A Storm of Swords Complete Edition. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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СКАЧАТЬ the cellar steps came a man in a stained apron, grumbling. He was a head shorter than the woman, with a lumpy face and loose yellowish skin that still showed the marks of some pox. “I’m here, woman, quit your bellowing. What is it now?”

      “Hang this,” she said, handing him the duck.

      Anguy shuffled his feet. “We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some.”

      “Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don’t you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too.” She shook a finger at him. “Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem’s cloak, if you like, but not till it’s hung for a few days. You’ll eat rabbit, or you won’t eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you’ve got a hunger. Or might be you’d like it stewed, with ale and onions.”

      Arya could almost taste the rabbit. “We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you.”

      “Did you now? And where would they be?”

      “Hot Pie, give her the cabbages,” Arya said, and he did, though he approached the old woman as gingerly as if she were Rorge or Biter or Vargo Hoat.

      The woman gave the vegetables a close inspection, and the boy a closer one. “Where is this hot pie?”

      “Here. Me. It’s my name. And she’s … ah … Squab.”

      “Not under my roof. I give my diners and my dishes different names, so as to tell them apart. Husband!”

      Husband had stepped outside, but at her shout he hurried back. “The duck’s hung. What is it now, woman?”

      “Wash these vegetables,” she commanded. “The rest of you, sit down while I start the rabbits. The boy will bring you drink.” She looked down her long nose at Arya and Hot Pie. “I am not in the habit of serving ale to children, but the cider’s run out, there’s no cows for milk, and the river water tastes of war, with all the dead men drifting downstream. If I served you a cup of soup full of dead flies, would you drink it?”

      “Arry would,” said Hot Pie. “I mean, Squab.”

      “So would Lem,” offered Anguy with a sly smile.

      “Never you mind about Lem,” Sharna said. “It’s ale for all.” She swept off toward the kitchen.

      Anguy and Tom Sevenstrings took the table near the hearth while Lem was hanging his big yellow cloak on a peg. Hot Pie plopped down heavily on a bench at the table by the door, and Arya wedged herself in beside him.

      Tom unslung his harp. “A lonely inn on a forest road,” he sang, slowly picking out a tune to go with the words. “The innkeep’s wife was plain as a toad.”

      “Shut up with that now or we won’t be getting no rabbit,” Lem warned him. “You know how she is.”

      Arya leaned close to Hot Pie. “Can you sail a boat?” she asked. Before he could answer, a thickset boy of fifteen or sixteen appeared with tankards of ale. Hot Pie took his reverently in both hands, and when he sipped he smiled wider than Arya had ever seen him smile. “Ale,” he whispered, “and rabbit.”

      “Well, here’s to His Grace,” Anguy the Archer called out cheerfully, lifting a toast. “Seven save the king!”

      “All twelve o’ them,” Lem Lemoncloak muttered. He drank, and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

      Husband came bustling in through the front door, with an apron full of washed vegetables. “There’s strange horses in the stable,” he announced, as if they hadn’t known.

      “Aye,” said Tom, setting the woodharp aside, “and better horses than the three you gave away.”

      Husband dropped the vegetables on a table, annoyed. “I never gave them away. I sold them for a good price, and got us a skiff as well. Anyways, you lot were supposed to get them back.”

      I knew they were outlaws, Arya thought, listening. Her hand went under the table to touch the hilt of her dagger, and make sure it was still there. If they try to rob us, they’ll be sorry.

      “They never came our way,” said Lem.

      “Well, I sent them. You must have been drunk, or asleep.”

      “Us? Drunk?” Tom drank a long draught of ale. “Never.”

      “You could have taken them yourself,” Lem told Husband.

      “What, with only the boy here? I told you twice, the old woman was up to Lambswold helping that Fern birth her babe. And like as not it was one o’ you planted the bastard in the poor girl’s belly.” He gave Tom a sour look. “You, I’d wager, with that harp o’ yours, singing all them sad songs just to get poor Fern out of her smallclothes.”

      “If a song makes a maid want to slip off her clothes and feel the good warm sun kiss her skin, why, is that the singer’s fault?” asked Tom. “And ’twas Anguy she fancied, besides. ‘Can I touch your bow?’ I heard her ask him. ‘Ooohh, it feels so smooth and hard. Could I give it a little pull, do you think?”’

      Husband snorted. “You and Anguy, makes no matter which. You’re as much to blame as me for them horses. They was three, you know. What can one man do against three?”

      “Three,” said Lem scornfully, “but one a woman and t’other in chains, you said so yourself.”

      Husband made a face. “A big woman, dressed like a man. And the one in chains … I didn’t fancy the look of his eyes.”

      Anguy smiled over his ale. “When I don’t fancy a man’s eyes, I put an arrow through one.”

      Arya remembered the shaft that had brushed by her ear. She wished she knew how to shoot arrows.

      Husband was not impressed. “You be quiet when your elders are talking. Drink your ale and mind your tongue, or I’ll have the old woman take a spoon to you.”

      “My elders talk too much, and I don’t need you to tell me to drink my ale.” He took a big swallow, to show that it was so.

      Arya did the same. After days of drinking from brooks and puddles, and then the muddy Trident, the ale tasted as good as the little sips of wine her father used to allow her. A smell was drifting out from the kitchen that made her mouth water, but her thoughts were still full of that boat. Sailing it will be harder than stealing it. If we wait until they’re all asleep …

      The serving boy reappeared with big round loaves of bread. Arya broke off a chunk hungrily and tore into it. It was hard to chew, though, sort of thick and lumpy, and burned on the bottom.

      Hot Pie made a face as soon as he tasted it. “That’s bad bread,” he said. “It’s burned, and tough besides.”

      “It’s better when there’s stew to sop up,” said Lem.

      “No, it isn’t,” said Anguy, “but you’re less like to break your teeth.”

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