The man kept his arms folded and said nothing.

Joline pursed her lips, rearranging her hands on her reins so that her great serpent ring was prominently visible. "Does the symbol of the White Tower mean so little these days?"

"We respect the White Tower." Barlden looked at Mat. He was wise. Meeting the gaze of an Aes Sedai tended to make one's resolve weaken. "But our rules are strict, my Lady. I'm sorry."

Joline sniffed. "I suspect that your innkeepers are less than satisfied with this requirement. How are they to make ends meet if they can't rent rooms to travelers?"

"The inns are compensated," the mayor said gruffly. "Three hours. Do your business and be on your way. We mean to be friendly to all who pass our way, but we can't see our rules broken." With that, he turned and left. As he walked away, he was joined by a small group of burly men, several carrying axes. Not threateningly. Casually, as if they'd been out chopping wood, and just happened to be walking through town. Together. In the same direction as the mayor.

"I should say this is quite the welcome," Talmanes muttered.

Mat nodded. At that moment, the dice started rattling in his head. Burn it! He decided to ignore them. They were never any help anyway. "Let's go find a tavern," he said, heeling Pips forward.

"Still determined to make a night of it, eh?" Talmanes said, smiling as he joined Mat.

"We'll see," Mat said, listening to those dice despite himself. "We'll see."

Mat spotted three inns on his initial ride through the village. There was one at the end of the main thoroughfare, and it had two bright lanterns burning out front, even though night hadn't yet fallen. Those whitewashed walls and clean glass windows would draw the Aes Sedai like moths to a flame. That would be the inn for traveling merchants and dignitaries unfortunate enough to find themselves in these hills.

But outsiders couldn't stay the night now. How long had that prohibition been in place? How did these inns maintain themselves? They could still provide a bath and meal, but without renting rooms. . . .

Mat didn't buy the mayor's comment about inns being "compensated." If they weren't doing anything useful for the village, why pay them? It was just plain odd.

Anyway, Mat didn't head for the nice inn, nor the one Thorn had chosen. That one wasn't on the main road, but was on a wide street just to the northeast. It would serve the average visitor, respectable men and women who didn't like to spend what they didn't have to. The building was well cared for; the beds would be clean, and the meals satisfactory. The locals would visit for drinks on occasion, mostly when they felt that their wives were keeping a close eye on them.

The last inn would have been the most difficult to find, had Mat not known where to look for it. It was three streets out from the center, in the back west corner of the village. No sign hung out front; just a wooden board carved with what looked like a drunken horse that sat inside one of the windows. None of those windows had glass.

Light and laughter came from inside. Most outsiders would have been made uncomfortable by the lack of an inviting sign and street lanterns near this inn. It was really more of a tavern than an inn; Mat doubted if it had ever held anything other than a few pallets in the back that one could rent for a copper. This was the place for working locals to relax. With evening approaching, many would have already made their way here. It was a place for community and for relaxation, a place for smoking a pinch of tabac with your friends. And for throwing a few games of dice.

Mat smiled and dismounted, then hitched Pips to the post outside.

Talmanes sighed. "You realize that they probably water their drinks."

"Then we'll have to order twice as many," Mat said, undoing a few bags of coins from his saddle and stuffing them in pockets inside his coat. He gestured for his soldiers to stay and guard the horses. The pack animal carried a coin chest. It contained Mat's personal stash: he wouldn't risk the Band's wages on gambling.

"All right, then," Talmanes said. "But you realize that I'm going to make certain that you and I go to a proper tavern once we reach Four Kings. I'll have you educated yet, Mat. You're a prince now. You'll need—"

Mat held up a hand, cutting Talmanes off. Then he pointed at the post. Talmanes sighed again and slid free of the saddle, then hitched his horse. Mat stepped up to the tavern door, took a deep breath, and entered.

Men crowded around tables, their cloaks draped over chairs or hung on pegs, their ripped and resewn vests unbuttoned, their sleeves rolled up. Why did people here wear clothing that was once so nice, yet now torn and patched? They had plenty of sheep, and should therefore have wool to spare.

Mat ignored the oddity for the moment. The men in this place played at dice, drank mugs of ale off of sticky tables, and slapped at the backsides of passing barmaids. They seemed exhausted, many of their eyes drooping with fatigue. But that was to be expected after a day's work. Despite the tired eyes, there was an almost palpable chatter in the room, voices overlapping one another in low, rumbling murmurs. A few people looked up as Mat entered, and some of them frowned at his nice clothing, but most people paid him no heed.

Talmanes followed reluctantly, but he wasn't the type of nobleman who minded rubbing shoulders with those of lower station. He'd visited his share of seedy taverns in his time, even if he had taken to complaining about Mat's choices. And so Talmanes was as quick as Mat to pull a chair up to a table where a few men already sat. Mat smiled broadly and flashed gold, tossing it to the passing barmaid and demanding some drinks. That got some attention, both from those around the table and from Talmanes.

"What are you doing," Talmanes hissed, leaning toward Mat. "You want to see us slit open the moment we stumble out of here?"

Mat just smiled. One of the nearby tables had a dice game going. Looked like Cat's Paw—or, at least, that's what it had been called the night Mat had first been taught it. They called it Third Gem in Ebou Dar, and he'd heard it called Feathers Aloft in Cairhien. It was the perfect game for his purposes. There was only one dicer in the game, with the crowd of onlookers betting against or for his tosses.

Mat took a deep breath, then pulled his chair over to the table, snapping a gold crown onto the wood directly in the center of a wet ring of ale made by the bottom of a mug, now held by a short fellow who'd lost most of his mousy hair, but what he did have hung long down around his collar. He almost choked on his ale.

"Care if I make a throw?" Mat said to the table's occupants.

"I ... don't know if we can match that," said a man with a short black beard. "M'lord," he added belatedly.

"My gold against your silver," Mat said lightly. "I haven't had a good game of dice in ages."

Talmanes pulled his chair over, interested. He'd seen Mat do this before, putting down gold coins and winning silvers. Mat's luck made up for the difference, and he always came out far ahead. Sometimes he could come out ahead playing gold for coppers. That didn't make him much money. It only took so long before the men involved either ran out of coin or decided to stop playing. And Mat would be left with a handful of silvers and nobody to dice with.

That wouldn't help. The army had plenty of coin. It needed food, and so it was time to try something different. Several of the men set down silver coins. Mat shook the dice in his hands, then tossed. Blessedly, the dice came up with one showing a single pip and the other showing two. An instant loss.

Talmanes blinked, and the men around the table glanced at Mat, looking chagrined—as if embarrassed to have bet against a lord who obviously wasn't expecting to lose. That was an easy way to get oneself in trouble.

"Well look at that," Mat said. "Guess you win. It's yours." He rolled the gold crown to the center of the table, to be split among the men who had bet against him, as per the rules.

"How about another?" Mat said, slapping down two gold crowns. There were more takers this time. Again, he threw and lost, nearly sending Talmanes into a choking fit. Mat had lost throws before—it happened, even to him. But two throws in a row?

He sent the two crowns rolling, and then he pulled out four. Talmanes placed a hand on his arm. "No offense, Mat," the man said in a quiet voice. "But maybe you should stop. Everyone has an off night. Let's finish our drinks and go buy what supplies we can before night falls."

Mat just smiled and watched as the bets piled up against his four coins. He had to lay down a fifth, since so many people wanted in on the toss. He ignored Talmanes and threw, losing yet again. Talmanes groaned, then reached over and took a mug from the serving girl, who had finally arrived to fill Mat's order.

"Don't look so grim," Mat said softly, hefting the pouch in his hand as he reached for his own mug. "This is what I wanted."

Talmanes raised an eyebrow, lowering his mug.

Mat said, "I can lose when I want to, if it's for the best."

"How can losing be for the best?" Talmanes asked, watching the men argue about how to divide Mat's gold.

"Wait.' Mat took a slurp of ale. It was as watered-down as Talmanes had feared. Mat turned back to the table, counting out a few more gold coins.

As the time passed, more and more people began gathering around the table. Mat made sure to win a few tosses—just as he had to lose a bit when spending a night winning, he didn't want to arouse any suspicions about his losing streak. Yet bit by bit, the coins in his pouches ended up in the hands of the men playing against him. Before long, all was silent in the tavern, men crowding around Mat and waiting their turn to bet against him. Sons and friends had run to grab their fathers and cousins, dragging them to The Tipsy Gelding—as the inn was called.

At one point—during a break in the throws while Mat was waiting for another mug of ale—Talmanes pulled him aside. "I don't like this, Mat," the wiry man said in a low voice, leaning in. Sweat had long since streaked the powder on his shaved forehead, and he'd wiped it away, leaving the skin bare.

"I told you." Mat took a swig of watery ale. "I know what I'm doing." Men cheered to the side as one of them drank three mugs, one after another. The air smelt of sweat and muddy ale, spilled to the wood floor then trampled by the boots of those arriving from the pastures.

"Not that," Talmanes said, glancing at the cheering men. "You can waste your coin if you want, so long as you spare a few coins to buy me a drink now and then. That's not what's bothering me, not anymore."

Mat frowned. "What?"

"Something feels wrong about these folk, Mat." Talmanes spoke very softly, glancing over his shoulder. "While you've been playing, I've been talking to them. They don't care about the world. The Dragon Reborn, the Seanchan, nothing. Not a care."

"So?" Mat said. "They're simple folk."

"Simple folk should worry even more" Talmanes said. "They're trapped here between gathering armies. But these just shrug when I talk, then drink some more. It's as if they're . . . they're too focused on their revelry. As if it's all that matters to them."

"Then they're perfect," Mat said.

"It'll be dark soon," Talmanes said, glancing at the window. "We've used an hour, probably more. Maybe we should—"