"George R. R. Martin - A Song of Ice and Fire 4 - A Feast for Crows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

. . . but not as fast as the arrow that whistled after it. a yard-long shaft
of golden wood fletched with scarlet feathers. Pate did not see the arrow catch
the apple, but he heard it. A soft chunk echoed back across the river, followed
by a splash.

Mollander whistled. "You cored it. Sweet."

Nor 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 even,' toe
to keep her giggling.

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 worthy of the silver,
but Pate knew how to set a bone and leech 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
Rose}'. 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 bestow a fine white horse on him to thank him for his



A FEAST FOR CROWS



3



service. How high hed 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 novice.
"Too true. Lazy Leo had called out. 'You'll be a former novice, herding 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 beacon of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange
moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.