Sanctuary Page 7

  “You can’t tend it yourself. You’ll fall if you try to rise from the bed, and if you froggin’ fall, you’ll froggin’ lay on the froggin’ cold ground until you’re froggin’ dead.”

  “I can reach everything I’ll need with my staff. I have everything I need—well, everything that you could scrounge up. You’ve done well, Cauvin—better than I’d hoped. Go home. I can take care of myself—”

  “Froggin’ hell you can take care of yourself! You’re old, you’re injured, and you’re outside the walls! If the froggin’ cold doesn’t kill you, something else will.”

  “A ghost perhaps?” the Torch asked, wrinkling his battered forehead and raising a single eyebrow.

  “Maybe. The women say this place is haunted. I’ve never stuck around after sunset to see if they’re right.”

  “Then you’d better get moving. The sun’s sinking, and the sky’s turning red.”

  Cauvin opened his mouth, but before he could utter his familiar protest, the Torch cut him off.

  “Has it occurred to you, yet, to use that lump of unshaped stone you’re hauling around at the top of your neck and ask yourself—If Molin Torchholder is alive, then who was that second body the guards found? No? I didn’t think so. Understand this, Cauvin: I’ve made enemies, and I haven’t outlived them all—although I outlived the one I met last night. Right now my enemies—the ones that tried to kill me last night—think they’ve won the battle and the war. They’re not going to be looking for me in a rat warren outside the walls. I can handle cold, lad, and I can handle any stray dog or wolf that might come wandering through the door after midnight. I could even handle a ghost, but I can’t handle my enemies right now. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll have thought of a way—”

  “Maybe you’ll be dead,” Cauvin countered, though once he considered the Torch’s question he could appreciate the old man’s caution.

  “And if I am, then you’ll bury me and get on with your life—but if I’m not dead, then I expect you to be here with leaves of parchment, good black ink, and three goose quills—good quills, from a white gander.”

  Cauvin raked his hair. “When I get home and Grabar sees that there’s practically nothing in the cart he’s going to ream me out for froggin’ sure. I’ll be out here tomorrow smashing stone as if my sheep-shite life depended on it—if I’m not singing for my supper at the Lucky Well.”

  “I’ve already told you what to tell Grabar: On your way to the wall a merchant persuaded you to use your cart and mule to help him relocate his shop. You’ve got the coins to prove you were well paid for your labor. If by some chance the remains of my purse don’t soothe your foster father’s temper, then don’t waste your time trying to sing for your supper, lad—I can tell you don’t have the throat for it. Come back here with the parchment, ink, and quills; I’ll have work for you to do.”

  “If I hold out enough money to buy your froggin’ parchment, there’s no way Grabar’s going to think I was froggin’ well paid for my labor.”

  The Torch scowled. “So it’s more money that you’re looking for?”

  Cauvin was too embarrassed to answer the question honestly, but his silence was enough for the Torch.

  “I may have enemies, Cauvin, but I’m not completely without friends in Sanctuary … or resources.”

  “So, I’m to go to the palace after all?”

  “Forget the palace, pud. I do have friends at the palace—friends who are no doubt mourning my death and putting men in the streets looking for my murderer. You show up there laying claim to my property, and you’re going to find yourself in parts of the palace you’ve never imagined.”

  “I froggin’ sure doubt that,” Cauvin shot back defiantly. “Your froggin’ friends or your enemies can’t show me anything I haven’t seen before. Or have you froggin’ forgotten where you froggin’ found me the first time?”

  It seemed to Cauvin, as he met the Torch’s sharp, black eyes without flinching, that the old pud did, finally, remember their previous meeting.

  Then those eyes narrowed like a thief’s, and the Torch murmured: “You’ll do. I believe you’ll do just fine,” before continuing in a more normal voice: “Fortunately for you, Cauvin—for both of us—I’ve never been one to keep all my resources in one place. My late, unlamented wife taught me that trick. There’s a tavern—the Broken Mast—along the wharf, past the Processional, near the docks where the fishermen tie up their boats—but it’s a seaman’s place, not for fishermen. The owner’s name is Sinjon. Give him this—” The Torch fussed with his robe and came up with a bit of green stone, from where Cauvin couldn’t have said. “Tell him that there was blood on the moon last night—”

  “Blood on the moon? The moon was plain as white—”

  The Torch sighed. “It’s a password, Cauvin. Tell Sinjon that there was blood on the moon last night—exactly those words—and he’ll give you a box that should ease your mind for a week or two.”

  Cauvin took the token. It was a tiny ship, and the stone was apple green jade, worth its weight in pure silver. “Is it ensorcelled?” he asked, turning it over and looking for a carver’s mark.

  “No. There’s no sorcery more potent than a man’s conscience. Take your mule and cart. Go home, eat your supper, visit the Broken Mast, get the box, push the leaves apart, and come here tomorrow morning with my quills, ink, and parchment. I’ll know what we’re going to do by then.”

  “Unless you’re dead.”

  “Then you’ll bury me—and Sinjon’s box will be yours. But don’t get your hopes too high, Cauvin. I may have set myself adrift, but I’m nowhere near ready to drown—and you’ve taken my token. I’ve marked you for a man of conscience. I’m never wrong about such things.”

  The old man’s confidence worried Cauvin. Froggin’ truth to tell, everything about Lord Molin Torchholder worried Cauvin, and the tiny ship, which he’d tucked into his boot along with a single silver soldat from the Torch’s purse, worried him most of all. He wasn’t a man of conscience, no more than he was a dreamer because, like dreams, conscience brought back memories he’d rather not remember.

  The jade ship pressed against his calf like a hot coal. He thought about tossing it away, but that wouldn’t help. He couldn’t abandon the Torch or pretend that nothing had happened—even if he’d wanted to. Grabar wanted bricks to tempt Tobus the tailor, and the old red-walled estate was the only place to scavenge them. Cauvin would have to come back tomorrow, and he’d have to go to the Broken Mast tonight.

  Clouds had piled up in the west to block the sunset and bring an early twilight to Sanctuary. The night watch was on duty at the East Gate when Cauvin arrived at the wall, but the gate itself was still open. He and Flower got in line behind a mountainous hay wagon and a trader’s string of five overburdened donkeys. The watch challenged the trader and demanded that he unpack his lead donkey; they passed Cauvin through while the man was still untying the pack ropes.

  Pyrtanis Street was dark by the time Cauvin reached it. Grabar was waiting for him with fire in his eyes and the stink of wine on his breath. He’d spent the day at the Well. Grabar didn’t drink himself drunk often, but when he did, there were sure to be arguments.

  “You’re damned late! The boy’s in tears. The wife’s been waiting on you since the first-watch bells! Been two murders—” Grabar began, then he noticed the nearly empty cart. “What’s this?” he demanded. “What were you doin’ all day?”

  Cauvin told him, “A merchant hailed me before I left the city. He had stock to move, and his own mule was lame.” Cauvin dug out the Torch’s purse. He tossed it gently in Grabar’s direction. “He offered a fair price for my labor, so I sold it to him.”

  Grabar spilled the purse into his palm. He wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t count coins. “Damn sure you don’t work this hard around here,” he commented, but his temper had cooled, and his tone was largely admiration.

  “Tell Mina I’m going out to celebrate,” Cauvin said, careful not to make his words a questio
n or a request. He nudged Flower toward her stall at the back of the yard.

  Grabar hurried after them. “You held some back!” he complained.

  “I earned it—an honest day’s work.” That much, at least, was true. Cauvin hadn’t broken any laws, but there was an edge on his voice. “What difference does it make if I held out a sheep-shite soldat or two? You were froggin’ tickled a moment ago when you thought you had it all.”

  Grabar took a long step back and raised his hands, palms outward, not in fists. “It’s fair. It’s fair. Keep what you’ve kept. No need to be tellin’ me how much you got—but you be the one to tell the wife that you won’t be eating her supper. I told her you’re needed around here; she made up a peace offering: mutton stew, just the way you like it. And you be tellin’ the boy that you’re back. You scared him for froggin’ fair this morning.”

  Cauvin let loosening Flower’s harness serve as a reason to hide his face. He didn’t care if Mina and Grabar had taken his threats seriously, but Bec? He’d thought he’d set that to rights before he left.

  “Froggin’ forget it,” Cauvin said, lifting the harness from Flower’s back and hanging it on the wall. The mule let out a jackass bray of relief and trotted into her stall. “Tell Mina I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a bowl of her froggin’ mutton stew. I won’t go any-damn-where, now or ever. You’ve nailed my froggin’ feet to the floor.”

  “No one’s begrudgin’ you a bit o’ celebration,” Grabar insisted.

  He got to the feed bucket first and poured grain into Flower’s manger, then he pushed the cart into its proper corner of the shed. Cauvin tried to remember the last time Grabar had done his chores for him. He was too irritated to be certain, but it had been a year if it had been a day.

  “Go see that woman of yours. A man’s got silver, a man’s got to see his woman.”

  Leorin’s face floated into Cauvin’s thoughts, a cool breeze at the end of a hot summer’s day. With silver in his boot, he didn’t have to settle for the Well’s sour wine or Mina’s froggin’ mutton stew. He could walk into the Vulgar Unicorn, order a mug of their best ale with a plate of sweetmeats beside it, and Leorin would sit in his lap as he ate. She knew how he’d gotten out of the palace by mistake and the Torch’s grace; she’d appreciate the tale he could tell.

  “Just you be careful,” Grabar continued. “The Unicorn’s no place for an honest man. You got yourself overpaid for an honest day’s work. Don’t think it’ll be a habit. There’s not so many fools in Sanctuary.”

  Trust Grabar to douse him with froggin’ ice-cold water, but Cauvin shook off the warning. “Any more about the corpses in the crossing?” he asked innocently.

  “The talk at the Well was that the young man was a Serripines from Land’s End and the other, some old bastard from the palace. Digger said it was Lord Torchholder, then Honald said the Torch’s been dead for years, so it couldn’t have been him. But the bells were ringin’ all afternoon, so maybe it was—or maybe they were puttin’ on a show for the Serripines. Gotta keep the Enders happy. No one’s owned up to killing the pair o’ them. You be careful tonight. The Dragon’s still loose in the town—don’t get into trouble that’s not your own. Wouldn’t surprise me none if ’twere the Dragon what kilt the Torch—if’n it were the Torch that got kilt.”

  The Dragon!, Cauvin thought, then excused himself to get his spare shirt from the loft and clean himself up at the stoneyard’s trough. If the Torch had killed the froggin’ Dragon—Or more likely, if the Torch had killed one of the Dragon’s froggin’ cronies, then no wonder he didn’t want to go back to the palace. But if one of the wild Irrune had attacked the Torch, would he have used an Imperial knife? Wouldn’t the Dragon’s men use a sword? Or an arrow? The Irrune were froggin’ fierce archers, shooting better from the saddle than the guard could shoot while standing on their froggin’ feet.

  Could the Torch have ravaged a corpse to make arrow holes look like they’d been made by a froggin’ knife?

  Did the froggin’ sun come up in the froggin’ east?

  Grabar shattered Cauvin’s wandering thoughts. “Remember, got to eat your supper first, or there’ll be no peace around here for weeks.”

  Mina’s peace offering was a thick, tasty stew that Cauvin ate faster than he knew he should. He kissed her on the cheek to make up for his haste. She wasn’t fooled. Leorin’s name had come up while they were eating. Mina hadn’t offered up her opinion of women who served in taverns or lived in rented rooms above them—and that was a blessing for which Cauvin was duly grateful.

  He’d stripped to the waist and was sluicing dried sweat with icy water and a rag when Bec asked—

  “You want to hear a story? A new story. I thought it up just for you.”

  The rag leapt from Cauvin’s hand to the dirt, and his heart damned near leapt out of his chest. The boy could be as quiet as a cat when he wanted to be.

  “You made me a story?”

  “I said so, remember? This morning, before you left? I made one up about Honald. Scratch and Honey get tired of him strutting and crowing—”

  When Grabar mentioned Honald, he meant the blowhard potter who lived at the other end of Pyrtanis Street. When Bec mentioned Honald, he meant the stoneyard rooster who was every bit as loud and preening. Scratch and Honey were Bec’s favorites among the hens.

  “Not now, Bec.”

  “But you said that this morning. You said ‘later.’ It’s later. I spent all day making it the best story ever!”

  Cauvin pulled his other shirt on and tried to tousle the boy’s hair, but Bec eluded him.

  “You said,” Bec complained in a nasal whine that was already halfway to tears.

  “I’ve got to go out—”

  “You’re going to see Leorin.”

  The boy had met Leorin a handful of times. Leorin hardly spoke to Bec at all. Boys, she said, were noisy, dirty, and boring. In return, Bec disliked her with all the intensity he could muster.

  “If I can,” Cauvin admitted. Leorin wasn’t expecting him and might not be at the Unicorn. She had her own life and guarded it zealously.

  “She’s mean. She doesn’t love you at all, Cauvin. She treats you like her dog. Worse than a dog. No dog would have anything to do with her. The yard dog said—”

  “Lay off, Bec. Stick to stories about chickens.”

  Cauvin was joking, but his sheep-shite tongue put an edge on his words. Bec’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He turned tail and darted away. Cauvin couldn’t see where the boy had gone, but he could hear him sniveling.

  “Gods all be froggin’ sure damned!” Cauvin fished his sweated-up shirt out of the trough. “Bec! Come back here!” He beat the wet shirt against the outside of the trough. “Tell me how your story starts. You can finish telling it tomorrow. Bec! Becvar!”

  Nothing—except froggin’ sniffles and sobs that he didn’t have time for. Cauvin wanted to see Leorin at the Unicorn, but he had to find the Broken Mast first, and he didn’t want to be late on the streets of Sanctuary. Two men had died last night in his own quarter. Maybe the Torch had the froggin’ truth of it: The killer had been hunting particular prey, and the rest of the city was safe. Or maybe not. Cauvin might have sheep-shite in his head, but even he wasn’t dumb enough to think he could best the Torch’s enemies with a fistful of bronze.

  He draped the damp shirt over a fence, where it might dry by morning.

  “Bec! Bec, you hear me? I want to hear your froggin’ story about Honald and the hens. All right? I want to hear it, I just can’t listen now. I’ve got to go. It’ll be too late for you when I get home. I’ll listen in the morning. I swear it. I’ll get up early. You can tell me before breakfast? All right?”

  The boy didn’t answer, and Cauvin was twitchy with guilt when he opened the stoneyard gate. By Arizak’s law, every household kept a torch or lantern burning beside its gate or door from sunset until midnight, and those who kept a sheaf of torches available for the public good paid a smaller hearth-ta
x. The townsfolk said it was because the froggin’ Irrune were afraid of the dark, but the abundant torches had gone a long way toward making the city safer after the Troubles.

  Cauvin didn’t usually bother with a sheep-shite torch when he left the stoneyard for a night on his own, but usually he wasn’t going someplace unfamiliar, and tonight the clouds of sunset were settling in for a night of fog. Sanctuary’s cats would be blind by midnight, so Cauvin grabbed a torch from the stoneyard’s bucket.

  If worse came to worst, the shaft made a decent weapon.

  Cauvin made his way down the Processional to the wharf—always best to stick to the widest streets after dark. The wild Irrune were still in town. If the babble of their froggin’ language didn’t give them away, the telltale scent of horse dung did. Cauvin tried to stay on the other side of the street whenever he passed a clot of them. It was one thing to get drunk every froggin’ night—he’d do it himself, probably, if he weren’t trying to save money, but the Irrune didn’t believe in paying for what they drank or for anything else.

  The sitting Irrune in the palace were supposed to make good on their wilder cousins’ debts, but that was like paying your froggin’ right hand with coins from your left, so there were fights whenever the wild Irrune came to town, especially when the Dragon led them. And Cauvin, who seldom shirked a brawl, had learned the hard way that when you threw a punch at one of the Dragon’s own, five other Irrune returned it. If he’d traveled in a pack himself, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but Cauvin was a loner, start to froggin’ finish.

  Someone hailed Cauvin by name a few paces short of the Wideway and the wharf. It was a city voice—not garbled by an Irrune or Imperial accent—but he pretended not to hear and headed west along Sanctuary’s waterfront. By the smell of things, something large and rotting had come in with the tide. Cauvin found himself breathing shallow and wishing he’d brought a lump of camphor. At least he had the froggin’ Wideway to himself.

  The Broken Mast was right where the old man said it would be: dark, imposing, and hanging out over the water’s edge. Its doors were closed—no great surprise. Cauvin gave the latch a tug, expecting to find the doors locked as well. Gods be damned, not even froggin’ fishermen could eat or drink with that stench in the air. But the latch lifted easily and after planting his torch in the sand bucket beside the door, Cauvin stepped into a quiet, dim commons.