"George R. R. Martin - Ice and Fire 3 - A Storm of Swords" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

through fires, jumping the ringwall, and trampling down tents. With all the
confusion, it might be hours before anyone noticed that fourteen brothers were
missing.
Lark had wanted to bring in twice that number, but what could you expect from
some stupid fishbreath Sisterman? Whisper a word in the wrong ear and before
you knew it you'd be short a head. No, fourteen was a good number, enough to
do what needed doing but not so many that they couldn't keep the secret. Chett
had recruited most of them himself. Small Paul was one of his; the strongest
man on the Wall, even if he was slower than a dead snail. He'd once broken a
wildling's back with a hug. They had Dirk as well, named for his favorite
weapon, and the little grey man the brothers called Softfoot, who'd raped a
hundred women in his youth, and liked to boast how none had never seen nor
heard him until he shoved it up inside them.
The plan was Chett's. He was the clever one; he'd been steward to old Maester
Aemon for four good years before that bastard Jon Snow had done him out so his
job could be handed to his fat pig of a friend. When he killed Sam Tarly
tonight, he planned to whisper, "Give my love to Lord Snow," right in his ear
before he sliced Ser Piggy's throat open to let the blood come bubbling out
through all those layers of suet. Chett knew the ravens, so he wouldn't have
no trouble there, no more than he would with Tarly. One touch of the knife and
that craven would
piss his pants and start blubbering for his life. Let him beg, it won't do him
no good. After he opened his throat, he'd open the cages and shoo the birds
away, so no messages reached the Wall. Softfoot and Small Paul would kill the
Old Bear, Dirk would do Blane, and Lark and his cousins would silence Bannen
and old Dywen, to keep them from sniffing after their trail. They'd been
caching food for a fortnight, and Sweet Donnel and Clubfoot Karl would have
the horses ready. With Mormont dead, command would pass to Ser Ottyn Wythers,
an old done man, and failing. He'll be running for the Wall before sundown,
and he won't waste no men sending them after us neither.
The dogs pulled at him as they made their way through the trees. Chett could
see the Fist punching its way up through the green. The day was so dark that
the Old Bear had the torches lit, a great circle of them burning all along the
ringwall that crowned the top of the steep stony hill. The three of them waded
across a brook. The water was icy cold, and patches of ice were spreading
across its surface. "I'm going to make for the coast," Lark the Sisterman
confided. "Me and my cousins. We'll build us a boat, sail back home to the
Sisters."
And at home they'll know you for deserters and lop off your fool heads,
thought Chett. There was no leaving the Night's Watch, once you said your
words. Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, they'd take you and kill you.
Ollo Lophand now, he was talking about sailing back to Tyrosh, where he
claimed men didn't lose their hands for a bit of honest thievery, nor get sent
off to freeze their life away for being found in bed with some knight's wife.
Chett had weighed going with him, but he didn't speak their wet girly tongue.
And what could he do in Tyrosh? He had no trade to speak of, growing up in
Hag's Mire. His father had spent his life grubbing in other men's fields and
collecting leeches. He'd strip down bare but for a thick leather clout, and go
wading in the murky waters. When he climbed out he'd be covered from nipple to
ankle. Sometimes he made Chett help pull the leeches off. One had attached