Wincing at a particularly hard thrust of the sewing needle, Mat stretched his hand to finger the rolled cloth. Much better if he breathed through his nose. It was odd how those holes in his real memories worked; he could remember how to play Snakes and Foxes, but not ever playing it. “That’s a fine turtle shell, Olver. I had one, once. A green basker.” Stretching his hand the other way, he reached his own purse; he dipped out two gold Cairhienin crowns. “Add these to your purse, Olver. A man needs a little gold in his pocket.”

Stiffly Olver began stuffing things back into his scrip. “I do not beg, Lord Mat. I can work for my supper. I am not a beggar.”

“Never meant to say you are.” Mat cast around hurriedly for some reason to pay the boy two crowns. “I . . . I need someone to carry messages for me. Can’t ask any of the Band; they are all busy soldiering. Of course, you’d have to take care of your own horse. I could not ask anybody to do it for you.”

Olver sat up straight. “I would have my own horse?” he said incredulously.

“Of course. There is one thing. My name is Mat. You call me Lord Mat again, and I’ll tie your nose in a knot.” Bellowing, he jerked half-upright. “Burn you, Nerim, that’s a leg, not a bloody side of beef!”

“As my Lord says,” Nerim murmured, “my Lord’s leg is not a side of beef. Thank you, my Lord, for instructing me.”

Olver was feeling his nose hesitantly, as if considering whether it could be tied in a knot.

Mat settled back with a groan. Now he had saddled himself with a boy, and had done the lad no favor—not if he was nearby the next time the Forsaken tried to reduce the number of ta’veren in the world. Well, if Rand’s plan worked, there would be one less Forsaken. If Mat Cauthon had his way, he intended to stay out of trouble and out of danger until there were no Forsaken.

CHAPTER
23

To Understand a Message

Graendal managed not to stare as she entered the room, but her streith gown went dead black before she could control herself and return it to a blue mist. Sammael had done enough to make anyone doubt that this chamber was in the Great Hall of the Council in Illian. But then, she would be very surprised if anyone but he ever penetrated this far uninvited into “Lord Brend’s” apartments.

The air was pleasantly cool; in one corner rose the hollow cylinder of an exchanger. Glowbulbs, bright and steady, stood oddly in heavy gold candleholders, giving much better illumination than candles or oil lamps ever could. A small music box sat on the marble mantelpiece, producing from its memory the soft strains of a sound-sculpture that very likely had not been heard outside this room in well over three thousand years. And she recognized several of the artworks on the walls.