A Clash of Kings. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

most here, between the sheets,” he told her one night after their loving, as he lay beside her, his head pillowed against her breast, his groin aching with a sweet soreness. She made no reply, save with her eyes. He could see there that it was not what she’d wanted to hear.

      Sighing, Tyrion started to reach for the wine again, then remembered Lord Janos and pushed the flagon away. “It does seem my sister was telling the truth about Stark’s death. We have my nephew to thank for that madness.”

      “King Joffrey gave the command. Janos Slynt and Ser Ilyn Payne carried it out, swiftly, without hesitation …”

      “… almost as if they had expected it. Yes, we have been over this ground before, without profit. A folly.”

      “With the City Watch in hand, my lord, you are well placed to see to it that His Grace commits no further … follies? To be sure, there is still the queen’s household guard to consider …”

      “The red cloaks?” Tyrion shrugged. “Vylarr’s loyalty is to Casterly Rock. He knows I am here with my father’s authority. Cersei would find it hard to use his men against me … besides, they are only a hundred. I have half again as many men of my own. And six thousand gold cloaks, if Bywater is the man you claim.”

      “You will find Ser Jacelyn to be courageous, honorable, obedient … and most grateful.”

      “To whom, I wonder?” Tyrion did not trust Varys, though there was no denying his value. He knew things, beyond a doubt. “Why are you so helpful, my Lord Varys?” he asked, studying the man’s soft hands, the bald powdered face, the slimy little smile.

      “You are the Hand. I serve the realm, the king, and you.”

      “As you served Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark?”

      “I served Lord Arryn and Lord Stark as best I could. I was saddened and horrified by their most untimely deaths.”

      “Think how I feel. I’m like to be next.”

      “Oh, I think not,” Varys said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Power is a curious thing, my lord. Perchance you have considered the riddle I posed you that day in the inn?”

      “It has crossed my mind a time or two,” Tyrion admitted. “The king, the priest, the rich man—who lives and who dies? Who will the swordsman obey? It’s a riddle without an answer, or rather, too many answers. All depends on the man with the sword.”

      “And yet he is no one,” Varys said. “He has neither crown nor gold nor favor of the gods, only a piece of pointed steel.”

      “That piece of steel is the power of life and death.”

      “Just so … yet if it is the swordsmen who rule us in truth, why do we pretend our kings hold the power? Why should a strong man with a sword ever obey a child king like Joffrey, or a wine-sodden oaf like his father?”

      “Because these child kings and drunken oafs can call other strong men, with other swords.”

      “Then these other swordsmen have the true power. Or do they? Whence came their swords? Why do they obey?” Varys smiled. “Some say knowledge is power. Some tell us that all power comes from the gods. Others say it derives from law. Yet that day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept, our godly High Septon and the lawful Queen Regent and your ever-so-knowledgeable servant were as powerless as any cobbler or cooper in the crowd. Who truly killed Eddard Stark, do you think? Joffrey, who gave the command? Ser Ilyn Payne, who swung the sword? Or … another?”

      Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “Did you mean to answer your damned riddle, or only to make my head ache worse?”

      Varys smiled. “Here, then. Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less.”

      “So power is a mummer’s trick?”

      “A shadow on the wall,” Varys murmured, “yet shadows can kill. And oftimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow.”

      Tyrion smiled. “Lord Varys, I am growing strangely fond of you. I may kill you yet, but I think I’d feel sad about it.”

      “I will take that as high praise.”

      “What are you, Varys?” Tyrion found he truly wanted to know. “A spider, they say.”

      “Spies and informers are seldom loved, my lord. I am but a loyal servant of the realm.”

      “And a eunuch. Let us not forget that.”

      “I seldom do.”

      “People have called me a halfman too, yet I think the gods have been kinder to me. I am small, my legs are twisted, and women do not look upon me with any great yearning … yet I’m still a man. Shae is not the first to grace my bed, and one day I may take a wife and sire a son. If the gods are good, he’ll look like his uncle and think like his father. You have no such hope to sustain you. Dwarfs are a jape of the gods … but men make eunuchs. Who cut you, Varys? When and why? Who are you, truly?”

      The eunuch’s smile never flickered, but his eyes glittered with something that was not laughter. “You are kind to ask, my lord, but my tale is long and sad, and we have treasons to discuss.” He drew a parchment from the sleeve of his robe. “The master of the King’s Galley White Hart plots to slip anchor three days hence to offer his sword and ship to Lord Stannis.”

      Tyrion sighed. “I suppose we must make some sort of bloody lesson out of the man?”

      “Ser Jacelyn could arrange for him to vanish, but a trial before the king would help assure the continued loyalty of the other captains.”

      And keep my royal nephew occupied as well. “As you say. Put him down for a dose of Joffrey’s justice.”

      Varys made a mark on the parchment. “Ser Horas and Ser Hobber Redwyne have bribed a guard to let them out a postern gate, the night after next. Arrangements have been made for them to sail on the Pentoshi galley Moonrunner, disguised as oarsmen.”

      “Can we keep them on those oars for a few years, see how they fancy it?” He smiled. “No, my sister would be distraught to lose such treasured guests. Inform Ser Jacelyn. Seize the man they bribed and explain what a honor it is to serve as a brother of the Night’s Watch. And have men posted around the Moonrunner, in case the Redwynes find a second guard short of coin.”

      “As you will.” Another mark on the parchment. “Your man Timett slew a wineseller’s son this evening, at a gambling den on the Street of Silver. He accused him of cheating at tiles.”

      “Was it true?”

      “Oh, beyond a doubt.”

      “Then the honest men of the city owe Timett a debt of gratitude. I shall see that he has the king’s thanks.”

      The eunuch gave a nervous giggle and made another mark. “We also have a sudden plague of holy men. The comet has brought forth all manner of queer priests, preachers, and prophets, it would seem. They beg in the winesinks and pot shops and foretell doom and destruction to anyone who stops to listen.”

      Tyrion shrugged. “We are close on the three hundredth year since Aegon’s Landing, I suppose it is only to be expected. Let them rant.”

      “They are spreading fear, my lord.”

      “I thought that was your job.”

      Varys covered his mouth with his hand. “You are very cruel to say so. One last matter. Lady Tanda gave a small supper last night. I have the menu and the guest list for your inspection. When the wine was poured, Lord Gyles rose to lift a cup to the king, and Ser Balon Swann was heard to remark, ‘We’ll need three cups for that.’ Many laughed …”

      Tyrion raised a hand. “Enough. Ser Balon made a jest. I am not interested in treasonous table talk, Lord Varys.”

      “You are as wise as you are gentle, my lord.” The parchment vanished up the eunuch’s sleeve. “We both have much to do. I shall leave you.”

      When the eunuch had departed,