A Storm of Swords
Page 28
"What about you?"
"I'll hide by the tree. He's probably alone. If he bothers me, I'll kill him. Go!"
Hot Pie went, and Arya dropped her carrots and drew the stolen sword from over her shoulder. She had strapped the sheath across her back; the longsword was made for a man grown, and it bumped against the ground when she wore it on her hip. It's too heavy besides, she thought, missing Needle the way she did every time she took this clumsy thing in her hand. But it was a sword and she could kill with it, that was enough.
Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer's voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He's heard, she knew, but maybe he's alone, or if he's not, maybe they'll be as scared of us as we are of them.
"Did you hear that?" a man's voice said. "There's something behind that wall, I would say."
"Aye," replied a second voice, deeper. "What do you think it might be, Archer?"
Two, then. Arya bit her lip. She could not see them from where she knelt, on account of the willow. But she could hear.
"A bear." A third voice, or the first one again?
"A lot of meat on a bear," the deep voice said. "A lot of fat as well, in fall. Good to eat, if it's cooked up right."
"Could be a wolf. Maybe a lion."
"With four feet, you think? Or two?"
"Makes no matter. Does it?"
"Not so I know. Archer, what do you mean to do with all them arrows?"
"Drop a few shafts over the wall. Whatever's hiding back there will come out quick enough, watch and see."
"What if it's some honest man back there, though? Or some poor woman with a little babe at her breast?"
"An honest man would come out and show us his face. Only an outlaw would skulk and hide."
"Aye, that's so. Go on and loose your shafts, then."
Arya sprang to her feet. "Don't!" She showed them her sword. There were three, she saw. Only three. Syrio could fight more than three, and she had Hot Pie and Gendry to stand with her, maybe. But they're boys, and these are men.
They were men afoot, travel-stained and mud-specked. She knew the singer by the woodharp he cradled against his jerkin, as a mother might cradle a babe. A small man, fifty from the look of him, he had a big mouth, a sharp nose, and thinning brown hair. His faded greens were mended here and there with old leather patches, and he wore a brace of throwing knives on his hip and a woodman's axe slung across his back.
The man beside him stood a good foot taller, and had the look of a soldier. A longsword and dirk hung from his studded leather belt, rows of overlapping steel rings were sewn onto his shirt, and his head was covered by a black iron halfhelm shaped like a cone. He had bad teeth and a bushy brown beard, but it was his hooded yellow cloak that drew the eye. Thick and heavy, stained here with grass and there with blood, frayed along the bottom and patched with deerskin on the right shoulder, the greatcloak gave the big man the look of some huge yellow bird.
The last of the three was a youth as skinny as his longbow, if not quite as tall. Red-haired and freckled, he wore a studded brigantine, high boots, fingerless leather gloves, and a quiver on his back. His arrows were fletched with grey goose feathers, and six of them stood in the ground before him, like a little fence.
The three men looked at her, standing there in the road with her blade in hand. Then the singer idly plucked a string. "Boy," he said, "put up that sword now, unless you're wanting to be hurt. It's too big for you, lad, and besides, Anguy here could put three shafts through you before you could hope to reach us."
"He could not," Arya said, "and I'm a girl."
"So you are." The singer bowed. "My pardons."
"You go on down the road. Just walk right past here, and you keep on singing, so we'll know where you are. Go away and leave us be and I won't kill you."
The freckle-faced archer laughed. "Lem, she won't kill us, did you hear?"
"I heard," said Lem, the big soldier with the deep voice.
"Child," said the singer, "put up that sword, and we'll take you to a safe place and get some food in that belly. There are wolves in these parts, and lions, and worse things. No place for a little girl to be wandering alone."
"She's not alone." Gendry rode out from behind the cottage wall, and behind him Hot Pie, leading her horse. In his chainmail shirt with a sword in his hand, Gendry looked almost a man grown, and dangerous. Hot Pie looked like Hot Pie. "Do like she says, and leave us be," warned Gendry.
"Two and three," the singer counted, "and is that all of you? And horses too, lovely horses. Where did you steal them?"
"They're ours." Arya watched them carefully. The singer kept distracting her with his talk, but it was the archer who was the danger. If he should pull an arrow from the ground . . .
"Will you give us your names like honest men?" the singer asked the boys.
"I'm Hot Pie," Hot Pie said at once.
"Aye, and good for you." The man smiled. "It's not every day I meet a lad with such a tasty name. And what would your friends be called, Mutton Chop and Squab?"
Gendry scowled down from his saddle. "Why should I tell you my name? I haven't heard yours."
"Well, as to that, I'm Tom of Sevenstreams, but Tom Sevenstrings is what they call me, or Tom o' Sevens. This great lout with the brown teeth is Lem, short for Lemoncloak. It's yellow, you see, and Lem's a sour sort. And young fellow me lad over there is Anguy, or Archer as we like to call him."
"Now who are you?" demanded Lem, in the deep voice that Arya had heard through the branches of the willow.
She was not about to give up her true name as easy as that. "Squab, if you want," she said. "I don't care."
The big man laughed. "A squab with a sword," he said. "Now there's something you don't often see."
"I'm the Bull," said Gendry, taking his lead from Arya. She could not blame him for preferring Bull to Mutton Chop.
Tom Sevenstrings strummed his harp. "Hot Pie, Squab, and the Bull. Escaped from Lord Bolton's kitchen, did you?"
"How did you know?" Arya demanded, uneasy.
"You bear his sigil on your chest, little one."
She had forgotten that for an instant. Beneath her cloak, she still wore her fine page's doublet, with the flayed man of the Dreadfort sewn on her breast. "Don't call me little one!"
"Why not?" said Lem. "You're little enough."
"I'm bigger than I was. I'm not a child." Children didn't kill people, and she had.
"I can see that, Squab. You're none of you children, not if you were Bolton's."
"We never were." Hot Pie never knew when to keep quiet. "We were at Harrenhal before he came, that's all."
"So you're lion cubs, is that the way of it?" said Tom.
"Not that either. We're nobody's men. Whose men are you?"
Anguy the Archer said, "We're king's men."
Arya frowned. "Which king?"
"King Robert," said Lem, in his yellow cloak.
"That old drunk?" said Gendry scornfully. "He's dead, some boar killed him, everyone knows that."
"Aye, lad," said Tom Sevenstrings, "and more's the pity." He plucked a sad chord from his harp.
Arya didn't think they were king's men at all. They looked more like outlaws, all tattered and ragged. They didn't even have horses to ride. King's men would have had horses.
But Hot Pie piped up eagerly. "We're looking for Riverrun," he said. "How many days' ride is it, do you know?"
Arya could have killed him. "You be quiet, or I'll stuff rocks in your big stupid mouth,"
"Riverrun is a long way upstream," said Tom. "A long hungry way. Might be you'd like a hot meal before you set out? There's an inn not far ahead kept by some friends of ours. We could share some ale and a bite of bread, instead of fighting one another."
"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. Not everyone who spoke you friendly was really your friend. "It's near, you say?"
"Two miles upstream," said Tom. "A league at most."
Gendry looked as uncertain as she felt. "What do you mean, friends?" he asked warily.
"Friends. Have you forgotten what friends are?"
"Sharna is the innkeep's name," Tom put in. "She has a sharp tongue and a fierce eye, I'll grant you that, but her heart's a good one, and she's fond of little girls."
"I'm not a little girl," she said angrily. "Who else is there? You said friends"
"Sharna's husband, and an orphan boy they took in. They won't harm you. There's ale, if you think you're old enough. Fresh bread and maybe a bit of meat." Tom glanced toward the cottage. "And whatever you stole from Old Pate's garden besides."
"We never stole," said Arya.
"Are you Old Pate's daughter, then? A sister? A wife? Tell me no lies, Squab. I buried Old Pate myself, right there under that willow where you were hiding, and you don't have his look." He drew a sad sound from his harp. "We've buried many a good man this past year, but we've no wish to bury you, I swear it on my harp. Archer, show her."
The archer's hand moved quicker than Arya would have believed. His shaft went hissing past her head within an inch of her ear and buried itself in the trunk of the willow behind her. By then the bowman had a second arrow notched and drawn. She'd thought she understood what Syrio meant by quick as a snake and smooth as summer silk, but now she knew she hadn't. The arrow thrummed behind her like a bee. "You missed," she said.
"More fool you if you think so," said Anguy. "They go where I send them."
"That they do," agreed Lem Lemoncloak.
There were a dozen steps between the archer and the point of her sword. We have no chance, Arya realized, wishing she had a bow like his, and the skill to use it. Glumly, she lowered her heavy longsword till the point touched the ground. "We'll come see this inn," she conceded, trying to hide the doubt in her heart behind bold words. "You walk in front and we'll ride behind, so we can see what you're doing."
Tom Sevenstrings bowed deeply and said, "Before, behind, it makes no matter. Come along, lads, let's show them the way. Anguy, best pull up those arrows, we won't be needing them here."
Arya sheathed her sword and crossed the road to where her friends sat on their horses, keeping her distance from the three strangers. "Hot Pie, get those cabbages," she said as she vaulted into her saddle. "And the carrots too."
For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long."
"I'll hide by the tree. He's probably alone. If he bothers me, I'll kill him. Go!"
Hot Pie went, and Arya dropped her carrots and drew the stolen sword from over her shoulder. She had strapped the sheath across her back; the longsword was made for a man grown, and it bumped against the ground when she wore it on her hip. It's too heavy besides, she thought, missing Needle the way she did every time she took this clumsy thing in her hand. But it was a sword and she could kill with it, that was enough.
Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer's voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He's heard, she knew, but maybe he's alone, or if he's not, maybe they'll be as scared of us as we are of them.
"Did you hear that?" a man's voice said. "There's something behind that wall, I would say."
"Aye," replied a second voice, deeper. "What do you think it might be, Archer?"
Two, then. Arya bit her lip. She could not see them from where she knelt, on account of the willow. But she could hear.
"A bear." A third voice, or the first one again?
"A lot of meat on a bear," the deep voice said. "A lot of fat as well, in fall. Good to eat, if it's cooked up right."
"Could be a wolf. Maybe a lion."
"With four feet, you think? Or two?"
"Makes no matter. Does it?"
"Not so I know. Archer, what do you mean to do with all them arrows?"
"Drop a few shafts over the wall. Whatever's hiding back there will come out quick enough, watch and see."
"What if it's some honest man back there, though? Or some poor woman with a little babe at her breast?"
"An honest man would come out and show us his face. Only an outlaw would skulk and hide."
"Aye, that's so. Go on and loose your shafts, then."
Arya sprang to her feet. "Don't!" She showed them her sword. There were three, she saw. Only three. Syrio could fight more than three, and she had Hot Pie and Gendry to stand with her, maybe. But they're boys, and these are men.
They were men afoot, travel-stained and mud-specked. She knew the singer by the woodharp he cradled against his jerkin, as a mother might cradle a babe. A small man, fifty from the look of him, he had a big mouth, a sharp nose, and thinning brown hair. His faded greens were mended here and there with old leather patches, and he wore a brace of throwing knives on his hip and a woodman's axe slung across his back.
The man beside him stood a good foot taller, and had the look of a soldier. A longsword and dirk hung from his studded leather belt, rows of overlapping steel rings were sewn onto his shirt, and his head was covered by a black iron halfhelm shaped like a cone. He had bad teeth and a bushy brown beard, but it was his hooded yellow cloak that drew the eye. Thick and heavy, stained here with grass and there with blood, frayed along the bottom and patched with deerskin on the right shoulder, the greatcloak gave the big man the look of some huge yellow bird.
The last of the three was a youth as skinny as his longbow, if not quite as tall. Red-haired and freckled, he wore a studded brigantine, high boots, fingerless leather gloves, and a quiver on his back. His arrows were fletched with grey goose feathers, and six of them stood in the ground before him, like a little fence.
The three men looked at her, standing there in the road with her blade in hand. Then the singer idly plucked a string. "Boy," he said, "put up that sword now, unless you're wanting to be hurt. It's too big for you, lad, and besides, Anguy here could put three shafts through you before you could hope to reach us."
"He could not," Arya said, "and I'm a girl."
"So you are." The singer bowed. "My pardons."
"You go on down the road. Just walk right past here, and you keep on singing, so we'll know where you are. Go away and leave us be and I won't kill you."
The freckle-faced archer laughed. "Lem, she won't kill us, did you hear?"
"I heard," said Lem, the big soldier with the deep voice.
"Child," said the singer, "put up that sword, and we'll take you to a safe place and get some food in that belly. There are wolves in these parts, and lions, and worse things. No place for a little girl to be wandering alone."
"She's not alone." Gendry rode out from behind the cottage wall, and behind him Hot Pie, leading her horse. In his chainmail shirt with a sword in his hand, Gendry looked almost a man grown, and dangerous. Hot Pie looked like Hot Pie. "Do like she says, and leave us be," warned Gendry.
"Two and three," the singer counted, "and is that all of you? And horses too, lovely horses. Where did you steal them?"
"They're ours." Arya watched them carefully. The singer kept distracting her with his talk, but it was the archer who was the danger. If he should pull an arrow from the ground . . .
"Will you give us your names like honest men?" the singer asked the boys.
"I'm Hot Pie," Hot Pie said at once.
"Aye, and good for you." The man smiled. "It's not every day I meet a lad with such a tasty name. And what would your friends be called, Mutton Chop and Squab?"
Gendry scowled down from his saddle. "Why should I tell you my name? I haven't heard yours."
"Well, as to that, I'm Tom of Sevenstreams, but Tom Sevenstrings is what they call me, or Tom o' Sevens. This great lout with the brown teeth is Lem, short for Lemoncloak. It's yellow, you see, and Lem's a sour sort. And young fellow me lad over there is Anguy, or Archer as we like to call him."
"Now who are you?" demanded Lem, in the deep voice that Arya had heard through the branches of the willow.
She was not about to give up her true name as easy as that. "Squab, if you want," she said. "I don't care."
The big man laughed. "A squab with a sword," he said. "Now there's something you don't often see."
"I'm the Bull," said Gendry, taking his lead from Arya. She could not blame him for preferring Bull to Mutton Chop.
Tom Sevenstrings strummed his harp. "Hot Pie, Squab, and the Bull. Escaped from Lord Bolton's kitchen, did you?"
"How did you know?" Arya demanded, uneasy.
"You bear his sigil on your chest, little one."
She had forgotten that for an instant. Beneath her cloak, she still wore her fine page's doublet, with the flayed man of the Dreadfort sewn on her breast. "Don't call me little one!"
"Why not?" said Lem. "You're little enough."
"I'm bigger than I was. I'm not a child." Children didn't kill people, and she had.
"I can see that, Squab. You're none of you children, not if you were Bolton's."
"We never were." Hot Pie never knew when to keep quiet. "We were at Harrenhal before he came, that's all."
"So you're lion cubs, is that the way of it?" said Tom.
"Not that either. We're nobody's men. Whose men are you?"
Anguy the Archer said, "We're king's men."
Arya frowned. "Which king?"
"King Robert," said Lem, in his yellow cloak.
"That old drunk?" said Gendry scornfully. "He's dead, some boar killed him, everyone knows that."
"Aye, lad," said Tom Sevenstrings, "and more's the pity." He plucked a sad chord from his harp.
Arya didn't think they were king's men at all. They looked more like outlaws, all tattered and ragged. They didn't even have horses to ride. King's men would have had horses.
But Hot Pie piped up eagerly. "We're looking for Riverrun," he said. "How many days' ride is it, do you know?"
Arya could have killed him. "You be quiet, or I'll stuff rocks in your big stupid mouth,"
"Riverrun is a long way upstream," said Tom. "A long hungry way. Might be you'd like a hot meal before you set out? There's an inn not far ahead kept by some friends of ours. We could share some ale and a bite of bread, instead of fighting one another."
"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. Not everyone who spoke you friendly was really your friend. "It's near, you say?"
"Two miles upstream," said Tom. "A league at most."
Gendry looked as uncertain as she felt. "What do you mean, friends?" he asked warily.
"Friends. Have you forgotten what friends are?"
"Sharna is the innkeep's name," Tom put in. "She has a sharp tongue and a fierce eye, I'll grant you that, but her heart's a good one, and she's fond of little girls."
"I'm not a little girl," she said angrily. "Who else is there? You said friends"
"Sharna's husband, and an orphan boy they took in. They won't harm you. There's ale, if you think you're old enough. Fresh bread and maybe a bit of meat." Tom glanced toward the cottage. "And whatever you stole from Old Pate's garden besides."
"We never stole," said Arya.
"Are you Old Pate's daughter, then? A sister? A wife? Tell me no lies, Squab. I buried Old Pate myself, right there under that willow where you were hiding, and you don't have his look." He drew a sad sound from his harp. "We've buried many a good man this past year, but we've no wish to bury you, I swear it on my harp. Archer, show her."
The archer's hand moved quicker than Arya would have believed. His shaft went hissing past her head within an inch of her ear and buried itself in the trunk of the willow behind her. By then the bowman had a second arrow notched and drawn. She'd thought she understood what Syrio meant by quick as a snake and smooth as summer silk, but now she knew she hadn't. The arrow thrummed behind her like a bee. "You missed," she said.
"More fool you if you think so," said Anguy. "They go where I send them."
"That they do," agreed Lem Lemoncloak.
There were a dozen steps between the archer and the point of her sword. We have no chance, Arya realized, wishing she had a bow like his, and the skill to use it. Glumly, she lowered her heavy longsword till the point touched the ground. "We'll come see this inn," she conceded, trying to hide the doubt in her heart behind bold words. "You walk in front and we'll ride behind, so we can see what you're doing."
Tom Sevenstrings bowed deeply and said, "Before, behind, it makes no matter. Come along, lads, let's show them the way. Anguy, best pull up those arrows, we won't be needing them here."
Arya sheathed her sword and crossed the road to where her friends sat on their horses, keeping her distance from the three strangers. "Hot Pie, get those cabbages," she said as she vaulted into her saddle. "And the carrots too."
For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long."
