“Throw the apple,” urged Alleras the Sphinx. He slipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.
“I should like to see a dragon.” Roone was the youngest of them, a chunky boy still two years shy of manhood. “I should like that very much.”
And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me, Pate4 thought. He shifted restlessly on the bench. By the morrow the girl could well be his. I will take her far from Oldtown, across the narrow sea to one of the Free Cities. There were no maesters there, no one to accuse him.
He could hear Emma’s laughter coming through a ttered window overhead, mingled5 with the deeper voice of the man she was entertaining. She was the oldest of the serving wenches at the Quill6 and Tankard, forty if she was a day, but still pretty in a fleshy sort of way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that Rosey’s maidenhead would cost a golden dragon. Pate had saved nine silver stags and a pot of copper7 stars and pennies, for all the good that would do him. He would have stood a better chance of hatching a real dragon than saving up enough coin to make a golden one.
“You were born too late for dragons, lad,” Armen the Acolyte8 told Roone. Armen wore a leather thong9 about his neck, strung with links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper, and like most acolytes10 he seemed to believe that novices11 had turnips13 growing from their shoulders in place of heads. “The last one perished during the reign14 of King Aegon the Third.”
“The last dragon in Westeros,” insisted Mollander.
“Throw the apple,” Alleras urged again. He was a comely15 youth, their Sphinx. All the serving wenches doted on him. Even Rosey would sometimes touch him on the arm when she brought him wine, and Pate had to gnash his teeth and pretend not to see.
“The last dragon in Westeros was the last dragon,” said Armen doggedly16. “That is well known.”
“The apple,” Alleras said. “Unless you mean to eat it.”
“Here.” Dragging his clubfoot, Mollander took a short hop17, whirled, and whipped the apple sidearm into the mists that hung above the Honeywine. If not for his foot, he would have been a knight18 like his father. He had the strength for it in those thick arms and broad shoulders. Far and fast the apple flew . . .
. . . but not as fast as the arrow that whistled after it, a yard-long shaft19 of golden wood fletched with scarlet20 feathers. Pate did not see the arrow catch the apple, but he heard it. A soft chunk2 echoed back across the river, followed by a splash.
Mollander whistled. “You cored it. Sweet.”
Not half as sweet as Rosey. Pate loved her hazel eyes and budding breasts, and the way she smiled every time she saw him. He loved the dimples in her cheeks. Sometimes she went barefoot as she served, to feel the grass beneath her feet. He loved that too. He loved the clean fresh smell of her, the way her hair curled behind her ears. He even loved her toes. One night she’d let him rub her feet and play with them, and he’d made up a funny tale for every toe to keep her giggling21.
Perhaps he would do better to remain on this side of the narrow sea. He could buy a donkey with the coin he’d saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as they wandered Westeros. Ebrose might not think him worthy22 of the silver, but Pate knew how to set a bone and leech23 a fever. The smallfolk would be grateful for his help. If he could learn to cut hair and shave beards, he might even be a barber. That would be enough, he told himself, so long as I had Rosey. Rosey was all that he wanted in the world.
That had not always been so. Once he had dreamed of being a maester in a castle, in service to some open-handed lord who would honor him for his wisdom and bestow24 a fine white horse on him to thank him for his service. How high he’d ride, how nobly, smiling down at the smallfolk when he passed them on the road . . .
One night in the Quill and Tankard’s common room, after his second tankard of fearsomely strong cider, Pate had boasted that he would not always be a novice12. “Too true,” Lazy Leo had called out. “You’ll be a former novice, herding25 swine.”
He drained the dregs of his tankard. The torchlit terrace of the Quill and Tankard was an island of light in a sea of mist this morning. Downriver, the distant beacon26 of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy27 orange moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.
The alchemist should have come by now. Had it all been some cruel jape, or had something happened to the man? It would not have been the first time that good fortune had turned sour on Pate. He had once counted himself lucky to be chosen to help old Archmaester Walgrave with the ravens29, never dreaming that before long he would also be fetching the man’s meals, sweeping30 out his chambers31, and dressing32 him every morning. Everyone said that Walgrave had forgotten more of ravencraft than most maesters ever knew, so Pate assumed a black iron link was the least that he could hope for, only to find that Walgrave could not grant him one. The old man remained an archmaester only by courtesy. As great a maester as once he’d been, now his robes concealed33 soiled smallclothes oft as not, and half a year ago some acolytes found him weeping in the Library, unable to find his way back to his chambers. Maester Gormon sat below the iron mask in Walgrave’s place, the same Gormon who had once accused Pate of theft.
In the apple tree beside the water, a nightingale began to sing. It was a sweet sound, a welcome respite34 from the harsh screams and endless quorking of the ravens he had tended all day long. The white ravens knew his name, and would mutter it to each other whenever they caught sight of him, “Pate, Pate, Pate,” until he wanted to scream. The big white birds were Archmaester Walgrave’s pride. He wanted them to eat him when he died, but Pate half suspected that they meant to eat him too.
Perhaps it was the fearsomely strong cider—he had not come here to drink, but Alleras had been buying to celebrate his copper link, and guilt35 had made him thirsty—but it almost sounded as if the nightingale were trilling gold for iron, gold for iron, gold for iron. Which was passing strange, because that was what the stranger had said the night Rosey brought the two of them together. “Who are you?” Pate had demanded of him, and the man had replied, “An alchemist. I can change iron into gold.” And then the coin was in his hand, dancing across his knuckles36, the soft yellow gold shining in the candlelight. On one side was a three-headed dragon, on the other the head of some dead king. Gold for iron, Pate remembered, you won’t do better. Do you want her? Do you love her? “I am no thief,” he had told the man who called himself the alchemist, “I am a novice of the Citadel37.” The alchemist had bowed his head, and said, “If you should reconsider, I shall return here three days hence, with my dragon.”
Three days had passed. Pate had returned to the Quill and Tankard, still uncertain what he was, but instead of the alchemist he’d found Mollander and Armen and the Sphinx, with Roone in tow. It would have raised suspicions not to join them.
The Quill and Tankard never closed. For six hundred years it had been standing38 on its island in the Honeywine, and never once had its doors been t to trade. Though the tall, timbered building leaned toward the south the way novices sometimes leaned after a tankard, Pate expected that the inn would go on standing for another six hundred years, selling wine and ale and fearsomely strong cider to rivermen and seamen39, smiths and singers, priests and princes, and the novices and acolytes of the Citadel.
“Oldtown is not the world,” declared Mollander, too loudly. He was a knight’s son, and drunk as drunk could be. Since they brought him word of his father’s death upon the Blackwater, he got drunk most every night. Even in Oldtown, far from the fighting and safe behind its walls, the War of the Five Kings had touched them all . . . although Archmaester Benedict insisted that there had never been a war of five kings, since Renly Baratheon had been slain40 before Balon Greyjoy had crowned himself.
“My father always said the world was bigger than any lord’s castle,” Mollander went on. “Dragons must be the least of the things a man might find in Qarth and Asshai and Yi Ti. These sailors’ stories . . .”
“. . . are stories told by sailors,” Armen interrupted. “Sailors, my dear Mollander. Go back down to the docks, and I wager41 you’ll find sailors who’ll tell you of the mermaids42 that they bedded, or how they spent a year in the belly43 of a fish.”
“How do you know they didn’t?” Mollander thumped44 through the grass, looking for more apples. “You’d need to be down the belly yourself to swear they weren’t. One sailor with a story, aye, a man might laugh at that, but when oarsmen off four different ships tell the same tale in four different tongues . . .”
“The tales are not the same,” insisted Armen. “Dragons in Asshai, dragons in Qarth, dragons in Meereen, Dothraki dragons, dragons freeing slaves . . . each telling differs from the last.”
“Only in details.” Mollander grew more stubborn when he drank, and even when sober he was bullheaded. “All speak of dragons, and a beautiful young queen.”
The only dragon Pate cared about was made of yellow gold. He wondered what had happened to the alchemist. The third day. He said he’d be here.
“There’s another apple near your foot,” Alleras called to Mollander, “and I still have two arrows in my quiver.”
“Fuck your quiver.” Mollander scooped46 up the windfall. “This one’s wormy,” he complained, but he threw it anyway. The arrow caught the apple as it began to fall and sliced it clean in two. One half landed on a turret47 roof, tumbled to a lower roof, bounced, and missed Armen by a foot. “If you cut a worm in two, you make two worms,” the acolyte informed them.
“If only it worked that way with apples, no one would ever need go hungry,” said Alleras with one of his soft smiles. The Sphinx was always smiling, as if he knew some secret jape. It gave him a wicked look that went well with his pointed48 chin, widow’s peak, and dense49 mat of close-cropped jet-black curls.
Alleras would make a maester. He had only been at the Citadel for a year, yet already he had forged three links of his maester’s chain. Armen might have more, but each of his had taken him a year to earn. Still, he would make a maester too. Roone and Mollander remained pink-necked novices, but Roone was very young and Mollander preferred drinking to reading.
Pate, though . . .
He had been five years at the Citadel, arriving when he was no more than three-and-ten, yet his neck remained as pink as it had been on the day he first arrived from the westerlands. Twice had he believed himself ready. The first time he had gone before Archmaester Vaellyn to demonstrate his knowledge of the heavens. Instead he learned how Vinegar Vaellyn had earned that name. It took Pate two years to summon up the courage to try again. This time he submitted himself to kindly50 old Archmaester Ebrose, renowned51 for his soft voice and gentle hands, but Ebrose’s sighs had somehow proved just as painful as Vaellyn’s barbs52.
“One last apple,” promised Alleras, “and I will tell you what I suspect about these dragons.”
“What could you know that I don’t?” grumbled53 Mollander. He spied an apple on a branch, jumped up, pulled it down, and threw. Alleras drew his bowstring back to his ear, turning gracefully55 to follow the target in flight. He loosed his shaft just as the apple began to fall.
“You always miss your last shot,” said Roone.
The apple splashed down into the river, untouched.
“See?” said Roone.
“The day you make them all is the day you stop improving.” Alleras unstrung his longbow and eased it into its leather case. The bow was carved from goldenheart, a rare and fabled56 wood from the Summer Isles57. Pate had tried to bend it once, and failed. The Sphinx looks slight, but there’s strength in those slim arms, he reflected, as Alleras threw a leg across the bench and reached for his wine cup. “The dragon has three heads,” he announced in his soft Dornish drawl.
“Is this a riddle58?” Roone wanted to know. “Sphinxes always speak in riddles59 in the tales.”
“No riddle.” Alleras sipped60 his wine. The rest of them were quaffing61 tankards of the fearsomely strong cider that the Quill and Tankard was renowned for, but he preferred the strange, sweet wines of his mother’s country. Even in Oldtown such wines did not come cheap.
It had been Lazy Leo who dubbed62 Alleras “the Sphinx.” A sphinx is a bit of this, a bit of that: a human face, the body of a lion, the wings of a hawk63. Alleras was the same: his father was a Dornishman, his mother a black-skinned Summer Islander. His own skin was dark as teak. And like the green marble sphinxes that flanked the Citadel’s main gate, Alleras had eyes of onyx.
“No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners,” Armen the Acolyte said firmly. “That was a heraldic charge, no more. Furthermore, the Targaryens are all dead.”
“Not all,” said Alleras. “The Beggar King had a sister.”
“I thought her head was smashed against a wall,” said Roone.
“No,” said Alleras. “It was Prince Rhaegar’s young son Aegon whose head was dashed against the wall by the Lion of Lannister’s brave men. We speak of Rhaegar’s sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.”
“The Stormborn. I recall her now.” Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. “Here’s to her!” He gulped64, slammed his empty tankard down, belched65, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where’s Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldn’t you say?”
Armen the Acolyte looked alarmed. “Lower your voice, fool. You should not even jape about such things. You never know who could be listening. The Spider has ears everywhere.”
“Ah, don’t piss your breeches, Armen. I was proposing a drink, not a rebellion.”
Pate heard a chuckle66. A soft, sly voice called out from behind him. “I always knew you were a traitor67, Hopfrog.” Lazy Leo was slouching by the foot of the old plank68 bridge, draped in satin striped in green and gold, with a black silk half cape69 pinned to his shoulder by a rose of jade70. The wine he’d dribbled71 down his front had been a robust72 red, judging from the color of the spots. A lock of his ash-blond hair fell down across one eye.
Mollander bristled73 at the sight of him. “Bugger that. Go away. You are not welcome here.” Alleras laid a hand upon his arm to calm him, whilst Armen frowned. “Leo. My lord. I had understood that you were still confined to the Citadel for . . .”
“. . . three more days.” Lazy Leo shrugged74. “Perestan says the world is forty thousand years old. Mollos says five hundred thousand. What are three days, I ask you?” Though there were a dozen empty tables on the terrace, Leo sat himself at theirs. “Buy me a cup of Arbor75 gold, Hopfrog, and perhaps I won’t inform my father of your toast. The tiles turned against me at the Checkered76 Hazard, and I wasted my last stag on supper. Suckling pig in plum sauce, stuffed with chestnuts77 and white truffles. A man must eat. What did you lads have?”
“Mutton,” muttered Mollander. He sounded none too pleased about it. “We shared a haunch of boiled mutton.”
“I’m certain it was filling.” Leo turned to Alleras. “A lord’s son should be open-handed, Sphinx. I understand you won your copper link. I’ll drink to that.”
Alleras smiled back at him. “I only buy for friends. And I am no lord’s son, I’ve told you that. My mother was a trader.”
Leo’s eyes were hazel, bright with wine and malice78. “Your mother was a monkey from the Summer Isles. The Dornish will fuck anything with a hole between its legs. Meaning no offense79. You may be brown as a nut, but at least you bathe. Unlike our spotted80 pig boy.” He waved a hand toward Pate.
If I hit him in the mouth with my tankard, I could knock out half his teeth, Pate thought. Spotted Pate the pig boy was the hero of a thousand ribald stories: a good-hearted, empty-headed lout81 who always managed to best the fat lordlings, haughty82 knights83, and pompous84 septons who beset85 him. Somehow his stupidity would turn out to have been a sort of uncouth86 cunning; the tales always ended with Spotted Pate sitting on a lord’s high seat or bedding some knight’s daughter. But those were stories. In the real world pig boys never fared so well. Pate sometimes thought his mother must have hated him to have named him as she did.
Alleras was no longer smiling. “You will apologize.”
“Will I?” said Leo. “How can I, with my throat so dry . . .”
“You shame your House with every word you say,” Alleras told him. “You shame the Citadel by being one of us.”
“I know. So buy me some wine, that I might drown my shame.”
Mollander said, “I would tear your tongue out by the roots.”
“Truly? Then how would I tell you about the dragons?” Leo shrugged again. “The mongrel has the right of it. The Mad King’s daughter is alive, and she’s hatched herself three dragons.”
“Three?” said Roone, astonished.
Leo patted his hand. “More than two and less than four. I would not try for my golden link just yet if I were you.”
“You leave him be,” warned Mollander.
“Such a chivalrous87 Hopfrog. As you wish. Every man off every ship that’s sailed within a hundred leagues of Qarth is speaking of these dragons. A few will even tell you that they’ve seen them. The Mage is inclined to believe them.”
Armen pursed his lips in disapproval88. “Marwyn is unsound. Archmaester Perestan would be the first to tell you that.”
“Archmaester Ryam says so too,” said Roone.
Leo yawned. “The sea is wet, the sun is warm, and the menagerie hates the mastiff.”
He has a mocking name for everyone, thought Pate, but he could not deny that Marwyn looked more a mastiff than a maester. As if he wants to bite you. The Mage was not like other maesters. People said that he kept company with whores and hedge wizards, talked with hairy Ibbenese and pitch-black Summer Islanders in their own tongues, and sacrificed to queer gods at the little sailors’ temples down by the wharves89. Men spoke90 of seeing him down in the undercity, in rat pits and black brothels, consorting91 with mummers, singers, sellswords, even beggars. Some even whispered that once he had killed a man with his fists.
When Marwyn had returned to Oldtown, after spending eight years in the east mapping distant lands, searching for lost books, and studying with warlocks and shadowbinders, Vinegar Vaellyn had dubbed him “Marwyn the Mage.” The name was soon all over Oldtown, to Vaellyn’s vast annoyance92. “Leave spells and prayers to priests and septons and bend your wits to learning truths a man can trust in,” Archmaester Ryam had once counseled Pate, but Ryam’s ring and rod and mask were yellow gold, and his maester’s chain had no link of Valyrian steel.
Armen looked down his nose at Lazy Leo. He had the perfect nose for it, long and thin and pointed. “Archmaester Marwyn believes in many curious things,” he said, “but he has no more proof of dragons than Mollander. Just more sailors’ stories.”
“You’re wrong,” said Leo. “There is a glass candle burning in the Mage’s chambers.”
A hush93 fell over the torchlit terrace. Armen sighed and shook his head. Mollander began to laugh. The Sphinx studied Leo with his big black eyes. Roone looked lost.
Pate knew about the glass candles, though he had never seen one burn. They were the worst-kept secret of the Citadel. It was said that they had been brought to Oldtown from Valyria a thousand years before the Doom94. He had heard there were four; one was green and three were black, and all were tall and twisted.
“What are these glass candles?” asked Roone.
Armen the Acolyte cleared his throat. “The night before an acolyte says his vows96, he must stand a vigil in the vault97. No lantern is permitted him, no torch, no lamp, no taper98 . . . only a candle of obsidian99. He must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these so-called higher mysteries. Often they cut their fingers, for the ridges100 on the candles are said to be as sharp as razors. Then, with bloody101 hands, they must wait upon the dawn, brooding on their failure. Wiser men simply go to sleep, or spend their night in prayer, but every year there are always a few who must try.”
“Yes.” Pate had heard the same stories. “But what’s the use of a candle that casts no light?”
“It is a lesson,” Armen said, “the last lesson we must learn before we don our maester’s chains. The glass candle is meant to represent truth and learning, rare and beautiful and fragile things. It is made in the shape of a candle to remind us that a maester must cast light wherever he serves, and it is sharp to remind us that knowledge can be dangerous. Wise men may grow arrogant102 in their wisdom, but a maester must always remain humble103. The glass candle reminds us of that as well. Even after he has said his vow95 and donned his chain and gone forth104 to serve, a maester will think back on the darkness of his vigil and remember how nothing that he did could make the candle burn . . . for even with knowledge, some things are not possible.”
Lazy Leo burst out laughing. “Not possible for you, you mean. I saw the candle burning with my own eyes.”
“You saw some candle burning, I don’t doubt,” said Armen. “A candle of black wax, perhaps.”
“I know what I saw. The light was queer and bright, much brighter than any beeswax or tallow candle. It cast strange shadows and the flame never flickered105, not even when a draft blew through the open door behind me.”
Armen crossed his arms. “Obsidian does not burn.”
“Dragonglass,” Pate said. “The smallfolk call it dragonglass.” Somehow that seemed important.
“They do,” mused106 Alleras, the Sphinx, “and if there are dragons in the world again . . .”
“Dragons and darker things,” said Leo. “The grey sheep have closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and heroes.” He stretched, smiling his lazy smile. “That’s worth a round, I’d say.”
“We’ve drunk enough,” said Armen. “Morn will be upon us sooner than we’d like, and Archmaester Ebrose will be speaking on the properties of urine. Those who mean to forge a silver link would do well not to miss his talk.”
“Far be it from me to keep you from the piss tasting,” said Leo. “Myself, I prefer the taste of Arbor gold.”
“If the choice is piss or you, I’ll drink piss.” Mollander pushed back from the table. “Come, Roone.”
The Sphinx reached for his bowcase. “It’s bed for me as well. I expect I’ll dream of dragons and glass candles.”
“All of you?” Leo shrugged. “Well, Rosey will remain. Perhaps I’ll wake our little sweetmeat and make a woman of her.”
Alleras saw the look on Pate’s face. “If he does not have a copper for a cup of wine, he cannot have a dragon for the girl.”
“Aye,” said Mollander. “Besides, it takes a man to make a woman. Come with us, Pate. Old Walgrave will wake when the sun comes up. He’ll be needing you to help him to the privy107.”
If he remembers who I am today. Archmaester Walgrave had no trouble telling one raven28 from another, but he was not so good with people. Some days he seemed to think Pate was someone named Cressen. “Not just yet,” he told his friends. “I’m going to stay awhile.” Dawn had not broken, not quite. The alchemist might still be coming, and Pate meant to be here if he did.
“As you wish,” said Armen. Alleras gave Pate a lingering look, then slung108 his bow over one slim shoulder and followed the others toward the bridge. Mollander was so drunk he had to walk with a hand on Roone’s shoulder to keep from falling. The Citadel was no great distance as the raven flies, but none of them were ravens and Oldtown was a veritable labyrinth109 of a city, all wynds and crisscrossing alleys111 and narrow crookback streets. “Careful,” Pate heard Armen say as the river mists swallowed up the four of them, “the night is damp, and the cobbles will be slippery.”
When they were gone, Lazy Leo considered Pate sourly across the table. “How sad. The Sphinx has stolen off with all his silver, abandoning me to Spotted Pate the pig boy.” He stretched, yawning. “How is our lovely little Rosey, pray?”
“She’s sleeping,” Pate said curtly112.
“Naked, I don’t doubt.” Leo grinned. “Do you think she’s truly worth a dragon? One day I suppose I must find out.”
Pate knew better than to reply to that.
Leo needed no reply. “I expect that once I’ve broken in the wench, her price will fall to where even pig boys will be able to afford her. You ought to thank me.”
I ought to kill you, Pate thought, but he was not near drunk enough to throw away his life. Leo had been trained to arms, and was known to be deadly with bravo’s blade and dagger113. And if Pate should somehow kill him, it would mean his own head too. Leo had two names where Pate had only one, and his second was Tyrell. Ser Moryn Tyrell, commander of the City Watch of Oldtown, was Leo’s father. Mace114 Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden115 of the South, was Leo’s cousin. And Oldtown’s Old Man, Lord Leyton of the Hightower, who numbered “Protector of the Citadel” amongst his many titles, was a sworn bannerman of House Tyrell. Let it go, Pate told himself. He says these things just to wound me.
The mists were lightening to the east. Dawn, Pate realized. Dawn has come, and the alchemist has not. He did not know whether he should laugh or cry. Am I still a thief if I put it all back and no one ever knows? It was another question that he had no answer for, like those that Ebrose and Vaellyn had once asked him.
When he pushed back from the bench and got to his feet, the fearsomely strong cider all went to his head at once. He had to put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Leave Rosey be,” he said, by way of parting. “Just leave her be, or I may kill you.”
Leo Tyrell flicked116 the hair back from his eye. “I do not fight duels117 with pig boys. Go away.”
Pate turned and crossed the terrace. His heels rang against the weathered planks118 of the old bridge. By the time he reached the other side, the eastern sky was turning pink. The world is wide, he told himself. If I bought that donkey, I could still wander the roads and byways of the Seven Kingdoms, leeching119 the smallfolk and picking nits out of their hair. I could sign on to some ship, pull an oar45, and sail to Qarth by the Jade Gates to see these bloody dragons for myself. I do not need to go back to old Walgrave and the ravens.
Yet somehow his feet turned back toward the Citadel.
When the first shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds to the east, morning bells began to peal120 from the Sailor’s Sept down by the harbor. The Lord’s Sept joined in a moment later, then the Seven Shrines121 from their gardens across the Honeywine, and finally the Starry122 Sept that had been the seat of the High Septon for a thousand years before Aegon landed at King’s Landing. They made a mighty123 music. Though not so sweet as one small nightingale.
He could hear singing too, beneath the pealing124 of the bells. Each morning at first light the red priests gathered to welcome the sun outside their modest wharfside temple. For the night is dark and full of terrors. Pate had heard them cry those words a hundred times, asking their god R’hllor to save them from the darkness. The Seven were gods enough for him, but he had heard that Stannis Baratheon worshiped at the nightfires now. He had even put the fiery125 heart of R’hllor on his banners in place of the crowned stag. If he should win the Iron Throne, we’ll all need to learn the words of the red priests’ song, Pate thought, but that was not likely. Tywin Lannister had smashed Stannis and R’hllor upon the Blackwater, and soon enough he would finish them and mount the head of the Baratheon pretender on a spike126 above the gates of King’s Landing.
As the night’s mists burned away, Oldtown took form around him, emerging ghostlike from the predawn gloom. Pate had never seen King’s Landing, but he knew it was a daub-and-wattle city, a sprawl127 of mud streets, thatched roofs, and wooden hovels. Oldtown was built in stone, and all its streets were cobbled, down to the meanest alley110. The city was never more beautiful than at break of day. West of the Honeywine, the Guildhalls lined the bank like a row of palaces. Upriver, the domes128 and towers of the Citadel rose on both sides of the river, connected by stone bridges crowded with halls and houses. Downstream, below the black marble walls and arched windows of the Starry Sept, the manses of the pious129 clustered like children gathered round the feet of an old dowager.
And beyond, where the Honeywine widened into Whispering Sound, rose the Hightower, its beacon fires bright against the dawn. From where it stood atop the bluffs130 of Battle Island, its shadow cut the city like a sword. Those born and raised in Oldtown could tell the time of day by where that shadow fell. Some claimed a man could see all the way to the Wall from the top. Perhaps that was why Lord Leyton had not made the descent in more than a decade, preferring to rule his city from the clouds.
A butcher’s cart rumbled54 past Pate down the river road, five piglets in the back squealing131 in distress132. Dodging133 from its path, he just avoided being spattered as a townswoman emptied a pail of night soil from a window overhead. When I am a maester in a castle I will have a horse to ride, he thought. Then he tripped upon a cobble and wondered who he was fooling. There would be no chain for him, no seat at a lord’s high table, no tall white horse to ride. His days would be spent listening to ravens quork and scrubbing shit stains off Archmaester Walgrave’s smallclothes.
He was on one knee, trying to wipe the mud off his robes, when a voice said, “Good morrow, Pate.”
The alchemist was standing over him.
Pate rose. “The third day . . . you said you would be at the Quill and Tankard.”
“You were with your friends. It was not my wish to intrude134 upon your fellowship.” The alchemist wore a hooded135 traveler’s cloak, brown and nondescript. The rising sun was peeking136 over the rooftops behind his shoulder, so it was hard to make out the face beneath his hood3. “Have you decided137 what you are?”
Must he make me say it? “I suppose I am a thief.”
“I thought you might be.”
The hardest part had been getting down on his hands and knees to pull the strongbox from underneath138 Archmaester Walgrave’s bed. Though the box was stoutly139 made and bound with iron, its lock was broken. Maester Gormon had suspected Pate of breaking it, but that wasn’t true. Walgrave had broken the lock himself, after losing the key that opened it.
Inside, Pate had found a bag of silver stags, a lock of yellow hair tied up in a ribbon, a painted miniature of a woman who resembled Walgrave (even to her mustache), and a knight’s gauntlet made of lobstered steel. The gauntlet had belonged to a prince, Walgrave claimed, though he could no longer seem to recall which one. When Pate shook it, the key fell out onto the floor.
If I pick that up, I am a thief, he remembered thinking. The key was old and heavy, made of black iron; supposedly it opened every door at the Citadel. Only the archmaesters had such keys. The others carried theirs upon their person or hid them away in some safe place, but if Walgrave had hidden his, no one would ever have seen it again. Pate snatched up the key and had been halfway140 to the door before turning back to take the silver too. A thief was a thief, whether he stole a little or a lot. “Pate,” one of the white ravens had called after him, “Pate, Pate, Pate.”
“Do you have my dragon?” he asked the alchemist.
“If you have what I require.”
“Give it here. I want to see.” Pate did not intend to let himself be cheated.
“The river road is not the place. Come.”
He had no time to think about it, to weigh his choices. The alchemist was walking away. Pate had to follow or lose Rosey and the dragon both, forever. He followed. As they walked, he slipped his hand up into his sleeve. He could feel the key, safe inside the hidden pocket he had sewn there. Maester’s robes were full of pockets. He had known that since he was a boy.
He had to hurry to keep pace with the alchemist’s longer strides. They went down an alley, around a corner, through the old Thieves Market, along Ragpicker’s Wynd. Finally, the man turned into another alley, narrower than the first. “This is far enough,” said Pate. “There’s no one about. We’ll do it here.”
“As you wish.”
“I want my dragon.”
“To be sure.” The coin appeared. The alchemist made it walk across his knuckles, the way he had when Rosey brought the two of them together. In the morning light the dragon glittered as it moved, and gave the alchemist’s fingers a golden glow.
Pate grabbed it from his hand. The gold felt warm against his palm. He brought it to his mouth and bit down on it the way he’d seen men do. If truth be told, he wasn’t sure what gold should taste like, but he did not want to look a fool.
“The key?” the alchemist inquired politely.
Something made Pate hesitate. “Is it some book you want?” Some of the old Valyrian scrolls141 down in the locked vaults142 were said to be the only surviving copies in the world.
“What I want is none of your concern.”
“No.” It’s done, Pate told himself. Go. Run back to the Quill and Tankard, wake Rosey with a kiss, and tell her she belongs to you. Yet still he lingered. “Show me your face.”
“As you wish.” The alchemist pulled his hood down.
He was just a man, and his face was just a face. A young man’s face, ordinary, with full cheeks and the shadow of a beard. A scar showed faintly on his right cheek. He had a hooked nose, and a mat of dense black hair that curled tightly around his ears. It was not a face Pate recognized. “I do not know you.”
“Nor I you.”
“Who are you?”
“A stranger. No one. Truly.”
“Oh.” Pate had run out of words. He drew out the key and put it in the stranger’s hand, feeling light-headed, almost giddy. Rosey, he reminded himself. “We’re done, then.”
He was halfway down the alley when the cobblestones began to move beneath his feet. The stones are slick and wet, he thought, but that was not it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “What’s happening?” he said. His legs had turned to water. “I don’t understand.”
“And never will,” a voice said sadly.
The cobblestones rushed up to kiss him. Pate tried to cry for help, but his voice was failing too.
His last thought was of Rosey.
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1
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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7
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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14
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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18
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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20
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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21
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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22
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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23
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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24
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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25
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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26
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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27
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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28
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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30
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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31
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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32
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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33
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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34
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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35
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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36
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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37
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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38
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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39
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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40
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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41
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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42
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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43
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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44
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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46
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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47
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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48
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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49
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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52
barbs
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| n.（箭头、鱼钩等的）倒钩( barb的名词复数 )；带刺的话；毕露的锋芒；钩状毛 | |
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53
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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54
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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55
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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56
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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57
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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58
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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59
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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60
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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62
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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63
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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64
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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65
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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66
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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67
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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68
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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69
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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70
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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71
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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72
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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73
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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76
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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77
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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78
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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79
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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80
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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81
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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82
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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83
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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84
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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85
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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86
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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87
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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88
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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89
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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90
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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91
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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92
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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93
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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94
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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95
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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96
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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97
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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98
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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99
obsidian
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| n.黑曜石 | |
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100
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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101
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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102
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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103
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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104
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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105
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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107
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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108
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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109
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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110
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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111
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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112
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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113
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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114
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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115
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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116
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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117
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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118
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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119
leeching
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| 水蛭吸血法 | |
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120
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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121
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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122
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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124
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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125
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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126
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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127
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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128
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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129
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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130
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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131
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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132
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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133
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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134
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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135
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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136
peeking
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| v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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137
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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138
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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139
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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140
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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141
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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142
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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