Fool, he thought, meaning the fat officer, then added another for himself. All I had to do was say her bloody name in the beginning. “Elayne, the DaughterHeir of Andor, sends this letter to her mother, Queen Morgase.” Light, who could have thought they'd think that way about Tar Valon. From what he remembered of his last visit, Aes Sedai and the White Tower had been close behind Queen Morgase in the Guards' affections. Burn her, Elayne could have told me. Reluctantly, he added, I could have asked questions, too.
Before he reached the arched gates that let out into the New City, he slowed to a walk. He did not think the Guards from the Palace could still be chasing him, and there was no point in attracting the eyes of those at the gate by galloping through, but they looked at him no more now than when he had first entered.
As he rode under the broad arch, he smiled and almost turned back. He had suddenly remembered something, and had an idea that appealed to him a good deal more than walking through the Palace gates. Even if that fat officer had not been watching the gates, he thought he would like it better.
He became lost twice while searching for The Queen's Blessing, but at last he found the sign with a man kneeling before a woman with redgold hair and a crown of golden roses, her hand on his head. It was a broad stone building of three stories, with tall windows even up under the red roof tiles. He rode around back to the stableyard, where a horsefaced fellow, in a leather vest that could hardly be any tougher than his skin, took his horse's reins. He thought he remembered the fellow. Yes. Ramey.
“It has been a long time, Ramey.” Mat tossed him a silver mark. “You remember me, don't you?”
“Can't say as I...” Ramey began, then caught the shine of silver where he had expected copper; he coughed, and his short nod turned into something that combined a knuckled forehead with a jerky bow. “Why, of course I do, young master. Forgive me. Slipped my mind. Mind no good for people. Good for horses. I know horses, I do. A fine animal, young master. I'll take good care of him, you can be sure.” He delivered it all quickly, with no room for Mat to say a word, then hurried the gelding into the stable before he might have to come up with Mat's name.
With a sour grimace, Mat put the fat roll of fireworks under his arm and shouldered the rest of his belongings. Fellow couldn't tell me from Hawkwing's toenails. A bulky, muscular man was sitting on an upturned barrel beside the door to the kitchen, gently scratching the ear of a blackandwhite cat crouched on his knee. The man studied Mat with heavylidded eyes, especially the quarterstaff across his shoulder, but he never stopped his scratching. Mat thought he remembered him, but he could not bring up a name. He said nothing as he went through the door, and neither did the man. No reason they should remember me. Probably have bloody Aes Sedai coming for people every day.
In the kitchen, two undercooks and three scullions were darting between stoves and roasting spits under the direction of a round woman with her hair in a bun and a long wooden spoon that she used to point out what she wanted done. Mat was sure he remembered the round woman. Coline, and what a name for a woman that wide, but everybody called her Cook.
“Well, Cook,” he announced, “I am back, and not a year since I left.”
She peered at him a moment, then nodded. “I remember you.” He began to grin. “You were with that young prince, weren't you?” she went on. “The one who looked so like Tigraine, the Light illumine her memory. You're his serving man, aren't you? Is he coming back, then, the young prince?”
“No,” he said curtly. A prince! Light! “I do not think he will be anytime soon, and I don't think you would like it if he did.” She protested, saying what a fine, handsome young man the prince was — Burn me, it there a woman anywhere who doesn't moon over Rand and make calfeyes if you mention his bloody name? She'd bloody scream if she knew what he is doing now — but he refused to let her get it out. “Is Master Gill about? And Thom Merrilin?”
“In the library,” she said with a tight sniff. “You tell Basel Gill when you see him that I said those drains need cleaning. Today, mind.” She caught sight of something one of the undercooks was doing to a beef roast and waddled over to her. “Not so much, child. You will make the meat too sweet if you put so much arrath on it.” She seemed to have forgotten Mat already.
He shook his head as he went in search of this library he could not remember. He could not remember that Coline was married to Master Gill, either, but if he had ever heard a goodwife send instructions to her husband, that had been it. A pretty serving girl with big eyes giggled and directed him down a hall beside the common room.
When he stepped into the library, he stopped and stared. There had to be more than three hundred books on the shelves built on the walls, and more lying on tables; he had never seen so many books in one place in his life. He noticed a leatherbound copy of The Travels of Jaim Farstrider on a small table near the door. He had always meant to read that — Rand and Perrin had always been telling him things out of it — but he never did seem to get around to reading the books he meant to read.
Pinkfaced Basel Gill and Thom Merrilin were seated at one of the tables, facing each other across a stones board, pipes in their teeth trailing thin blue streamers of tabac smoke. A calico cat sat on the table beside a wooden dice cup, her tail curled over her feet, watching them play. The gleeman's cloak was nowhere in sight, so Mat supposed he had already gotten a room.
“You're done sooner than I expected, boy,” Thom said around his pipestem. He tugged one long, white mustache as he considered where to place his next stone on the board's crosshatchings. “Basel, you remember Mat Cauthon.”
“I remember,” the fat innkeeper said, peering at the board. “Sickly, the last time you were here, I recall. I hope you are better now, lad.”
“I am better,” Mat said. “Is that all you remember? That I was sick?”
Master Gill winced at Thom's move and took his pipe out of his mouth. “Considering who you left with, lad, and considering the way things are now, maybe it's best I remember no more than that.”
“Aes Sedai not in such good odor now, are they?” Mat set his things in one big armchair, the quarterstaff propped against the back, and himself in another with one leg swinging over the arm. “The Guards at the Palace seemed to think the White Tower had stolen Elayne.” Thom eyed the roll of fireworks uneasily, looked at his smoking pipe, and muttered to himself before going back