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?”

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.