“I see…. So you’re using boots as a metaphor for the onus of responsibility and decision placed upon the aristocracy as they assume leadership of complex political and social positions.”

“Metaphor for….” Mat scowled. “Bloody ashes, woman. This isn’t a metaphor for anything! It’s just boots.”

Setalle shook her head. “You’re an unconventionally wise man, Matrim Cauthon.”

“I try my best,” he noted, reaching for the pitcher of mulled cider. “To be unconventional, I mean.” He poured a cup and lifted it in her direction. She accepted graciously and drank, then stood. “I will leave you to your own amusements, then, Master Cauthon. But if you have made any progress on that gateway for me….”

“Elayne said she would have one for you soon. In a day or two. Once I’m back from the errand I have to run with Thom and Noal, I’ll see it done.”

She nodded in understanding. If he did not return from that “errand,” she would see to Olver. She turned to leave. Mat waited until she was gone before taking a slurp of the cider straight from the pitcher. He had been doing that all evening, but he figured she would probably rather not know. It was the sort of thing women were better off not thinking about.

He turned back to his reports, but soon found his mind wandering to the Tower of Ghenjei, and those bloody snakes and foxes. Birgitte’s comments had been enlightening, but not particularly encouraging. Two months? Two bloody months spent wandering those hallways? That was a mighty, steaming bowl of worry, served up like afternoon slop. Beyond that, she had taken fire, music, and iron. Breaking the rules was not so original an idea.

He was not surprised. Likely, the day the Light made the very first man, and that man had made the first rule, someone else had thought to break it. People like Elayne made up rules to suit them. People like Mat found ways to get around the stupid rules.

Unfortunately, Birgitte—one of the legendary Heroes of the Horn—had not been able to defeat the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. That was disconcerting.

Well, Mat had something she had not had. His luck. He sat thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. One of his soldiers passed by. Clintock saluted; the Redarm checked on Mat every half-hour. They still had not gotten over the shame of letting the gholam sneak into camp.

He picked up Verin’s letter again, feeling it over in his fingers. The worn corners, the smudges of dirt on the once-white paper. He tapped it against the wood.

Then he tossed it onto the desk. No. No, he was not going to open it, even when he got back. That was that. He would never know what was in it, and he bloody did not care.

He stood up and went looking for Thom and Noal. Tomorrow, they would leave for the Tower of Ghenjei.