LITMIR.BIZ

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he said, and “Low,” and “Left,” and “Left” again, faster and faster, moving forward. Arya retreated before him, checking each blow.

      “Lunge,” he warned, and when he thrust she side-stepped, swept his blade away, and slashed at his shoulder. She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in her eyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand.

      “Left,” Syrio sang out. “Low.” His sword was a blur, and the Small Hall echoed to the clack clack clack. “Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!”

      The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the more because it came from the wrong side. “Ow,” she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better.

      Syrio stepped back. “You are dead now.”

      Arya made a face. “You cheated,” she said hotly. “You said left and you went right.”

      “Just so. And now you are a dead girl.”

      “But you lied!”

      “My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.”

      “I was so,” Arya said. “I watched you every second!”

      “Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now.”

      She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench. “Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?”

      “You were the finest swordsman in the city.”

      “Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now.” He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. “The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it.

      “Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things.

      “On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?’ he asked of me.

      “And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos, I see a thousand like him,’ and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword.”

      Arya screwed up her face. “I don’t understand.”

      Syrio clicked his teeth together. “The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said ‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”

      Arya thought about it. “You saw what was there.”

      “Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth.”

      “Just so,” said Arya, grinning.

      Syrio Forel allowed himself a smile. “I am thinking that when we are reaching this Winterfell of yours, it will be time to put this needle in your hand.”

      “Yes!” Arya said eagerly. “Wait till I show Jon—”

      Behind her, the great wooden doors of the Small Hall flew open with a resounding crash. Arya whirled.

      A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with five Lannister guardsmen arrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyes and rust-colored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Ser Meryn Trant. The red cloaks wore mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests. “Arya Stark,” the knight said, “come with us, child.”

      Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. “What do you want?”

      “Your father wants to see you.”

      Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm. “And why is it that Lord Eddard is sending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering.”

      “Mind your place, dancing master,” Ser Meryn said. “This is no concern of yours.”

      “My father wouldn’t send you,” Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. The Lannisters laughed.

      “Put down the stick, girl,” Ser Meryn told her. “I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords.”

      “So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king,” Arya said. “I don’t have to go with you if I don’t want.”

      Ser Meryn Trant ran out of patience. “Take her,” he said to his men. He lowered the visor of his helm.

      Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.

      Syrio Forel stepped between them, tapping his wooden sword lightly against his boot. “You will be stopping there. Are you men or dogs that you would threaten a child?”

      “Out of the way, old man,” one of the red cloaks said.

      Syrio’s stick came whistling up and rang against his helm. “I am Syrio Forel, and you will now be speaking to me with more respect.”

      “Bald bastard.” The man yanked free his longsword. The stick moved again, blindingly fast. Arya heard a loud crack as the sword went clattering to the stone floor. “My hand,” the guardsman yelped, cradling his broken fingers.

      “You are quick, for a dancing master,” said Ser Meryn.

      “You are slow, for a knight,” Syrio replied.

      “Kill the Braavosi and bring me the girl,” the knight in the white armor commanded.

      Four Lannister guardsmen unsheathed their swords. The fifth, with the broken fingers, spat and pulled free a dagger with his left hand.

      Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together, sliding into his water dancer’s stance, presenting only his side to the foe. “Arya, child,” he called out, never looking, never taking his eyes off the Lannisters, “we are done with dancing for the day. Best you are going now. Run to your father.”

      Arya did not want to leave him, but he had taught her to do as he said. “Swift as a deer,” she whispered.

      “Just so,” said Syrio Forel as the Lannisters closed.

      Arya retreated, her own sword stick clutched tightly in her hand. Watching him now, she realized that Syrio had only been toying with her when they dueled. The red cloaks came at him from three sides with steel in their hands. They had chainmail over their chest and arms, and steel codpieces sewn into their pants, but only leather on their legs. Their hands were bare, and the caps they wore had nose-guards, but no visor over the eyes.

      Syrio did not wait for them to reach him, but spun to his

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