When he entered a place to dice, he drew looks. People watched him as they would watch a cheater—though he never was—or with envy in their eyes. Yes, he had always figured that not being watched would be a grand situation. A cause for real celebration.
Now he had it, and it made him sick.
"You can look at me", Mat protested. "Really. Burn you, it’s all right!"
"My eyes would be lowered", the serving woman said as she piled fabric on the low table against the wall.
"Your eyes are already lowered! They’re staring at the bloody floor, aren’t they? I want you to raise them".
The Seanchan continued her work. She was of fair skin with freckles under her eyes, not too bad to look at, though he was more in favor of darker shades these days. He still would not have minded if this girl showed him a smile. How could he talk to a woman if he could not try to make her smile?
A few other servants entered, eyes downcast, carrying other folds of fabric. Mat stood in what were apparently "his" chambers in the palace. They were more numerous than he would ever need. Perhaps Talmanes and some of the Band could move in with him and keep the place from feeling so empty.
Mat sauntered over to the window. Below, in the Mol Hara, an army organized. It was going to take longer than he wanted. Galgan—Mat had only met the man briefly, and he did not trust the fellow, no matter what Tuon said about his assassins not being intended to succeed—was gathering the Seanchan forces from the borders, but too slowly. He worried about losing Almoth Plain with the withdrawal.
Well, he had better listen to reason. Mat had little reason to like the man already, but if he delayed in this . . .
"Honored One?" the serving girl asked.
Mat turned, raising an eyebrow. Several da’covale had entered with the last of the fabric, and Mat found himself blushing. They hardly wore any clothing at all, and what they did wear was transparent. He could look, though, could he not? They would not wear clothing like that if a man was not supposed to look. What would Tuon think?
She doesn’t own me, Mat thought, determined. I will not be husbandly.
The freckled servant—she was so’jhin, half of her head shaved—gestured toward a person who had entered behind the da’covale, a middle-aged woman with her dark hair in a bun, none of her head shaved. She was squat, shaped kind of like a bell, with a grandmotherly air.
The newcomer inspected him. Finally someone who would look at him! If only her face did not have the expression of one studying horses at the market.
"Black for his new station", the woman said, clapping her hands once. "Green for his heritage. A deep forest, in moderation. Someone bring me a variety of eyepatches, and someone else burn that hat".
"What?" Mat exclaimed. Servants swarmed around him, picking at his clothing. "Wait, now. What is this?"
"Your new regalia, Honored One", the woman said. "I am Nata, and I will be your personal tailor".
"You aren’t burning my hat", Mat said. "Try, and we’ll bloody well see if you can fly from four stories up. Do you understand me?"
The woman hesitated. "Yes, Honored One. Do not burn his clothing. Keep it safe, should it be needed". She seemed doubtful it ever would be.
Mat opened his mouth to complain further, and then one of the da’covale opened a box. Jewelry shone inside it. Rubies, emeralds, firedrops. Mat’s breath caught in his throat. There was a fortune in there!
He was so stunned that he almost did not notice that the servants were undressing him. They pulled at his shirt, and Mat let them. Although he held on to his scarf, he was not bashful. That blush on his cheeks had nothing to do with his trousers being taken off. He was just surprised at the jewelry.
Then one of the young da’covale reached for Mat’s smallclothes.
"You’d be real funny without any fingers", Mat growled.
The da’covale looked up—his eyes widening, face paling. He immediately looked down again, bowing, backing away. Mat was not bashful, but the smallclothes were far enough.
Nata clicked her tongue. Her servants began draping Mat in fine cloth, black and deep green—so dark it was nearly black itself. "We shall tailor you outfits for military expression, court attendance, private functions, and civic appearances. It—"
"No", Mat said. "Military only".
"But—"
"We're at the bloody Last Battle, woman", Mat said. "If we survive this, you can make me a bloody feastday cap. Until then, we're at war, and I don’t need anything else".
She nodded.
Mat reluctantly stood with arms out to the sides, letting them drape him in the fabric, taking measurements. If he had to put up with this business of being called "Honored One" and "Highness", then he could at least make certain he was dressed in a reasonable way.
In truth, he had been growing tired of the same old clothing. There did not seem to be much lace used by the Seanchan tailor, which was a shame, but Mat did not want to correct her in doing her job. He could not complain about every little thing. Nobody liked a complainer, least of all Mat.
As they dealt with the measurements, a servant approached with a small, velvet-lined case displaying a variety of eyepatches. He hesitated, considering; some were marked with gemstones, others painted with designs.
"That one", he said, pointing at the least ornamented patch. Simple black with only two small rubies, cut thin and long, set at the right and left edges of the patch opposite one another. They fitted it on him as the other servants finished measuring.
That done, the tailor had her servants dress him in a costume she had brought. Apparently, he was not going to be allowed back to his old clothing while he waited for his new outfits to be tailored.
The clothing started off simple enough. A silk robe of fine weave. Mat would have preferred trousers, but the robe was comfortable. However, they overlaid it with a larger, stiffer robe. It was also silk, of dark green, every inch of it embroidered with scrollwork patterns. The sleeves were large enough to trot a horse through, and they felt heavy and bulky.
"I thought I said to give me warrior’s clothing!" he said.
"This is a ceremonial warrior’s uniform for a member of the Imperial family, Highness", Nata said. "Many will see you as an outsider, and though nobody would question your loyalty, it would be well for our soldiers to see you as Prince of the Ravens first and an outlander second. Would you agree?"
"I suppose", Mat said.
The servants continued, buckling on an ornate girdle and placing forearm bands of the same design on his arms inside the large sleeves. That was all right, Mat supposed, as the girdle pulled in the waist of the clothing and kept it from feeling quite so bulky.
Unfortunately, the next piece of clothing was the most ridiculous of all. The stiff, pale piece of cloth fitted onto his shoulders. It draped down his front and back like a tabard, the sides open, but they flared out to the sides a good foot each, making him seem inhumanly wide. They were like shoulder plates from heavy armor, only made of cloth.
"Here now", Mat said. "This isn’t a kind of trick you play on a fellow, just because he’s new, is it?"
"Trick, Honored One?" Nata asked.
"You can’t really . . " Mat trailed off as someone passed outside his door. Another commander. The man was wearing a costume not unlike Mat’s, though not as ornate, and with shoulders not quite as wide. Not Imperial family armor, but ceremonial armor for one of the Blood. Still, it was almost as lavish.
The man stopped and bowed to Mat, then continued on his way.
"Burn me", Mat said.
Nata clapped and the servants began draping Mat in gemstones. They chose mostly rubies, which made Mat uncomfortable. That had to be a coincidence, did it not? He did not know what he thought of being covered in all of these gemstones. Perhaps he could sell them. Actually, if he could put these on a gambling table, he could probably end up owning all of Ebou Dar . . .
Tuon already owns it, he realized. And I married her. It sank in that he was rich. Really rich.
He sat there, letting them lacquer his fingernails, as he considered what this all meant. Oh, he had not needed to worry about money for some time, as he could always gamble for more. This was different. If he already had everything, what point was there to gambling? This did not sound like much fun. People were not supposed to give you things like this. You were supposed to find a way to come to them yourself, by wits, luck or skill.
"Burn me", Mat said, lowering his arms to his side as the lacquering finished. "I’m a bloody nobleman". He sighed, plucking his hat from the hands of a startled servant—who was walking past with his old clothing—and set it on his head.
"Honored One", Nata said. "Please forgive my forwardness, but it is my place to advise on fashion, if you please. That hat looks . . . particularly out of place with that uniform".
"Who cares?" Mat said, marching out of the room. He almost had to go out the door sideways! "If I’m going to look ridiculous, I might as well do it with style. Someone point me toward where our flaming generals are meeting. I need to figure out how many troops we have".
CHAPTER 20
Into Thakan'dar
Later in the day after her meeting with Rand, Egwene thrust Vora’s sa’angreal out in front of her and wove Fire. Threads came together, tiny glowing ribbons forming a complex weave in the air before her. She could almost feel their heat shining upon her, turning her skin a violent orange.
She finished the weave, and a fiery ball as large as a boulder arced in the air, crackling and roaring. It fell upon the distant hilltop like a meteor. The blast flung bow-wielding Trollocs aside, scattering their carcasses.
Romanda opened a gateway beside Egwene. Romanda was among the Yellows who had insisted on staying at the battlefront to provide emergency Healing. She and her small crew had been invaluable in saving lives.
Today, however, there would be no opportunity for Healing. The Trollocs had pulled back into the hills, as Bryne had indicated they would. After a day and a half of rest, many of the Aes Sedai were recovered. Not to full strength—not after over a week of grueling combat—but enough.
Gawyn jumped through the gateway right after it opened, his sword out. Egwene followed, along with Romanda, Lelaine, Leane, Silviana, Raemassa and a handful of Warders and soldiers. They stepped out onto the very hilltop Egwene had just cleared. The charred earth was still warm under her feet, blackened; the scent of burned flesh hung in the air.
This hill was in the very middle of the Trolloc army. All around, Shadowspawn scrambled for safety this way and that. Romanda held the gateway and Silviana began weaving Air to create a dome of wind against arrows. The rest of them began to send weaves outward.
The Trollocs reacted slowly—they’d been waiting here, in these hills, ready to surge down into the valleys as Egwene’s army entered. Normally, this would have been a disaster. The Trollocs could rain projectiles down on Egwene’s troops, and her cavalry would have been at a disadvantage trying to get up those hills. The hilltops would have given the Trollocs and Fades a better perspective to spot weak points in Egwene’s forces, and attack accordingly.