The Eye Of The World (The Wheel of Time)

Outside the great wall, buildings clustered as if every town he had passed through had been gathered and set down there, side-by-side and all pushed together. Inns thrust their upper stories above the tile roofs of houses, and squat warehouses, broad and windowless, shouldered against them all. Red brick and gray stone and plastered white, jumbled and mixed together, they spread as far as the eye could see. Baerlon could have vanished into it without being noticed, and Whitebridge swallowed up twenty times over with hardly a ripple.

And the wall itself. The sheer, fifty-foot height of pale gray stone, streaked with silver and white, swept out in a great circle, curving to north and south till he wondered how far it must run. All along its length towers rose, round and standing high above the wall’s own height, red-and-white banners whipping in the wind atop each one. From inside the wall other towers peeked out, slender towers even taller than those at the walls, and domes gleaming white and gold in the sun. A thousand stories had painted cities in his mind, the great cities of kings and queens, of thrones and powers and legends, and Caemlyn fit into those mind-deep pictures as water fits into a jug.

The cart creaked down the wide road toward the city, toward tower-flanked gates. The wagons of a merchants’ train rolled out of those gates, under a vaulting archway in the stone that could have let a giant through, or ten giants abreast. Unwalled markets lined the road on both sides, roof tiles glistening red and purple, with stalls and pens in the spaces between. Calves bawled, cattle lowed, geese honked, chickens clucked, goats bleated, sheep baaed, and people bargained at the top of their lungs. A wall of noise funneled them toward the gates of Caemlyn.

“What did I tell you?” Bunt had to raise his voice to near a shout in order to be heard. “The grandest city in the world. Built by Ogier, you know. Least, the Inner City and the Palace were. It’s that old, Caemlyn is. Caemlyn, where good Queen Morgase, the Light illumine her, makes the law and holds the peace for Andor. The greatest city on earth.”

Rand was ready to agree. His mouth hung open, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears to shut out the din. People crowded the road, as thick as folk in Emond’s Field crowded the Green at Bel Tine. He remembered thinking there were too many people in Baerlon to be believed, and almost laughed. He looked at Mat and grinned. Mat did have his hands over his ears, and his shoulders were hunched up as if he wanted to cover them with those, too.

“How are we going to hide in this?” he demanded loudly when he saw Rand looking. “How can we tell who to trust with so many? So bloody many. Light, the noise!”

Rand looked at Bunt before answering. The farmer was caught up in staring at the city; with the noise, he might not have heard anyway. Still, Rand put his mouth close to Mat’s ear. “How can they find us among so many? Can’t you see it, you wool-headed idiot? We’re safe, if you ever learn to watch your bloody tongue!” He flung out a hand to take in everything, the markets, the city walls still ahead. “Look at it, Mat! Anything could happen here. Anything! We might even find Moiraine waiting for us, and Egwene, and all the rest.”

“If they’re alive. If you ask me, they’re as dead as the gleeman.”

The grin faded from Rand’s face, and he turned to watch the gates come nearer. Anything could happen in a city like Caemlyn. He held that thought stubbornly.

The horse could not move any faster, flap the reins as Bunt would; the closer to the gates they came, the thicker the crowd grew, jostling together shoulder to shoulder, pressing against the carts and wagons heading in. Rand was glad to see a good many were dusty young men afoot with little in the way of belongings. Whatever their ages, a lot of the crowd pushing toward the gates had a travel-worn look, rickety carts and tired horses, clothes wrinkled from many nights of sleeping rough, dragging steps and weary eyes. But weary or not, those eyes were fixed on the gates as if getting inside the walls would strip away all their fatigue.

Half a dozen of the Queen’s Guards stood at the gates, their clean red-and-white tabards and burnished plate-and-mail a sharp contrast to most of the people streaming under the stone arch. Backs rigid and heads straight, they eyed the incomers with disdainful wariness. It was plain they would just as soon have turned away most of those coming in. Aside from keeping a way clear for traffic leaving the city, though, and having a hard word with those who tried to push too fast, they did not hinder anyone.

“Keep your places. Don’t push. Don’t push, the Light blind you! There’s room for everybody, the Light help us. Keep your places.”

Bunt’s cart rolled past the gates with the slow tide of the throng, into Caemlyn.

The city rose on low hills, like steps climbing to a center. Another wall encircled that center, shining pure white and running over the hills. Inside that were even more towers and domes, white and gold and purple, their elevation atop the hills making them seem to look down on the rest of Caemlyn. Rand thought that must be the Inner City of which Bunt had spoken.

The Caemlyn Road itself changed as soon as it was inside the city, becoming a wide boulevard, split down the middle by broad strips of grass and trees. The grass was brown and the tree branches bare, but people hurried by as if they saw nothing unusual, laughing, talking, arguing, doing all the things that people do. Just as if they had no idea that there had been no spring yet this year and might be none. They did not see, Rand realized, could not or would not. Their eyes slid away from leafless branches, and they walked across the dead and dying grass without once looking down. What they did not see, they could ignore; what they did not see was not really there.

Gaping at the city and the people, Rand was taken by surprise when the cart turned down a side street, narrower than the boulevard, but still twice as wide as any street in Emond’s Field. Bunt drew the horse to a halt and turned to look back at them hesitantly. The traffic was a bit lighter here; the crowd split around the cart without breaking stride.

“What you’re hiding under your cloak, is it really what Holdwin says?”

Rand was in the act of tossing his saddlebags over his shoulder. He did not even twitch. “What do you mean?” His voice was steady, too. His stomach was a sour knot, but his voice was steady.

Mat stifled a yawn with one hand, but he shoved the other under his coat—clutching the dagger from Shadar Logoth, Rand knew—and his eyes had a hard, hunted look under the scarf around his head. Bunt avoided looking at Mat, as if he knew there was a weapon in that hidden hand.

“Don’t mean nothing, I suppose. Look, now, if you heard I was coming to Caemlyn, you were there long enough to hear the rest. Was I after a reward, I’d have made some excuse to go in the Goose and Crown, speak to Holdwin. Only I don’t much like Holdwin, and I don’t like that friend of his, not at all. Seems like he wants you two more than he wants ... anything else.”

“I don’t know what he wants,” Rand said. “We’ve never seen him before.” It might even be the truth; he could not tell one Fade from another.

“Uh-huh. Well, like I say, I don’t know nothing, and I guess I don’t want to. There’s enough trouble around for everybody without I go looking for more.”

Mat was slow in gathering his things, and Rand was already in the street before he started climbing down. Rand waited impatiently. Mat turned stiffly from the cart, hugging bow and quiver and blanketroll to his chest, muttering under his breath. Heavy shadows darkened the undersides of his eyes.

Rand’s stomach rumbled, and he grimaced. Hunger combined with a sour twisting in his gut made him afraid he was going to vomit. Mat was staring at him now, expectantly. Which way to go? What to do now?

Bunt leaned over and beckoned him closer. He went, hoping for advice about Caemlyn.

“I’d hide that....” The old farmer paused and looked around warily. People pushed by on both sides of the cart, but except for a few passing curses about blocking the way, no one paid them any attention. “Stop wearing it,” he said, “hide it, sell it. Give it away. That’s my advice. Thing like that’s going to draw attention, and I guess you don’t want any of that.”

Abruptly he straightened, clucking to his horse, and drove slowly on down the crowded street without another word or a backward glance. A wagon loaded with barrels rumbled toward them. Rand jumped out of the way, staggered, and when he looked again Bunt and his cart were lost to sight.

“What do we do now?” Mat demanded. He licked his lips, staring wide-eyed at all the people pushing by and the buildings towering as much as six stories above the street. “We’re in Caemlyn, but what do we do?” He had uncovered his ears, but his hands twitched as if he wanted to put them back. A hum lay on the city, the low, steady drone of hundreds of shops working, thousands of people talking. To Rand it was like being inside a giant beehive, constantly buzzing. “Even if they are here, Rand, how could we find them in all of this?”

“Moiraine will find us,” Rand said slowly. The immensity of the city was a weight on his shoulders; he wanted to get away, to hide from all the people and noise. The void eluded him despite Tam’s teachings; his eyes drew the city into it. He concentrated instead on what was right around him, ignoring everything that lay beyond. Just looking at that one street, it almost seemed like Baerlon. Baerlon, the last place they had all thought they were safe. Nobody’s safe anymore. Maybe they are all dead. What do you do then?

“They’re alive! Egwene’s alive!” he said fiercely. Several passersby looked at him oddly.

“Maybe,” Mat said. “Maybe. What if Moiraine doesn’t find us? What if nobody does but the ... the....” He shuddered, unable to say it.

“We’ll think about that when it happens,” he told Mat firmly. “If it happens.” The worst meant seeking out Elaida, the Aes Sedai in the Palace. He would go on to Tar Valon, first. He did not know if Mat remembered what Thom had said about the Red Ajah—and the Black—but he surely did. His stomach twisted again. “Thom said to find an inn called The Queen’s Blessing. We’ll go there first.”

“How? We can’t afford one meal between the two of us.”

“At least it’s a place to start. Thom thought we could find help there.”

“I can’t.... Rand, they’re everywhere.” Mat dropped his eyes to the paving stones and seemed to shrink in on himself, trying to pull away from the people that were all around them. “Wherever we go, they’re right behind us, or they’re waiting for us. They’ll be at The Queen’s Blessing, too. I can’t.... I.... Nothing’s going to stop a Fade.”

Rand grabbed Mat’s collar in a fist that he was trying hard to keep from trembling. He needed Mat. Maybe the others were alive—Light, please!—but right then and there, it was just Mat and him. The thought of going on alone.... He swallowed hard, tasting bile.

He looked around quickly. No one seemed to have heard Mat mention the Fade; the crowd pressed past lost in its own worries. He put his face close to Mat’s. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “They haven’t caught us yet. We can make it all the way, if we just don’t quit. I won’t just quit and wait for them like a sheep for slaughter. I won’t! Well? Are you going to stand here till you starve to death? Or until they come pick you up in a sack?”

He let go of Mat and turned away. His fingernails dug into his palms, but his hands still trembled. Suddenly Mat was walking alongside him, his eyes still down, and Rand let out a long breath.

“I’m sorry, Rand,” Mat mumbled.

“Forget it,” Rand said.

Mat barely looked up enough to keep from walking into people while the words poured out in a lifeless voice. “I can’t stop thinking I’ll never see home again. I want to go home. Laugh if you want; I don’t care. What I wouldn’t give to have my mother blessing me out for something right now. It’s like weights on my brain; hot weights. Strangers all around, and no way to tell who to trust, if I can trust anybody. Light, the Two Rivers is so far away it might as well be on the other side of the world. We’re alone, and we’ll never get home. We’re going to die, Rand.”

“Not yet, we won’t,” Rand retorted. “Everybody dies. The Wheel turns. I’m not going to curl up and wait for it to happen, though.”

“You sound like Master al’Vere,” Mat grumbled, but his voice had a little spirit in it.

“Good,” Rand said. “Good.” Light, let the others be all right. Please don’t let us be alone.

He began asking directions to The Queen’s Blessing. The responses varied widely, a curse for all those who did not stay where they belonged or a shrug and a blank look being the most common. Some stalked on by with no more than a glance, if that.

A broad-faced man, nearly as big as Perrin, cocked his head and said, “The Queen’s Blessing, eh? You country boys Queen’s men?” He wore a white cockade on his wide-brimmed hat, and a white armband on his long coat. “Well, you’ve come too late.”

He went off roaring with laughter, leaving Rand and Mat to stare at one another in puzzlement. Rand shrugged; there were plenty of odd folk in Caemlyn, people like he had never seen before.

Some of them stood out in the crowd, skins too dark or too pale, coats of strange cut or bright colors, hats with pointed peaks or long feathers. There were women with veils across their faces, women in stiff dresses as wide as the wearer was tall, women in dresses that left more skin bare than any tavernmaid he had seen. Occasionally a carriage, all vivid paint and gilt, squeezed through the thronged streets behind a four-or six-horse team with plumes on their harness. Sedan chairs were everywhere, the polemen pushing along with never a care for who they shoved aside.

Rand saw one fight start that way, a brawling heap of men swinging their fists while a pale-skinned man in a red-striped coat climbed out of the sedan chair lying on its side. Two roughly dressed men, who seemed to have been just passing by up till then, jumped on him before he was clear. The crowd that had stopped to watch began to turn ugly, muttering and shaking fists. Rand pulled at Mat’s sleeve and hurried on. Mat needed no second urging. The roar of a small riot followed them down the street.

Several times men approached the two of them instead of the other way around. Their dusty clothes marked them as newcomers, and seemed to act like a magnet on some types. Furtive fellows who offered relics of Logain for sale with darting eyes and feet set to run. Rand calculated he was offered enough scraps of the false Dragon’s cloak and fragments of his sword to make two swords and half a dozen cloaks. Mat’s face brightened with interest, the first time at least, but Rand gave them all a curt no, and they took it with a bob of the head and a quick, “Light illumine the Queen, good master,” and vanished. Most of the shops had plates and cups painted with fanciful scenes purporting to show the false Dragon being displayed before the Queen in chains. And there were Whitecloaks in the streets. Each walked in an open space that moved with him, just as in Baerlon.

Staying unnoticed was something Rand thought about a great deal. He kept his cloak over his sword, but that would not be good enough for very long. Sooner or later someone would wonder what he was hiding. He would not—could not—take Bunt’s advice to stop wearing it, not his link to Tam. To his father.

Many others among the throng wore swords, but none with the heron-mark to pull the eye. All the Caemlyn men, though, and some of the strangers, had their swords wound in strips of cloth, sheath and hilt, red bound with white cord, or white bound with red. A hundred heron-marks could be hidden under those wrappings and no one would see. Besides, following local fashion would make them seem to fit in more.

A good many shops were fronted with tables displaying the cloth and cord, and Rand stopped at one. The red cloth was cheaper than the white, though he could see no difference apart from the color, so he bought that and the white cord to go with it, despite Mat’s complaints about how little money they had left. The tight-lipped shopkeeper eyed them up and down with a twist to his mouth while he took Rand’s coppers, and cursed them when Rand asked for a place inside to wrap his sword.

“We didn’t come to see Logain,” Rand said patiently. “We just came to see Caemlyn.” He remembered Bunt, and added, “The grandest city in the world.” The shopkeeper’s grimace remained in place. “The Light illumine good Queen Morgase,” Rand said hopefully.

“You make any trouble,” the man said sourly, “and there’s a hundred men in sound of my voice will take care of you even if the Guards won’t.” He paused to spit, just missing Rand’s foot. “Get on about your filthy business.”

Rand nodded as if the man had bid him a cheerful farewell, and pulled Mat away. Mat kept looking back over his shoulder toward the shop, growling to himself, until Rand tugged him into an empty alleyway. With their backs to the street no passerby could see what they were doing. Rand pulled off the sword belt and set to wrapping the sheath and hilt.

“I’ll bet he charged you double for that bloody cloth,” Mat said. “Triple.”

It was not as easy as it looked, fastening the strips of cloth and the cord so the whole thing would not fall off.

“They’ll all be trying to cheat us, Rand. They think we’ve come to see the false Dragon, like everybody else. We’ll be lucky if somebody doesn’t hit us on the head while we sleep. This is no place to be. There are too many people. Let’s leave for Tar Valon now. Or south, to Illian. I wouldn’t mind seeing them gather for the Hunt of the Horn. If we can’t go home, let’s just go.”

“I’m staying,” Rand said. “If they’re not here already, they’ll come here sooner or later, looking for us.”

He was not sure if he had the wrappings done the way everyone else did, but the herons on scabbard and hilt were hidden and he thought it was secure. As he went back out on the street, he was sure that he had one less thing to worry about causing trouble. Mat trailed along beside him as reluctantly as if he were being pulled on a leash.

Bit by bit Rand did get the directions he wanted. At first they were vague, on the order of “somewhere in that direction” and “over that way.” The nearer they came, though, the clearer the instructions, until at last they stood before a broad stone building with a sign over the door creaking in the wind. A man kneeling before a woman with red-gold hair and a crown, one of her hands resting on his bowed head. The Queen’s Blessing.

“Are you sure about this?” Mat asked.

“Of course,” Rand said. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The common room was large and paneled with dark wood, and fires on two hearths warmed it. A serving maid was sweeping the floor, though it was clean, and another was polishing candlesticks in the corner. Each smiled at the two newcomers before going back to her work.

Only a few tables had people at them, but a dozen men was a crowd for so early in the day, and if none looked exactly happy to see him and Mat, at least they looked clean and sober. The smells of roasting beef and baking bread drifted from the kitchen, making Rand’s mouth water.

The innkeeper was fat, he was pleased to see, a pink-faced man in a starched white apron, with graying hair combed back over a bald spot that it did not quite cover. His sharp eye took them in from head to toe, dusty clothes and bundles and worn boots, but he had a ready, pleasant smile, too. Basel Gill was his name.

“Master Gill,” Rand said, “a friend of ours told us to come here. Thom Merrilin. He—” The innkeeper’s smile slipped. Rand looked at Mat, but he was too busy sniffing the aromas coming from the kitchen to notice anything else. “Is something wrong? You do know him?”

“I know him,” Gill said curtly. He seemed more interested in the flute case at Rand’s side now, than in anything else. “Come with me.” He jerked his head toward the back. Rand gave Mat a jerk to get him started, then followed, wondering what was going on.

In the kitchen, Master Gill paused to speak to the cook, a round woman with her hair in a bun at the back of her head who almost matched the innkeeper pound for pound. She kept stirring her pots while Master Gill talked. The smells were so good—two days’ hunger made a fine sauce for anything, but this smelled as good as Mistress al’Vere’s kitchen—that Rand’s stomach growled. Mat was leaning toward the pots, nose first. Rand nudged him; Mat hastily wiped his chin where he had begun drooling.

Then the innkeeper was hurrying them out the back door. In the stableyard he looked around to make sure no one was close, then rounded on them. On Rand. “What’s in the case, lad?”

“Thom’s flute,” Rand said slowly. He opened the case, as if showing the gold-and-silver-chased flute would help. Mat’s hand crept under his coat.

Master Gill did not take his eyes off Rand. “Aye, I recognize it. I saw him play it often enough, and there’s not likely two like that outside a royal court.” The pleasant smiles were gone, and his sharp eyes were suddenly as sharp as a knife. “How did you come by it? Thom would part with his arm as soon as that flute.”

“He gave it to me.” Rand took Thom’s bundled cloak from his back and set it on the ground, unfolding enough to show the colored patches, as well as the end of the harp case. “Thom’s dead, Master Gill. If he was your friend, I’m sorry. He was mine, too.”

“Dead, you say. How?”

“A ... a man tried to kill us. Thom pushed this at me and told us to run.” The patches fluttered in the wind like butterflies. Rand’s throat caught; he folded the cloak carefully back up again. “We’d have been killed if it hadn’t been for him. We were on our way to Caemlyn together. He told us to come here, to your inn.”

“I’ll believe he’s dead,” the innkeeper said slowly, “when I see his corpse.” He nudged the bundled cloak with his toe and cleared his throat roughly. “Nay, nay, I believe you saw whatever it was you saw; I just don’t believe he’s dead. He’s a harder man to kill than you might believe, is old Thom Merrilin.”

Rand put a hand on Mat’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Mat. He’s a friend.”

Master Gill glanced at Mat, and sighed. “I suppose I am at that.”

Mat straightened up slowly, folding his arms over his chest. He was still watching the innkeeper warily, though, and a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“Coming to Caemlyn, you say?” The innkeeper shook his head. “This is the last place on earth I’d expect Thom to come, excepting maybe it was Tar Valon.” He waited for a stableman to pass, leading a horse, and even then he lowered his voice. “You’ve trouble with the Aes Sedai, I take it.”

“Yes,” Mat grumbled at the same time that Rand said, “What makes you think that?”

Master Gill chuckled dryly. “I know the man, that’s what. He’d jump into that kind of trouble, especially to help a couple of lads about the age of you....” The reminiscence in his eyes flickered out, and he stood up straight with a chary look. “Now ... ah ... I’m not making any accusations, mind, but ... ah ... I take it neither of you can ... ah ... what I’m getting at is ... ah ... what exactly is the nature of your trouble with Tar Valon, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Rand’s skin prickled as he realized what the man was suggesting. The One Power. “No, no, nothing like that. I swear. There was even an Aes Sedai helping us. Moiraine was....” He bit his tongue, but the innkeeper’s expression never changed.

“Glad to hear it. Not that I’ve all that much love for Aes Sedai, but better them than ... that other thing.” He shook his head slowly. “Too much talk of that kind of thing, with Logain being brought here. No offense meant, you understand, but ... well, I had to know, didn’t I?”

“No offense,” Rand said. Mat’s murmur could have been anything, but the innkeeper appeared to take it for the same as Rand had said.

“You two look the right sort, and I do believe you were—are—friends of Thom, but it’s hard times and stony days. I don’t suppose you can pay? No, I didn’t think so. There’s not enough of anything, and what there is costs the earth, so I’ll give you beds—not the best, but warm and dry—and something to eat, and I cannot promise more, however much I’d like.”

“Thank you,” Rand said with a quizzical glance at Mat. “It’s more than I expected.” What was the right sort, and why should he promise more?

“Well, Thom’s a good friend. An old friend. Hot-headed and liable to say the worst possible thing to the one person he shouldn’t, but a good friend all the same. If he doesn’t show up ... well, we’ll figure something out then. Best you don’t talk any more talk about Aes Sedai helping you. I’m a good Queen’s man, but there are too many in Caemlyn right now who’d take it wrong, and I don’t mean just the Whitecloaks.”

Mat snorted. “For all I care, the ravens can take every Aes Sedai straight to Shayol Ghul!”

“Watch your tongue,” Master Gill snapped. “I said I don’t love them; I didn’t say I’m a fool thinks they’re behind everything that’s wrong. The Queen supports Elaida, and the Guards stand for the Queen. The Light send things don’t go so bad that changes. Anyway, lately some Guards have forgotten themselves enough to be a little rough with folks they overhear speaking against Aes Sedai. Not on duty, thank the Light, but it’s happened, just the same. I don’t need off-duty Guards breaking up my common room to teach you a lesson, and I don’t need Whitecloaks egging somebody on to paint the Dragon’s Fang on my door, so if you want any help out of me, you just keep thoughts about Aes Sedai to yourself, good or bad.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “Maybe it’s best you don’t mention Thom’s name, either, where anyone but me can hear. Some of the Guards have long memories, and so does the Queen. No need taking chances.”

“Thom had trouble with the Queen?” Rand said incredulously, and the innkeeper laughed.

“So he didn’t tell you everything. Don’t know why he should. On the other hand, I don’t know why you shouldn’t know, either. Not like it’s a secret, exactly. Do you think every gleeman thinks as much of himself as Thom does? Well, come to think of it, I guess they do, but it always seemed to me Thom had an extra helping of thinking a lot of himself. He wasn’t always a gleeman, you know, wandering from village to village and sleeping under a hedge as often as not. There was a time Thom Merrilin was Court-bard right here in Caemlyn, and known in every royal court from Tear to Maradon.”

“Thom?” Mat said.

Rand nodded slowly. He could picture Thom at a Queen’s court, with his stately manner and grand gestures.

“That he was,” Master Gill said. “It was not long after Taringail Damodred died that the ... trouble about his nephew cropped up. There were some said Thom was, shall we say, closer to the Queen than was proper. But Morgase was a young widow, and Thom was in his prime, then, and the Queen can do as she wishes is the way I look at it. Only she’s always had a temper, has our good Morgase, and he took off without a word when he learned what kind of trouble his nephew was in. The Queen didn’t much like that. Didn’t like him meddling in Aes Sedai matters, either. Can’t say I think it was right, either, nephew or no. Anyway, when he came back, he said some words, all right. Words you don’t say to a Queen. Words you don’t say to any woman with Morgase’s spirit. Elaida was set against him because of his trying to mix in the business with his nephew, and between the Queen’s temper and Elaida’s animosity, Thom left Caemlyn half a step ahead of a trip to prison, if not the headsman’s axe. As far as I know, the writ still stands.”

“If it was a long time ago,” Rand said, “maybe nobody remembers.”

Master Gill shook his head. “Gareth Bryne is Captain-General of the Queen’s Guards. He personally commanded the Guardsmen Morgase sent to bring Thom back in chains, and I misdoubt he’ll ever forget returning empty-handed to find Thom had already been back to the Palace and left again. And the Queen never forgets anything. You ever know a woman who did? My, but Morgase was in a taking. I’ll swear the whole city walked soft and whispered for a month. Plenty of other Guardsmen old enough to remember, too. No, best you keep Thom as close a secret as you keep that Aes Sedai of yours. Come, I’ll get you something to eat. You look as if your bellies are gnawing at your backbones.”