Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time - book 1

CHAPTER 26 Whitebridge he last unsteady note of what had been

barely recognizable as

”The Wind That Shakes the Willow" faded mercifully away, and Mat

lowered Thom's gold-and-silver-chased flute. Rand took his hands from

his ears. A sailor coiling a line on the deck nearby heaved a loud sigh of

relief. For a moment the only sounds were the water slapping against the

hull, the rhythmic creak of the oars, and now and again the hum of

rigging strummed by the wind. The wind blew dead on to the Spray's

bow, and the useless sails were furled.

”I suppose I should thank you," Thom Merrilin muttered finally,

”for teaching me how true the old saying is. Teach him how you will, a

pig will never play the flute." The sailor burst out laughing, and Mat

raised the flute as if to throw it at him. Deftly, Thom snagged the

instrument from Mat's fist and fitted it into its hard leather case.

”I thought all you shepherds whiled away the time with the flock

playing the pipes or the flute. That will show me to trust what I don'

know firsthand."

”Rand's the shepherd," Mat grumbled.

”He plays the pipes, not me."

”Yes, well, he does have a little aptitude. Perhaps we had better work on

juggling, boy. At least you show some talent for that."

”Thom," Rand said,

”I don' know why you're trying so hard." He glanced at the sailor and

lowered his voice.

”After all, we aren' really trying to become gleemen. It's only something

to hide behind until we find Moiraine and the others." Thom tugged at an

end of his mustache and seemed to be studying the smooth, dark brown

leather of the flute case on his knees.

”What if you don' find them, boy? There's nothing to say they're even

still alive."

”They're alive," Rand said firmly. He turned to Mat for support, but

Mat's eyebrows were pinched down on his nose, and his mouth was a

thin line, and his eyes were fixed on the deck.

”Well, speak up," Rand told him.

”You can' be that mad over not being able to play the flute. I can' either,

not very well. You never wanted to play the flute before." Mat looked

up, still frowning.

”What if they are dead?" he said softly.

”We have to accept facts, right?" At that moment the lookout in the bow

sang out,

”Whitebridge! Whitebridge ahead!" For a long minute, unwilling to

believe that Mat could say something like that so casually, Rand held his

friend's gaze amid the scramble of sailors preparing to put in. Mat

glowered at him with his head pulled down between his shoulders. There

was so much Rand wanted to say, but he could not manage to get it all

into words. They had to believe the others were alive. They had to. Why?

nagged a voice in the back of his head. So it will all turn out like one of

Thom's stories? The heroes find the treasure and defeat the villain and

live happily ever after? Some of his stories don' end that way. Sometimes

even heroes die. Are you a hero, Rand al'Thor? Are you a hero,

sheepherder? Abruptly Mat flushed and pulled his eyes away. Freed

from his thoughts, Rand jumped up to move through the hurly-burly to

the rail. Mat came after him slowly, not even making an effort to dodge

the sailors who ran across his path. Men dashed about the boat, bare feet

thumping the deck, hauling on ropes, tying off some lines and untying

others. Some brought up big oilskin bags stuffed almost to bursting with

wool, while others readied cables as thick as Rand's wrist. Despite their

haste, they moved with the assurance of men who had done it all a

thousand times before, but Captain Domon stumped up and down the

deck shouting orders and cursing those who did not move fast enough to

suit him. Rand's attention was all for what lay ahead, coming plainly into

sight as they rounded a slight bend of the Arinelle. He had heard of it, in

song and story and peddlers' tales, but now he would actually see the

legend. The White Bridge arched high over the wide waters, twice as

high as the Spray's mast and more, and from end to end it gleamed milky

white in the sunlight, gathering the light until it seemed to glow. Spidery

piers of the same stuff plunged into the strong currents, appearing too

frail to support the weight and width of the bridge. It looked all of one

piece, as if it had been carved from a single stone or molded by a giant's

hand, broad and tall, leaping the river with an airy grace that almost

made the eye forget its size. All in all it dwarfed the town that sprawled

about its foot on the east bank, though Whitebridge was larger by far

than Emond's Field, with houses of stone and brick as tall as those in

Taren Ferry and wooden docks like thin fingers sticking out into the

river. Small boats dotted the Arinelle thickly, fishermen hauling their

nets. And over it all the White Bridge towered and shone.

”It looks like glass," Rand said to no one in particular. Captain Domon

paused behind him and tucked his thumbs behind his broad belt.

”Nay, lad. Whatever it be, it no be glass. Never so hard the rains come,

it no be slippery, and the best chisel and the strongest arm no make a

mark on it."

”A remnant from the Age of Legends," Thom said.

”I have always thought it must be." The captain gave a dour grunt.

”Mayhap. But still useful despite. Could be someone else built it. Does

no have to be Aes Sedai work, Fortune prick me. It no has to be so old as

all that. Put your back into it, you bloody fool!" He hurried off down the

deck. Rand stared even more wonderingly. From the Age of Legends.

Made by Aes Sedai, then. That was why Captain Domon felt the way he

did, for all his talk about the wonder and strangeness of the world. Aes

Sedai work. One thing to hear about it, another to see it, and touch it.

You know that, don' you? For an instant it seemed to Rand that a shadow

rippled through the milk-white structure. He pulled his eyes away, to the

docks coming nearer, but the bridge still loomed in the corner of his

vision.

”We made it, Thom," he said, then forced a laugh.

”And no mutiny." The gleeman only harrumphed and blew out his

mustaches, but two sailors readying a cable nearby gave Rand a sharp

glance, then bent quickly back to their work. He stopped laughing and

tried not to look at the two for the rest of the approach to Whitebridge.

The Spray curved smoothly in beside the first dock, thick timbers sitting

on heavy, tarcoated pilings, and stopped with a backing of oars that

swirled the water to froth around the blades. As the oars were drawn in,

sailors tossed cables to men on the dock, who fastened them off with a

flourish, while other crewmen slung the bags of wool over the side to

protect the hull from the dock pilings. Before the boat was even pulled

snug against the dock, carriages appeared at the end of the dock, tall and

lacquered shiny black, each one with a name painted on the door in large

letters, gold or scarlet. The carriages' passengers hurried up the

gangplank as soon as it dropped in place, smooth-faced men in long

velvet coats and silk-lined cloaks and cloth slippers, each followed by a

plainly dressed servant carrying his iron-bound moneybox. They

approached Captain Domon with painted smiles that slipped when he

abruptly roared in their faces.

”You!" He thrust a thick finger past them, stopping Floran Gelb in his

tracks at the length of the boat. The bruise on Gelb's forehead from

Rand's boot had faded away, but he still fingered the spot from time to

time as if to remind himself.

”You've slept on watch for the last time on my vessel! Or on any vessel,

if I have my way of it. Choose your own side - the dock or the river - but

off my vessel now!" Gelb hunched his shoulders, and his eyes glittered

hate at Rand and his friends, at Rand especially, a poisonous glare. The

wiry man looked around the deck for support, but there was little hope in

that look. One by one, every man in the crew straightened from what he

was doing and stared back coldly. Gelb wilted visibly, but then his glare

returned, twice as strong as it had been. With a muttered curse he darted

below to the crew's quarters. Domon sent two men after him to see he

did no mischief and dismissed him with a grunt. When the captain turned

back to them, the merchants took up their smiles and bows as if they had

never been interrupted. At a word from Thom, Mat and Rand began

gathering their things together. There was not much aside from the

clothes on their backs, not for any of them. Rand had his blanketroll and

saddlebags, and his father's sword. He held the sword for a minute, and

homesickness rolled over him so strongly that his eyes stung. He

wondered if he would ever see Tam again. Or home? Home. Going to

upend the rent of your life running, running and afraid of your own

dreams. With a shuddering sigh he slipped the belt around his waist over

his coat. Gelb came back on deck, followed by his twin shadows. He

looked straight ahead, but Rand could still feel hatred coming off him in

waves. Back rigid and face dark, Gelb walked stifflegged down the

gangplank and pushed roughly into the thin crowd on the dock. In a

minute he was gone from sight, vanished beyond the merchants'

carriages. There were not a great many people on the dock, and those

were a plainly dressed mix of workmen, fishermen mending nets, and a

few townspeople who had come out to see the first boat of the year to

come downriver from Saldaea. None of the girls was Egwene and no one

looked the least bit like Moiraine, or Lan, of anyone else Rand was

hoping to see.

”Maybe they didn' come down to the dock," he said.

”Maybe," Thom replied curtly. He settled his instrument cases on his

back with care.

”You two keep an eye out for Gelb. He will make trouble if he can. We

want to pass through Whitebridge so softly that nobody remembers we

were here five minutes after we're gone." Their cloaks flapped in the

wind as they walked to the gangplank. Mat carried his bow crossed in

front on his chest. Even after all their days on the boat, it still got a few

looks from the crewmen; their bows were short affairs. Captain Domon

left the merchants to intercept Thom at the gangplank.

”You be leaving me now, gleeman? Can I no talk you into continuing

on? I be going all the way down to Illian, where folk have a proper

regard for gleemen. There be no finer place in the world for your art. I'd

get you there in good time for the Feast of Sefan. The competitions, you

know. A hundred gold marks for the best telling of The Great Hunt of

the Horn."

”A great prize, Captain," Thom replied with an elaborate bow and a

flourish of his cloak that set the patches to fluttering,

”and great competitions, which rightly draw gleemen from the whole

world over. But," he added dryly,

”I fear we could not afford the fare at the rates you charge."

”Aye, well, as to that . . ." The captain produced a leather purse from his

coat pocket and tossed it to Thom. It clinked when Thom caught it.

”Your fares back, and a bit more besides. The damage was no so bad as

I thought, and you've worked your way and more with your tales and

your harp. I could maybe manage as much again if you stay aboard to the

Sea of Storms. And I would set you ashore in Illian. A good gleeman can

make his fortune there, even aside from the competitions." Thom

hesitated, weighing the purse on his palm, but Rand spoke up.

”We're meeting friends here, Captain, and going on to Caemlyn

together. We'll have to see Illian another time." Thom's mouth twisted

wryly, then he blew out his long mustaches and tucked the purse into his

pocket.

”Perhaps if the people we are to meet are not here, Captain."

”Aye," Domon said sourly.

”You think on it. Too bad I can no keep Gelb aboard to take the others'

anger, but I do what I say I will do. I suppose I must ease up now, even if

it means taking three times as long to reach Illian as I should. Well,

mayhap those Trollocs were after you three." Rand blinked but kept

silent, but Mat was not so cautious.

”Why do you think they weren'?" he demanded.

”They were after the same treasure we were hunting."

”Mayhap," the captain grunted, sounding unconvinced. He combed

thick fingers through his beard, then pointed at the pocket where Thom

had put the purse.

”Twice that if you come back to keep the men's minds off how hard I

work them. Think on it. I sail with the first light on the morrow." He

turned on his heel and strode back to the merchants, arms spreading wide

as he began an apology for keeping them waiting. Thom still hesitated,

but Rand hustled him down the gangplank without giving him a chance

to argue, and the gleeman let himself be herded. A murmur passed

through the people on the dock as they saw Thom's patch-covered cloak,

and some called out to discover where he would be performing. So much

for not being noticed, Rand thought, dismayed. By sundown it would be

all over Whitebridge that there was a gleeman in town. He hurried Thom

along, though, and Thom, wrapped in sulky silence, did not even try to

slow down enough to preen under the attention. The carriage drivers

looked down at Thom with interest from their high perches, but

apparently the dignity of their positions forbade shouting. With no idea

of where to go exactly, Rand turned up the street that ran along the river

and under the bridge.

”We need to find Moiraine and the others," he said.

”And fast. We should have thought of changing Thom's cloak." Thom

suddenly shook himself and stopped dead.

”An innkeeper will be able to cell us if they're here, or if they've passed

through. The right innkeeper. Innkeepers have all the news and gossip. If

they aren' here . . ." He looked back and forth from Rand to Mat.

”We have to talk, we three." Cloak swirling around his ankles, he set off

into the town, away from the river. Rand and Mat had to step quickly to

keep up. The broad, milk-white arch that gave the town its name

dominated Whitebridge as much close up as it did from afar, but once

Rand was in the streets he realized that the town was every bit as big as

Baerlon, though not so crowded with people. A few carts moved in the

streets, pulled by horse or ox or donkey or man, but no carriages. Those

most likely all belonged to the merchants and were clustered down at the

dock. Shops of every description lined the streets, and many of the

tradesmen worked in front of their establishments, under the signs

swinging in the wind. They passed a man mending pots, and a tailor

holding folds of cloth up to the light for a customer. A shoemaker, sitting

in his doorway, tapped his hammer on the heel of a boot. Hawkers cried

their services at sharpening knives and scissors, or tried to interest the

passersby in their skimpy trays of fruit or vegetables, but none was

getting much interest. Shops selling food had the same pitiful displays of

produce Rand remembered from Baerlon. Even the fishmongers

displayed only small piles of small fish, for all the boats on the river.

Times were not really hard yet, but everyone could see what was coming

if the weather did not change soon, and those faces that were not fixed

into worried frowns seemed to stare at something unseen, something

unpleasant. Where the White Bridge came down in the center of the

town was a big square, paved with stones worn by generations of feet

and wagon wheels. Inns surrounded the square, and shops, and tall, red

brick houses with signs out front bearing the same names Rand had seen

on the carriages at the dock. It was into one of those inns, seemingly

chosen at random, that Thom ducked. The sign over the door, swinging

in the wind, had a striding man with a bundle on his back on one side

and the same man with his head on a pillow on the other, and proclaimed

The Wayfarers' Rest. The common room stood empty except for the fat

innkeeper drawing ale from a barrel and two men in rough workman's

clothes staring glumly into their mugs at a table in the back. Only the

innkeeper looked up when they came in. A shoulder-high wall split the

room in two from front to back, with tables and a blazing fireplace on

each side. Rand wondered idly if all innkeepers were fat and losing their

hair. Rubbing his hands together briskly, Thom commented to the

innkeeper on the late cold and ordered hot spiced wine, then added

quietly,

”Is there somewhere my friends and I could talk without being

disturbed?" The innkeeper nodded to the low wall.

”The other side that's as best I've got unless you want to take a room.

For when sailors come up from the river. Seems like half the crews got

grudges against the other half. I won' have my place broke up by fights,

so I keep them apart." He had been eyeing Thom's cloak the whole

while, and now he cocked his head to one side, a sly look in his eyes.

”You staying? Haven' had a gleeman here in some time. Folks would

pay real good for something as would take their minds off things. I'd

even take some off on your room and meals." Unnoticed, Rand thought

glumly.

”You are too generous," Thom said with a smooth bow.

”Perhaps I will take up your offer. But for now, a little privacy."

”I'll bring your wine. Good money here for a gleeman." The tables on

the far side of the wall were all empty, but Thom chose one right in the

middle of the space.

”So no one can listen without us knowing," he explained.

”Did you hear that fellow? He'll take some off. Why, I'd double his

custom just by sitting here. Any honest innkeeper gives a gleeman room

and board and a good bit besides." The bare table was none too clean,

and the floor had not been swept in days if not weeks. Rand looked

around and grimaced. Master al'Vere would not have let his inn get that

dirty if he had had to climb out of a sickbed to see to it.

”We're only after information. Remember?"

”Why here?" Mat demanded.

”We passed other inns that looked cleaner."

”Straight on from the bridge," Thom said,

”is the road to Caemlyn. Anyone passing through Whitebridge comes

through this square, unless they're going by river, and we know your

friends aren' doing that. If there is no word of them here, it doesn' exist.

Let me do the talking. This has to be done carefully." Just then the

innkeeper appeared, three battered pewter mugs gripped in one fist by

the handles. The fat man flicked at the table with a towel, set the mugs

down, and took Thom's money.

”If you stay, you won' have to pay for your drinks. Good wine, here."

Thom's smile touched only his mouth.

”I will think on it, innkeeper. What news is there? We have been away

from hearing things."

”Big news, that's what. Big news." The innkeeper draped the towel over

his shoulder and pulled up a chair. He crossed his arms on the table, took

root with a long sigh, saying what a comfort it was to get off his feet. His

name was Bartim, and he went on about his feet in detail, about corns

and bunions and how much time he spent standing and what he soaked

them in, until Thom mentioned the news again, and then he shifted over

with hardly a pause. The news was just as big as he said it was. Logain,

the false Dragon, had been captured after a big battle near Lugard while

he was trying to move his army from Ghealdan to Tear. The Prophecies,

they understood? Thom nodded, and Bartim went on. The roads in the

south were packed with people, the lucky ones with what they could

carry on their backs. Thousands fleeing in all directions.

”None" - Bartim chuckled wryly -

”supported Logain, of course. Oh, no, you won' find many to admit to

that, not now. Just refugees trying to find a safe place during the

troubles." Aes Sedai had been involved in taking Logain, of course.

Bartim spat on the floor when he said that, and again when he said they

were taking the false Dragon north to Tar Valon. Bartim was a decent

man, he said, a respectable man, and Aes Sedai could all go back to the

Blight where they came from and take Tar Valon with them, as far as he

was concerned. He would get no closer to an Aes Sedai than a thousand

miles, if he had his way. Of course, they were stopping at every village

and town on the way north to display Logain, so he had heard. To show

people that the false Dragon had been taken and the world was safe

again. He would have liked to see that, even if it did mean getting close

to Aes Sedai. He was halfway tempted to go to Caemlyn.

”They'll be taking him there to show to Queen Morgase." The innkeeper

touched his forehead respectfully.

”I've never seen the Queen. Man ought to see his own Queen, don' you

think?" Logain could do

”things," and the way Bartim's eyes shifted and his tongue darted across

his lips made it clear what he meant. He had seen the last false Dragon,

two years ago, when he was paraded through the countryside, but that

was just some fellow who thought he could make himself a king. There

had been no need for Aes Sedai, that time. Soldiers had had him chained

up on a wagon. A sullen-looking fellow who moaned in the middle of the

wagonbed, covering his head with his arms whenever people threw

stones or poked him with sticks. There had been a lot of that, and the

soldiers had done nothing to stop it, as long as they did not kill the

fellow. Best to let the people see he was nothing special after all. He

could not do

”things." This Logain would be something to see, though. Something for

Bartim to tell his grandchildren about. If only the inn would let him get

away. Rand listened with an interest that did not have to be faked. When

Padan Fain had brought word to Emond's Field of a false Dragon, a man

actually wielding the Power, it had been the biggest news to come into

the Two Rivers in years. What had happened since had pushed it to the

back of his mind, but it was still the sort of thing people would be talking

about for years, and telling their grandchildren about, too. Bartim would

probably tell his that he had seen Logain whether he did or not. Nobody

would ever think what happened to some village folk from the Two

Rivers was worth talking about, not unless they were Two Rivers people

themselves.

”That," Thom said,

”would be something to make a story of, a story they'd tell for a

thousand years. I wish I had been there." He sounded as if it was the

simple truth, and Rand thought it really was.

”I might try to see him anyway. You didn' say what route they were

taking. Perhaps there are some other travelers around? They might have

Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time - book 1

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