In the apple tree beside the water, a nightingale began to sing. It was a sweet sound, a welcome respite from the harsh screams and endless quork ing 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 Walgraves 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 ciderhe had not come here to drink, but Alleras had been buying to celebrate his copper link, and guilt had made him thirstybut 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 knuckles, 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 wont 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 Citadel. 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 hed 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 standing on its island in the Honeywine, and never once had its doors been shut 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 seamen, 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 knights son, and drunk as drunk could be. Since they brought him word of his fathers 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 slain before Balon Greyjoy had crowned himself.
My father always said the world was bigger than any lords 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 wager youll find sailors wholl tell you of the mermaids that they bedded, or how they spent a year in the belly of a fish.
How do you know they didnt? Mollander thumped through the grass, looking for more apples. Youd need to be down the belly yourself to swear they werent. 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 hed be here.
Theres another apple near your foot, Alleras called to Mollander, and I still have two arrows in my quiver.
Fuck your quiver. Mollander scooped up the windfall. This ones 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 turret 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 pointed chin, widows peak, and dense 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 maesters 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.