them.
“Are these the plans for the dragons?” Mat asked eagerly. He knelt down on one knee to inspect the sheets, without touching them. Aludra could be particular about that kind of thing.
“Yes.” She was still tapping with her hammer. She eyed him, looking just faintly uncomfortable. Because of Tuon, he suspected.
“And these figures?” Mat tried to ignore the awkwardness.
“Supply requirements,” she said. She put down her hammer and inspected the cylindrical nightflower from all sides. She nodded to Leilwin.
Bloody ashes, but the figures were large! A mountain of charcoal, sulphur and . . . bat guano? The notes claimed there was a city specializing in producing it over in the northern reaches of the Mountains of Mist. What city specialized in gathering bat guano, of all things? There were requirements for copper and tin as well, though for some reason there were no numbers beside those. Just a little star notation.
Mat shook his head. How would the common people react if they knew that the majestic nightflowers were just a paper, powder and—of all things—bat dung? No wonder Illuminators were so secretive with their craft. It wasn’t just about preventing competition. The more you knew about the process, the less wondrous and more ordinary it became.
“This is a lot of material,” Mat said.
“A miracle, that is what you asked me for, Matrim Cauthon,” she replied, handing her nightflower to Leilwin and picking up her writing board. She made some notations on the sheet strapped to the front. “That miracle, I have broken down into a list of ingredients. A feat which is in itself miraculous, yes? Do not complain of the heat when someone offers you the sun in the palm of her hands.”
“Doesn’t seem so manageable to me,” Mat muttered, mostly to himself. “Is this figure the costs?”
“I am not a scribe,” Aludra said. “Those are estimates only. The calculations, I have taken them as far as I can go, but the rest will have to be figured by those more proficient. The Dragon Reborn, he can afford such costs.” Leilwin watched Mat with a curious expression. Things had changed with her, too, because of Tuon. But not in the way he’d expected.
Mention of Rand brought the colors swirling into Mat’s vision, and he suppressed a sigh as he shook them away. Maybe Rand could manage costs like these, but Mat certainly couldn’t. Why, he’d have to dice with the queen of Andor herself to find this kind of coin!
But that was Rand’s problem. Burn him, he’d better appreciate what Mat was going through for him. “This doesn’t include a manpower estimate,” Mat noticed, scanning the sheets again. “How many bellfounders are you going to need for this project?”
“Every one you can get,” Aludra said curtly. “Is that not what you promised me? Every bellfounder from Andor to Tear.”
“I suppose,” Mat said. He hadn’t actually expected her to take him literally on that. “What about copper and tin? You don’t have an estimate of those.”
“I need all of it.”
“All of. . . . What do you mean, all of it?”
“All of it,” she repeated, as simply and calmly as if she were asking for more cloudberry jam for her porridge. “Every scrap of copper and tin you can scrounge up this side of the Spine of the World.” She paused. “Perhaps that does seem too ambitious.”
“Bloody right it’s ambitious,” Mat muttered.
“Yes,” Aludra said. “Let us assume the Dragon has control of Caemlyn, Cairhien, Illian and Tear. If he were to provide me with access to each and every mine and metal store of copper and tin in those four cities, I suppose it would be sufficient.”
“Every metal store,” Mat said flatly.
“Yes.”
“In four of the world’s largest cities.”
“Yes.”
“And you ‘suppose’ that would be sufficient.”
“I believe that is what I said, Matrim Cauthon.”
“Great. I’ll see what I can do about that. Would you like the bloody Dark One to come polish your shoes while you’re at it? Maybe we could dig up Artur Hawkwing and get him to do a dance for you.”
Leilwin gave Mat a glare at the mention of Artur Hawkwing. After a moment, Aludra finished her annotations, then turned to regard Mat. She spoke flatly, just vaguely hostile. “My dragons, they will be a great power for a man of war. You claim what I have given you is extravagant. It is only needed.” She eyed him. “I will not lie and say I didn’t expect this dismissiveness from you, Master Cauthon. Pessimism, she is a fond friend of yours, yes?”
“That’s uncalled for,” Mat grumbled, glancing back down at the drawings. “I barely know her. Mere acquaintances, at best. You’ve got my oath on it.”
That earned a snort from Bayle. Whether it was one of amusement or derision was impossible to tell without looking back to judge his face. Mat didn’t glance at him. Aludra was staring at him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Mat realized he’d probably been too curt with her. Maybe he was uncomfortable around her. A little. They’d been getting close before Tuon. And was that pain, hidden in Aludra’s eyes?
“I’m sorry, Aludra,” he said. “I shouldn’t have talked like that.”
She shrugged.
He took a deep breath. “Look, I know that . . . well, it’s odd how Tuon—”
She waved a hand, cutting him off. “It is nothing. I have my dragons. You have brought me the chance to create them. Other matters are no longer of concern. I wish you happiness.”
“Well,” he said. He rubbed his chin, then sighed. Best to just let it pass. “Anyway, I hope I can get this done. You ask for a lot of resources.”
