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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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- Стр. 503/751
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Five
men
were
down
,
dead
,
or
dying
by
the
time
Arya
reached
the
back
door
that
opened
on
the
kitchen
.
She
heard
Ser
Meryn
Trant
curse
.
"
Bloody
oafs
,
"
he
swore
,
drawing
his
longsword
from
its
scabbard
.
Syrio
Forel
resumed
his
stance
and
clicked
his
teeth
together
.
"
Arya
child
,
"
he
called
out
,
never
looking
at
her
,
"
be
gone
now
.
"
Look
with
your
eyes
,
he
had
said
.
She
saw
:
the
knight
in
his
pale
armor
head
to
foot
,
legs
,
throat
,
and
hands
sheathed
in
metal
,
eyes
hidden
behind
his
high
white
helm
,
and
in
his
hand
cruel
steel
.
Against
that
:
Syrio
,
in
a
leather
vest
,
with
a
wooden
sword
in
his
hand
.
"
Syrio
,
run
,
"
she
screamed
.
"
The
first
sword
of
Braavos
does
not
run
,
"
he
sang
as
Ser
Meryn
slashed
at
him
.
Syrio
danced
away
from
his
cut
,
his
stick
a
blur
.
In
a
heartbeat
,
he
had
bounced
blows
off
the
knight
's
temple
,
elbow
,
and
throat
,
the
wood
ringing
against
the
metal
of
helm
,
gauntlet
,
and
gorget
.
Arya
stood
frozen
.
Ser
Meryn
advanced
;
Syrio
backed
away
.
He
checked
the
next
blow
,
spun
away
from
the
second
,
deflected
the
third
.
The
fourth
sliced
his
stick
in
two
,
splintering
the
wood
and
shearing
through
the
lead
core
.
Sobbing
,
Arya
spun
and
ran
.
She
plunged
through
the
kitchens
and
buttery
,
blind
with
panic
,
weaving
between
cooks
and
potboys
.
A
baker
's
helper
stepped
in
front
of
her
,
holding
a
wooden
tray
.
Arya
bowled
her
over
,
scattering
fragrant
loaves
of
fresh-baked
bread
on
the
floor
.
She
heard
shouting
behind
her
as
she
spun
around
a
portly
butcher
who
stood
gaping
at
her
with
a
cleaver
in
his
hands
.
His
arms
were
red
to
the
elbow
.
All
that
Syrio
Forel
had
taught
her
went
racing
through
her
head
.
Swift
as
a
deer
.
Quiet
as
a
shadow
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
Quick
as
a
snake
.
Calm
as
still
water
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
Strong
as
a
bear
.
Fierce
as
a
wolverine
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
The
man
who
fears
losing
has
already
lost
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
Fear
cuts
deeper
than
swords
.
The
grip
of
her
wooden
sword
was
slick
with
sweat
,
and
Arya
was
breathing
hard
when
she
reached
the
turret
stair
.
For
an
instant
she
froze
.
Up
or
down
?
Up
would
take
her
to
the
covered
bridge
that
spanned
the
small
court
to
the
Tower
of
the
Hand
,
but
that
would
be
the
way
they
'd
expect
her
to
go
,
for
certain
.
Never
do
what
they
expect
,
Syrio
once
said
.
Arya
went
down
,
around
and
around
,
leaping
over
the
narrow
stone
steps
two
and
three
at
a
time
.
She
emerged
in
a
cavernous
vaulted
cellar
,
surrounded
by
casks
of
ale
stacked
twenty
feet
tall
.
The
only
light
came
through
narrow
slanting
windows
high
in
the
wall
.
The
cellar
was
a
dead
end
.
There
was
no
way
out
but
the
way
she
had
come
in
.
She
dare
not
go
back
up
those
steps
,
but
she
could
n't
stay
here
,
either
.
She
had
to
find
her
father
and
tell
him
what
had
happened
.
Her
father
would
protect
her
.
