The Gathering Storm

suddenly. 'Perhaps, in this case, a difficult decision is one that is right, but requires an implication of fault as well.'

Tuon blinked in surprise. Yes, she realized. Selucia is my Truthspeaker now. It would take time to accustom herself to the woman in that role. It had been years since Selucia had corrected or reproved her in public.

And yet, meeting with the Dragon Reborn, in person? She did need to contact him, and had planned to. But would it not be bettet to go to him in strength, his armies defeated, the White Tower torn down? She needed him brought to the Crystal Throne under very controlled circumstances, with the understanding that he was to submit to her authority.

And yet . . . with Seanchan in rebellion . . . with her position here in Altara barely stabilized . . . Well, perhaps some time to think—some time to take a few deep breaths and secure what she already had—would be worth delaying her strike on the White Tower.

'General Galgan, send raken to our forces in Almoth Plain and eastern Altara,' she said firmly. 'Tell them to hold our interests, but avoid confrontation with the Dragon Reborn. And reply to his request for a meeting. The Daughter of the Nine Moons will meet with him.'

General Galgan nodded, bowing.

Order must be brought to the world. If she had to do that by lowering her eyes slightly and meeting with the Dragon Reborn, then so be it.

Oddly, she felt herself wishing—once again—that Matrim were still with her. She could have put his knowledge of this Rand al'Thor to good use in preparing for the meeting. Stay well, you curious man, she thought, glancing back at the balcony, northward. Do not dig yourself into trouble deeper than you can climb to freedom. You are Prince of the Ravens now. Remember to act appropriately.

Wherever it is you are.

CHAPTER 20 On a Broken Road

Women,' Mat declared as he rode Pips down the dusty, little-used road, 'are like mules.' He frowned. 'Wait. No. Goats. Women are like goats. Except every flaming one thinks she's a horse instead, and a prize racing mare to boot. Do you understand me, Talmanes?'

'Pure poetry, Mat,' Talmanes said, tamping the tabac down into his pipe.

Mat flicked his reins, Pips continuing to plod along. Tall three-needle pines lined the sides of the stone roadway. They'd been lucky to find this ancient road, which must have been made before the Breaking. It was mostly overgrown, the stones shattered in many places, large sections of the roadway just . . . well, just gone.

Sapling pines had begun to sprout at the sides of the roadway and between rocks, miniature versions of their towering fathers above. The path was wide, if very rough, which was good. Mat had seven thousand men with him, all mounted, and they'd been riding hard in the little under a week they'd spent traveling since sending Tuon back to Ebou Dar.

'Reasoning with a woman is impossible,' Mat continued, eyes forward. 'It's like . . . Well, reasoning with a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he'll cheat you—but he'll do it honestly.

He'll use loaded dice, so that you think you're losing by chance. And if you aren't clever enough to spot what he's doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that's that.

'A woman, though, she'll sit down to that same game and she'll smile, and act like she's going to play. Only when it's her turn to throw, she'll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a single pip showing. She'll inspect her throw, then she'll look up at you and say, 'Clearly I just won.'

'Now, you'll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you'll look up at her, then down at the dice again. 'But there aren't any pips on these dice,' you'll say.

' 'Yes there are,' she'll say. 'And both dice rolled a one.'

' 'That's exactly the number you need to win,' you'll say.

' 'What a coincidence,' she'll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you'll sit there, trying to wrap your head bout what just happened. And you'll realize something. A pair of ones isn't the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly, you'll explain what you've discovered. Only then, do you know what she'll do?'

'No idea, Mat,' Talmanes replied, chewing on his pipe, a thin wisp of smoke curling out of the bowl.

'Then she'll reach over,' Mat said, 'and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she'll say, 'I'm sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you can see that they actually came up as twos!' And she'll believe it. She'll bloody believe it!'

'Incredible,' Talmanes said.

'Only that's not the end of it!'

'I had presumed that it wouldn't be, Mat.'

'She scoops up all of your coins,' Mat said, gesturing with one hand, the other steadying his ashandarei across his saddle. 'And then every other woman in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more of those bloody women will join the argument. You'll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! Even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth—since your woman's granny stole the other woman's granny's honeycake recipe when they were both maids— that woman will side against you.'

'They are nefarious creatures indeed,' Talmanes said, voice flat and even. Talmanes rarely smiled.

'By the time they're done,' Mat continued, almost more to himself, 'you'll be left with no coin, several lists' worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You'll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn't read twos after all. If only to preserve what's left of your sanity. That's what it's like to reason with a woman, I tell you.'

'And you did so. At length,'

'You aren't making sport of me, are you?'

'Why, Mat!' the Cairhienin said. 'You know I'd never do such a thing.'

'Too bad,' Mat muttered, glancing at him suspiciously. 'I could use a laugh.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Vanin! Where on the Dark One's blistered backside are we?'

The fat former horsethief looked up. He rode a short distance behind Mat, and he carried a map of the area unrolled and folded across a board so he could read it in the saddle. He'd been poring over the bloody thing the better half of the morning. Mat had asked him to get them through Murandy quietly, not get them lost in the mountains for months!

'That's Blinder's Peak,' Vanin said, gesturing with a pudgy finger toward a flat-topped mountain just barely visible over the tips of the pines. 'At least, I think it is. It might be Mount Sardlen.'

The squat hill didn't look like much of a mountain; it barely had any snow atop it. Of course, few 'mountains' in this area were impressive, not compared to the Mountains of Mist, back near the Two Rivers. Here, northeast of the Damona range, the landscape fell into a grouping of low foothills. It was difficult terrain, but navigable, if one were determined. And Mat was determined. Determined not to be pinned in by the Sean-chan again, determined not to be seen by any who didn't have to know he was