"Of course you are."
"Bloody right I am," Mat said, finishing with his laces and sitting up. "An average man might have three pairs of boots. Your third best pair of boots, those are the boots you wear when you're working at something unpleasant. They might rub after a few paces, and they might have a few holes, but they're good enough to keep your footing. You don't mind mucking them up in the fields or the barn."
"All right," Setalle said.
"Then you have yout second best pair of boots," Mat said. "Those are your day-to-day boots. You wear those if you are going over to dinnet at the neighbors. Or, in my case, you wear those if you're going to battle. They're nice boots, give you good footing, and you don't mind being seen in them or anything."
"And your best pair of boots?" Setalle asked. "You wear those to social events, like a ball or dining with a local dignitary?"
"Balls? Dignitaries? Bloody ashes, woman. I thought you were an innkeeper."
Setalle blushed faintly.
"We're not going to any balls," Mat said. "But if we had to, I suspect we'd wear our second best pair of boots. If they're good enough for visiting old lady Hembrew next door, then they're bloody well good enough for stepping on the toes of any woman fool enough to dance with us."
"Then what are the best boots for?"
"Walking," Mat said. "Any farmer knows the value of good boots when you go walking a distance."
Setalle looked thoughtful. "All right. But what does this have to do with being a nobleman?"
"Everything," Mat said. "Don't you see? If you're an average fellow, you know exactly when to use your boots. A man can keep track of three pairs of boots. Life is simple when you have three pairs of boots. But noblemen . . . Talmanes claims he has forty different pairs of boots at home. Forty pairs, can you imagine that?"
She smiled in amusement.
"Forty pairs," Mat repeated, shaking his head. "Forty bloody pairs. And, they aren't all the same kind of boots either. There is a pair for each outfit, and a dozen pairs in different styles that will match any number of half your outfits. You have boots for kings, boots for high lords, and boots for normal people. You have boots for winter and boots for summer, boots for rainy days and boots for dry days. You have bloody shoes that you wear only when you're walking to the bathing chamber. Lopin used to complain that I didn't have a pair to wear to the privy at night!"
"I see. ... So you're using boots as a metaphor for the onus of responsibility and decision placed upon the aristocracy as they assume leadership of complex political and social positions."
"Metaphor for. . . ." Mat scowled. "Bloody ashes, woman. This isn't a metaphor for anything! It's just boots"
Setalle shook her head. "You're an unconventionally wise man, Matrim Cauthon."
"I try my best," he noted, reaching for the pitcher of mulled cider. "To be unconventional, I mean." He poured a cup and lifted it in her direction. She accepted graciously and drank, then stood. "I will leave you to your own amusements, then, Master Cauthon. But if you have made any progress on that gateway for me. . . ."
"Elayne said she would have one for you soon. In a day or two. Once I'm back from the errand I have to run with Thom and Noal, I'll see it done."
She nodded in understanding. If he did not return from that "errand," she would see to Olver. She turned to leave. Mat waited until she was gone
before taking a slurp of the cider straight from the pitcher. He had been doing that all evening, but he figured she would probably rather not know. It was the sort of thing women were better off not thinking about.
He turned back to his reports, but soon found his mind wandering to the Tower of Ghenjei, and those bloody snakes and foxes. Birgitte's comments had been enlightening, but not particularly encouraging. Two months? Two bloody months spent wandering those hallways? That was a mighty, steaming bowl of worry, served up like afternoon slop. Beyond that, she had taken fire, music, and iron. Breaking the rules was not so original an idea.
He was not surprised. Likely, the day the Light made the very first man, and that man had made the first rule, someone else had thought to break it. People like Elayne made up rules to suit them. People like Mat found ways to get around the stupid rules.
Unfortunately, Birgitte one of the legendary Heroes of the Horn had not been able to defeat the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. That was disconcerting.
Well, Mat had something she had not had. His luck. He sat thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. One of his soldiers passed by. Clintock saluted; the Redarm checked on Mat every half-hour. They still had not gotten over the shame of letting the gholam sneak into camp.
He picked up Verin's letter again, feeling it over in his fingers. The worn corners, the smudges of dirt on the once-white paper. He tapped it against the wood.
Then he tossed it onto the desk. No. No, he was not going to open it, even when he got back. That was that. He would never know what was in it, and he bloody did not care.
He stood up and went looking for Thom and Noal. Tomorrow, they would leave for the Tower of Ghenjei.
CHAPTER 53
Gateways