Soil crunching underfoot warned him, and he spun swinging the spear with a snarl. Barely in time he stopped the slashing blade, as Olver screamed and fell flat on his back, staring wide-eyed at the spearpoint.

“What in the bloody Pit of Doom are you doing here?” Mat snapped.

“I . . . I. . . .” The boy stopped to swallow. “They say fifty Aiel tried to kill you in your sleep, Lord Mat, but you killed them first, and I wanted to see if you were all right, and. . . . Lord Edorion bought me some shoes. See?” He raised a shod foot.

Muttering under his breath, Mat hauled Olver to his feet. “That wasn’t what I meant. Why aren’t you in Maerone? Didn’t Edorion find somebody to look after you?”

“She just wanted Lord Edorion’s coin, not me. She had six children of her own. Master Burdin gives me lots to eat, and all I have to do is feed and water his horses, and rub them down. I like that, Lord Mat. He will not let me ride them, though.”

A throat cleared. “Lord Talmanes sent me, my Lord.” Nerim was short even for a Cairhienin, a skinny gray-haired man with a long face that seemed to say nothing was going well at the moment and in the long run, this was a better day than most. “If my Lord will pardon me for saying, those bloodstains will never come out of my Lord’s smallclothes, but if my Lord will allow it, I may be able to do something for the tears in my Lord.” He had his sewing box under one arm. “You, boy, fetch some water. No back talk. Water for my Lord, and quickly.” Nerim combined picking up the lantern with a bow. “If my Lord will step inside? Night air is bad for wounds.”

In short order Mat was stretched out beside his bedding—“My Lord will not want to stain his blankets”—letting Nerim wash away dried blood and sew him up. Talmanes was right; as a seamstress, the man was a ham-fisted cook. With Olver there, there was no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.

To try taking his mind elsewhere than Nerim’s needle, Mat pointed to the frayed cloth scrip hanging from Olver’s shoulder. “What do you have in there?” he panted.

Olver clutched the tattered bag to his chest. He was certainly cleaner than he had been, if no prettier. The shoes appeared stout, and his woolen shirt and breeches looked new. “It is mine,” he said defensively. “I did not steal anything.” After a moment, he opened the bag and began laying things out. A spare pair of breeches, two more shirts and some stockings had no interest for him, but he listed the other things. “This is my redhawk’s feather, Lord Mat, and this stone is just the color of the sun. See?” He added a small purse. “I have five coppers and a silver penny.” A rolled cloth tied with a string and a small wooden box. “My game of Snakes and Foxes; my father made it for me; he drew the board.” For a moment his face crumpled, then he went on. “And see, this stone has a fish head in it. I do not know how it got there. And this is my turtle shell. A blue-back turtle. See the stripes?”