A grayhaired man came up the wharf three lines of hemp rope sewn down the sleeves of his dark coat marked him as a dockmaster. His wide shoulders suggested that he might have begun as a dockman hauling rope instead of wearing it. He glanced casually in Mat's direction, and stopped, surprise on his leathery face. “Your bundles say what you're planning, lad, but you might as well forget it. The sister showed me a drawing of you. You'll board no ship in Southharbor, lad. Go back up those stairs so I don't have to tell a man off to watch you.”
“What under the Light...?” Thom murmured.
“That's all changed,” Mat said firmly. The ship was casting off the last mooring line; the furled triangular sails still made thick, pale bundles on the long, slanted booms, but men were readying the sweeps. He pulled the Amyrlin's paper out of his pouch and thrust it in the dockmaster's face. “As you can see, I'm on the business of the Tower, at the order of the Amyrlin Seat herself. And I have to leave on that very vessel there.”
The dockmaster read the words, then read them again. “I never saw such a thing in my life. Why would the Tower say you couldn't go, then give you... that?”
“Ask the Amyrlin, if you want,” Mat told him in a weary voice that said he did not think anyone could possibly be stupid enough to do that, “but she'll have my hide, and yours, if I do not sail on that ship.”
“You'll never make it,” the dockmaster said, but he was already cupping his hands to his mouth. “Aboard the Gray Gull there! Stop! The Light burn you, stop!”
The shirtless fellow at the tiller looked back, then spoke to a tall companion in a dark coat with puffy sleeves. The tall man never took his eyes off the crewmen just dipping the sweeps into the water. “Give way together,” he called, and sweepblades curled up froth.
“I'll make it,” Mat snapped. The first ship I said, and the first ship I meant! “Come on, Thom!”
Without waiting to see if the gleeman followed, he ran down the wharf, dodging around men and barrows stacked with cargo. The gap between the Gray Gull's stern and the wharf widened as the sweeps bit deeper. Hefting his quarterstaff, he hurled it ahead of him toward the ship like a spear, took one more step, and jumped as hard as he could.
The dark water passing beneath his feet looked icy, but in a heartbeat he had cleared the ship's rail and was rolling across the deck.. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard a grunt and a curse behind him.
Thom Merrilin hoisted himself up on the railing with another curse, and climbed over onto the deck. “I lost my stick,” he muttered. “I'll want another.” Rubbing his right leg, he peered down at the still widening strip of water behind the vessel and shivered. “I had a bath today already.” The shirtless steersman stared wideeyed from him to Mat and back again, clutching the tiller as if wondering whether he could use it to defend himself from madmen.
The tall man seemed nearly as stunned. His pale blue eyes bulged, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His dark beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with rage, and his narrow face grew purple. “By the Stone!” he bellowed finally. “What is the meaning of this? I've no room on this vessel for as much as a ship's cat, and I'd not take vagabonds who leap onto my decks if I did. Sanor! Vasa! Heave this rubbish over the side!” Two extremely large men, barefoot and stripped to the waist, straightened from coiling lines and started toward the stern. The men at the sweeps continued their work, bending to lift the blades, taking three long steps along the deck, then straightening and walking backwards, hauling the ship ahead on their blades.
Mat waved the Amyrlin's paper toward the bearded man — the captain, he supposed — with one hand, and fished a gold crown out of his pouch with the other, taking care even in his haste that the fellow saw there were more where that came from. Tossing the heavy coin to the man, he spoke quickly, still waving the paper. “For the inconvenience of our boarding as we did, Captain. More to come for passage. On business of the White Tower. Personal command of the Amyrlin Seat. Imperative we sail immediately. To Aringill, in Andor. Utmost urgency. The blessings of the White Tower on all who aid us; the Tower's wrath on any who impede us.”
Certain the man had seen the Flame of Tar Valon seal by that time — and little more, Mat hoped — he folded the paper again and thrust it back out of sight. Eyeing the two big men uneasily as they came up on either side of the captain — Burn me, they both have arms like Perrin's! — he wished he had his quarterstaff in hand. He could see it lying where it had landed, further down the deck. He tried to look sure and confident, the sort of man others had better not trifle with, a man with the power of the White Tower behind him. A long way behind me, I hope.
The captain looked at Mat doubtfully, and even more so at Thom in his gleeman's cloak and none too steady afoot, but he motioned Sanor and Vasa to stop where they were. “I would not anger the Tower. Burn my soul, for the time being the river trade takes me from Tear to this den of... I come too often to anger... anyone.” A tight smile appeared on his face. “But I spoke the truth. By the Stone, I did! Six cabins I have for passengers, and all full. You can sleep on deck and eat with the crew for another gold crown. Each.”
“That is ridiculous!” Thom snapped. “I don't care what the war has done downriver, that is ridiculous!” The two large sailors shifted their bare feet.
“It is the price,” the captain said firmly. “I do not want to anger anyone, but I'd as soon not have any business you can be on aboard my vessel. Like letting a man pay you so he can coat you with hot tar, mixing in that business. You pay the price, or you go over the side, and the Amyrlin Seat herself can dry you off. And I'll keep this for the trouble you've given me, thank you.” He stuffed the gold crown Mat has tossed him into a pocket of his puffysleeved coat.
“How much for one of the cabins?” Mat asked. “To ourselves. You can put whoever is in it now with someone else.” He did not want to sleep out in the cold night. And if you don't overwhelm a fellow like this, he'll steal your breeches and say he is doing you a favor. His stomach rumbled loudly. “And we eat what you eat, not with the crew. And plenty of it!”
“Mat,” Thom said, “I'm the one who is supposed to be drunk here.” He turned to the captain, flourishing his patchcovered cloak as well as he could with blanketroll and instrument cases hung about him. “As you may have noticed, Captain, I am a gleeman.” Even in the open air, his voice suddenly seemed to echo. “For the price of our passages, I would be more than glad to entertain your passengers a