A Feast for Dragons

up
a sleeve, one sheathed at the small of her back. Braavosi were a kindly folk,
by and large, more like to help the poor blind beggar girl than try to do her
harm, but there were always a few bad ones who might see her as someone they
could safely rob or rape. The blades were for them, though so far the blind
girl had not been forced to use them. A cracked wooden begging bowl and belt of
hempen rope completed her garb.
    She set out as the Titan roared the sunset, counting her way
down the steps from the temple door, then tapping to the bridge that took her
over the canal to the Isle of the Gods. She could tell that the fog was thick
from the clammy way her clothes clung to her and the damp feeling of the air on
her bare hands. The mists of Braavos did queer things to sounds as well, she
had found.
Half the city will be half-blind tonight
.
    As she made her way past the temples, she could hear the
acolytes of the Cult of Starry Wisdom atop their scrying tower, singing to the
evening stars. A wisp of scented smoke hung in the air, drawing her down the
winding path to where the red priests had fired the great iron braziers outside
the house of the Lord of Light. Soon she could even feel the heat in the air,
as red R’hllor’s worshipers lifted their voices in prayer. “For
the
night is dark and full of terrors,”
they prayed.
    Not for me
. Her nights were bathed in moonlight
and filled with the songs of her pack, with the taste of red meat torn off the
bone, with the warm familiar smells of her grey cousins. Only during the days
was she alone and blind.
    She was no stranger to the waterfront. Cat used to prowl the
wharves and alleys of the Ragman’s Harbor selling mussels and oysters and clams
for Brusco. With her rag and her shaved head and her mummer’s mole, she did not
look the same as she had then, but just to be safe she stayed away from the
Ship and the Happy Port and the other places where Cat had been best known.
    She knew each inn and tavern by its scent. The Black
Bargeman had a briny smell. Pynto’s stank of sour wine, stinky cheese, and
Pynto himself, who never changed his clothes or washed his hair. At the Sailmender’s
the smoky air was always spiced with the scent of roasting meat. The House of
Seven Lamps was fragrant with incense, the Satin Palace with the perfumes of
pretty young girls who dreamed of being courtesans.
    Each place had its own sounds too. Moroggo’s and the Inn of
the Green Eel had singers performing most nights. At the Outcast Inn the
patrons themselves did the singing, in drunken voices and half a hundred
tongues. The Foghouse was always crowded with polemen off the serpent boats,
arguing about gods and courtesans and whether or not the Sealord was a fool.
The Satin Palace was much quieter, a place of whispered endearments, the soft
rustle of silk gowns, and the giggling of girls.
    Beth did her begging at a different place every night. She
had learned early on that innkeeps and taverners were more apt to tolerate her
presence if it was not a frequent occurrence. Last night she had spent outside
the Inn of the Green Eel, so tonight she turned right instead of left after the
Bloody Bridge and made her way to Pynto’s at the other end of Ragman’s Harbor,
right on the edge of the Drowned Town. Loud and smelly he might be, but Pynto
had a soft heart under all his unwashed clothes and bluster. Oft as not, he
would let her come inside where it was warm if the place was not too crowded,
and now and again he might even let her have a mug of ale and a crust of food
whilst regaling her with his stories. In his younger days Pynto had been the
most notorious pirate in the Stepstones, to hear him tell it; he loved nothing
better than to speak at great length about his exploits.
    She was in luck tonight. The tavern was near empty, and she
was able to claim a quiet corner not far from the fire. No sooner had she
settled there and crossed her legs than something brushed up against her thigh.
“You again?” said the blind girl. She scratched his head behind one ear, and
the cat jumped up into her lap and began to purr. Braavos was full of cats, and
no place more than Pynto’s. The old pirate believed they brought good luck and
kept his tavern free of vermin. “You know me, don’t you?” she whispered. Cats
were not fooled by a mummer’s moles. They remembered Cat of the Canals.
    It was a good night for the blind girl. Pynto was in a jolly
mood and gave her a cup of watered wine, a