Mat groaned. “Blood and bloody ashes! Can’t I go anywhere without—”
He cut off as the man lunged, a dagger flashing in the faint moonlight. Mat cursed, and snapped his scarf in front of him. The dagger hit the cloth instead of Mat’s gut, and Mat quickly twisted his hands, tying the assassin’s dagger in lengths of cloth.
The man yelped, and Mat released the scarf and pulled out a pair of knives, one in each hand, releasing them by reflex. They took the assassin in the eyes. One in each eye. Light! Mat had not been aiming for the eyes.
The man collapsed to the wet paving stones.
Mat stood breathing in and out. “Mother’s milk in a cup! Mother’s bloody milk!” He grabbed his quarterstaff, glancing about him, but the gloomy street was empty. “I rescued you. I rescued you, and you try to stab me?”
Mat knelt down beside the corpse. Then, grimly certain what he would find, he fished in the man’s pouch. He came out with a couple of coins—gold coins—and a folded-up piece of paper. Moonlight revealed Mat’s face on it. He crinkled the paper and shoved it in his pocket.
One in each bloody eye. Better than the man deserved. Mat retied his scarf, grabbed his knives, then walked out onto the street, wishing he had left the assassin to his fate.
Birgitte folded her arms, leaning against a marble pillar and watching as Elayne sat enjoying an evening presentation of “players.” Groups like this—acting out stories—had become very popular in Cairhien, and were now trying to achieve the same success in Andor. One of the palace halls, where bards performed, had been adapted to allow the players to act out their stories.
Birgitte shook her head. What was the good of acting out fake stories? Why not go live a few stories of your own? Besides, she’d prefer a bard any day. Hopefully this fashion of seeing “players” would die quickly.
This particular story was a retelling of the tragic marriage and death of the Princess Walishen, slain by beasts of the Shadow. Birgitte was familiar with the ballad that the players had adapted to form their story. In fact, they sang parts of it during the performance. It was remarkable how little that song had changed over the years. Some different names, a few different notes, but the same overall.
Much like her own lives. Repeated over and over, but with little variations. Sometimes she was a soldier. Sometimes she was a forest woman, with no formal military training. She’d been a general once or twice, unfortunately. She’d rather leave that particular job for someone else.
She’d been a guard, a noble thief, a lady, a peasant, a killer and a savior. But she had never before been a Warder. The unfamiliarity didn’t bother her; in most of her lives, she had no knowledge of what had come before. What she could draw from her previous lives now was a boon, yes, but she had no right to those memories.
That didn’t stop her heart from twisting each time one of those memories faded. Light! If she couldn’t be with Gaidal this time around, couldn’t she at least remember him? It was as if the Pattern didn’t know what to do with her. She’d been forced into this life, shoving other threads aside, taking an unexpected place. The Pattern was trying to weave her in. What would happen when all of the memories faded? Would she remember waking up as an adult with no history? The thought terrified her as no battlefield ever had.
She nodded to one of her Guardswomen, Kaila Bent, who passed by the back row of the makeshift theater and saluted.
“Well?” Birgitte asked, stepping around the corner to speak with Kaila.
“Nothing to report,” Kaila said. “All is well.” She was a lanky firehaired woman, and had taken very easily to wearing the trousers and coat of a Guardswoman. “Or, all is as well as it could be while having to suffer through The Death of Princess Walishen.”
“Stop complaining,” Birgitte said, suppressing a wince as the diva—so the players called her—began a particularly shrill aria—so they called a song by yourself. Why did the players need so many new names for things? “You could be out patrolling in the rain.”
“I could?” Kaila asked, sounding eager. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Maybe I’ll get struck by lightning. That might be preferable.”
Birgitte snorted. “Get back to your rounds.”
Kaila saluted and left. Birgitte tuned back into the theater, leaning against the pillar. Perhaps she should have brought some wax to stuff in her ears. She glanced over at Elayne. The Queen sat with a calm demeanor, watching the play. At times, Birgitte felt more like a nursemaid than a bodyguard. How did you protect a woman who seemed, at times, so determined to see herself dead?
And yet, Elayne was also so very capable. Like tonight; she’d somehow convinced her most bitter rival to attend this play. That was Ellorien sitting over in the eastern row; the woman’s last parting from the palace had been so bitter that Birgitte hadn’t expected her to return unless she was in chains. Yet here she was. It whispered of a political maneuver by Elayne that was thirteen steps more subtle than Birgitte had a mind for.
She shook her head. Elayne was a queen. Volatility and all. She’d be good for Andor. Assuming Birgitte could keep that golden-haired head from being lopped off its neck.
After some time suffering through the singing, Kaila approached again. Birgitte stood up straight, curious at the woman’s quick pace. “What?” she asked quietly.
“You looked bored,” Kaila whispered, “so I thought I’d bring this to you. Disturbance at the Plum Gate.” That was the southeastern entrance to the palace grounds. “Someone tried to sneak through.”
“Another beggar looking for scraps? Or a spy for one of the lordlings, hoping to listen in?”
“I don’t know,” Kaila said. “I heard the news thirdhand from Calison as we passed on patrol. He said the Guardsmen have the intruder in custody at the gate.”
Birgitte glanced to the side. It looked like another solo was about to begin. “You have command here; hold this post and take reports. I’ll go stretch my legs and check on this disturbance.”
“Bring me some wax for my ears when you come back, would you?”
Birgitte chuckled, leaving the theater and stepping into a white-and-red palace hallway. Though she had Guardswomen and men with extra bows at the hallways, Birgitte herself carried a sword, for an assassination attempt would most likely turn to close-quarters fighting.
Birgitte trotted down the hallway, glancing out a window when she passed. The sky leaked a strengthening drizzle. Utterly dreary. Gaidal would have liked this weather. He loved the rain. On occasion, she’d joked that drizzle suited his face better, making him less likely to frighten children. Light, but she missed that man.
The most direct route to the Plum Gate took her through the servants’ quarters. In many palaces, this would have meant entering a section of the building that was more drab, meant for less important people. But this building had been Ogier built, and they had particular views about such things. The marble stonework here was as grand as it was elsewhere, with tiled mosaics of red and white.
The rooms, while small by royal standards, were each large enough to hold an entire family. Birgitte generally preferred to take her meals in the servants’ large, open dining hall. Four separate hearths crackled here in defiance of the dreary night, and off-duty servants and Guards laughed and chatted. Some said you could judge a monarch by the way he treated those who served him. If that were the case, then the Andoran palace had been designed in a way to encourage the best in its queens.
Birgitte reluctantly passed by the inviting scents of food, and instead pushed her way out into the cold summer storm. The chill wasn’t biting. Just uncomfortable. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and crossed the slick paving down to the Plum Gate. The gatehouse was alight with an orange glow, and the Guardsmen on watch stood outside in wet cloaks, halberds held to the side.
Birgitte marched up to the gatehouse, water dripping from the lip of her hood, then pounded on the thick oak door. It opened, revealing the bald-headed, mustached face of Renald Macer, sergeant on duty. A stout man, he had wide hands and a calm temperament. She always thought he should be in a shop somewhere making shoes, but the Guard took all types, and dependability was often more important than skill with the sword.
“Captain-General!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting rained on,” she snapped.
“Oh, my!” He stepped back, making way for her to enter the gatehouse. It had a single crowded room. The soldiers were on storm shift—meaning twice as many men would work the gate as usual, but they would only have to stand outside an hour before rotating with the men warming inside the gatehouse.
Three Guardsmen sat at a table, throwing dice into a dicing box while an open-fronted iron stove consumed logs and warmed tea. Dicing with the four soldiers was a wiry man with a black scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face. His clothing was scruffy, his head topped by a mop of wet brown hair sticking out in all directions. Brown eyes glanced at Birgitte over the top of the scarf, and the man sank down a little in his seat.
Birgitte took off her cloak and shook it free of rainwater. “This is your intruder, I assume?”
“Why, yes,” the sergeant said. “How did you hear about that?”
She eyed the intruder. “He tried to sneak onto the palace grounds, and now you’re dicing with him?”
The sergeant and the other men looked sheepish. “Well, my Lady—”
“I’m no lady.” Not this time at least. “I work for a living.”
“Er, yes,” Macer continued. “Well, he gave up his sword readily, and he doesn’t seem that dangerous. Just another beggar wanting scraps from the kitchens. Right nice fellow. Thought we’d get him warm before sending him out into that weather again.”
“A beggar,” she said. “With a sword?”
Sergeant Macer scratched his head. “I guess that is kind of odd.”
“You could charm the helmet off a general on a battlefield, couldn’t you, Mat?” she said.
“Mat?” the man asked in a familiar voice. “I don’t know what you mean, my good woman. My name is Garard, a simple beggar who has a quite interesting past, if you care to listen to it—”
She eyed him with a firm gaze.
“Oh, bloody ashes, Birgitte,” he complained, taking off the scarf. “I only wanted to get warm for a spell.”
“And win the coin off my men.”
“A friendly game never hurt a man,” Mat said.
“Unless it was against you. Look, why are you sneaking into the palace?”
“It took too much bloody work to get in last time,” Mat said, sitting back in his chair. “Thought I might pass that up this time.”
Sergeant Macer glanced at Birgitte. “You know this man?”
“Unfortunately,” she said. “You can release him to my custody, Sergeant. I’ll see that Master Cauthon is properly taken care of.”
“Master Cauthon?” one of the men said. “You mean the Raven Prince?”