Before long, they were making dust along the road. Thom stepped up beside Mat, watching the riders. “Sweetbuns?”

“Tradition among us Two Rivers folk.”

“Never heard of that tradition.”

“It’s very obscure.”

“Ah, I see. And what did you do to those buns?”

“Sprinklewort,” Mat said. “It’ll turn her mouth blue for a week, maybe two. And she won’t share the sweetbuns with anyone, except maybe her Warders. Joline is addicted to the things. She must have eaten seven or eight bags’ worth since we got to Caemlyn.”

“Nice,” Thom said, knuckling his mustache. “Childish, though.”

“I’m trying to get back to my basic roots,” Mat said. “You know, recapture some of my lost youth.”

“You’re barely twenty winters old!”

“Sure, but I did a lot of living when I was younger. Come on. Mistress Anan is staying, and that gives me an idea.”

“You need a shave, Matrim Cauthon.” Mistress Anan folded her arms as she regarded him.

He reached up, touching his face. Lopin had always done that, each morning. The man got as sulky as a dog in the rain when Mat did not let him do such things, though lately Mat had been growing out his beard to avoid notice. It still itched like a week-old scab.

He had found Setalle at the supply tents, overseeing the midday meal. Soldiers from the Band hunkered down, chopping vegetables and stewing beans with the furtive expression of men who had been given firm instructions. Setalle was not needed here; the Band’s cooks had always been able to prepare meals without her. But there was nothing a woman liked better than finding men who were relaxing, then giving them orders. Besides, Setalle was a former innkeeper and—remarkably—a former Aes Sedai. Mat often found her supervising things that did not need supervising.

Not for the first time, he wished Tuon were still traveling with him. Setalle had usually taken Tuon’s side, but staying with the Daughter of the Nine Moons had often kept her busy. Nothing was more dangerous for the sanity of men than a woman with too much time on her hands.

Setalle still wore clothing of the Ebou Dari style, which Mat found pleasant, considering the plunging neckline. That kind of outfit worked particularly well on a woman as buxom as Setalle. Not that he noticed. She had golden hoops in her ears, a stately demeanor and gray in her hair. The jeweled wedding knife worn around her neck seemed something of a warning, the way it nestled in her cleavage. Not that Mat noticed that, either.

“I’ve been growing the beard intentionally,” Mat said to her statement. “I want to—”

“Your coat is dirty,” she said, nodding to a soldier who brought her some onions he had peeled. He sheepishly poured them into a pot, not looking at Mat. “And your hair a mess. You look like you’ve been in a brawl, and it’s not yet noon.”

“I’m fine,” Mat said. “I’ll clean up later. You didn’t go with the Aes Sedai.”