George R.R. Martin - Tales of Dunk and Egg 01 - The Hedge ehirimatom.ga Dunk and Egg 04 - The Princess and the Queen Or The Blacks & The ehirimatom.ga Is it worth reading The Rogue Prince and The Princess and the Queen? In The Princess & The Queen and The Rogue Prince, was George R.R. A Song of Ice and Fire (book series): What do people who've read The Princess & The Queen and The Rogue Prince think of Daemon Targaryen?. News and discussions relating to George R. R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" novels, his Westeros-based short stories, "Game of Thrones" and all things ASOIAF - but with particular emphasis on the written series. No Spoilers: No Spoilers allowed.
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George R R Martin & Gardner Dozois (ed) - Dangerous Women (epub) Told Me by Caroline Spector The Princess and the Queen by George R. R. Martin. My student budget cant really justify spending $37 for The Princess is ehirimatom.ga - file of about KB named "The Princess and the Queen, or. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg.
Maybe just a lizard skittering away into the shadows-of which there was no shortage-and a bumper harvest of dust, greying every surface, drifted into every corner. Shy stood there a moment just blinking, then dashed back out along the rickety stoop and to the next building. When she shoved the door, it dropped right off its rusted hinges. This one hadn't even a roof. Hadn't even a floor. Just bare rafters with the careless, pinking sky above, and bare joists with a stretch of dirt below, every bit as desolate as the miles of dirt outside.
She saw it now as she stepped back into the street with vision unhindered by hope.
No glass in the windows, or wax paper, even. No rope by the crumbling well.
No animals to be seen-aside from her own dead horse, that was, which only served to prove the point. It was a dried-out corpse of a town, long since dead. Shy stood in that forsaken place, up on the balls of her bare feet as though she was about to sprint off somewhere but lacked the destination, hugging herself with one arm while the fingers of the other hand fluttered and twitched at nothing, biting on her lip and sucking air fast and rasping through the little gap between her front teeth.
Even by recent standards, it was a low moment. But if she'd learned anything the last few months, it was that things can always get lower. Looking back the way she'd come, Shy saw the dust rising. Three little grey trails in the shimmer off the grey land. She pulled her eating knife from her belt and wiped the little splinter of metal on her dirty shirt, as though cleaning it might somehow settle the odds. Shy had been told she had a fertile imagination, but even so, it was hard to picture a more feeble weapon.
She'd have laughed if she hadn't been on the verge of weeping. She'd spent way too much time on the verge of weeping the last few months, now that she thought about it.
How had it come to this? A question for some jilted girl rather than an outlaw with four thousand marks offered, but still a question she was never done asking. Some desperado! She'd grown expert on the desperate part but the rest remained a mystery. The sorry truth was that she knew full well how it came to this-the same way as always.
One disaster following so hard on another that she just bounced between 'em, pinging about like a moth in a lantern. The second usual question followed hard on the first. What the fuck now? She sucked in her stomach-not that there was much to suck in these days-and dragged the bag out by the drawstrings, coins inside clicking together with that special sound only money makes.
Two thousand marks in silver, give or take. You'd think that a bank would hold a lot more-they told depositors they always had fifty thousand on hand-but it turns out you can't trust banks any more than bandits. She dug her hand in, dragged free a fistful of coins, and tossed the money across the street, leaving it gleaming in the dust. She did it like she did most things these days-hardly knowing why.
Maybe she valued her life a lot higher'n two thousand marks, even if no one else did. Maybe she hoped they'd just take the silver and leave her be, though what she'd do once she was left be in this corpse town-no horse, no food, no weapon-she hadn't thought out. Clearly she hadn't fixed up a whole plan, or not one that would hold too much water, leastways. Leaky planning had always been a problem of hers.
She sprinkled silver as if she was tossing seed on her mother's farm, miles and years and a dozen violent deaths away. Whoever would've thought she'd miss the place?
Miss the bone-poor house and the broke-down barn and the fences that always needed mending. The stubborn cow that never gave milk and the stubborn well that never gave water and the stubborn soil that only weeds would thrive in. Her stubborn little sister and brother too. Even big, scarred, softheaded Lamb. What Shy would've given now to hear her mother's shrill voice curse her out again. She sniffed hard, her nose hurting, her eyes stinging, and wiped 'em on the back of her frayed cuff.
No time for tearful reminiscences. She could see three dark spots of riders now beneath those three inevitable dust trails. She flung the empty bag away, ran back to the tavern, and- "Ah!
The world's nothing but a mean bully, that's a fact. Even when you've big misfortunes threatening to drop on your head, small ones still take every chance to prick your toes. How she wished she'd got the chance to grab her boots. Just to keep a shred of dignity. But she had what she had, and neither boots nor dignity were on the list, and a hundred big wishes weren't worth one little fact-as Lamb used to boringly drone at her whenever she cursed him and her mother and her lot in life and swore she'd be gone in the morning.
Shy remembered how she'd been then, and wished she had the chance now to punch her earlier self in the face. But she could punch herself in the face when she got out of this. She'd a procession of other willing fists to weather first. She hurried up the stairs, limping a little and cursing a lot. When she reached the top she saw she'd left bloody toe prints on every other one.
She was working up to feeling pretty damn low about that glistening trail leading right to the end of her leg, when something like an idea came trickling through the panic. She paced down the balcony, making sure to press her bloody foot firm to the boards, and turned into an abandoned room at the end.
Then she held her foot up, gripping it hard with one hand to stop the bleeding, and hopped back the way she'd come and through the first doorway, near the top of the steps, pressing herself into the shadows inside. A pitiful effort, doubtless. As pitiful as her bare feet and her eating knife and her two-thousand-mark haul and her big dream of making it back home to the shit-hole she'd had the big dream of leaving. Small chance those three bastards would fall for that, even stupid as they were.
But what else could she do? When you're down to small stakes, you have to play long odds. Her own breath was her only company, echoing in the emptiness, hard on the out, ragged on the in, almost painful down her throat. The breath of someone scared near the point of an involuntary shitting and all out of ideas. She just couldn't see her way to the other side of this. She ever made it back to that farm she'd jump out of bed every morning she woke alive and do a little dance, and give her mother a kiss for every cuss, and never snap at her sister or mock Lamb again for being a coward.
She promised it, then wished she was the sort who kept promises. She heard horses outside, crept to the one window with half a v Automatyczne logowanie Zarejestruj. Zaloguj Anuluj. Opublikowany Komentarze do: Dodaj komentarz. Martin, George R. Wyprawa Lowcy - George R.
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