Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [106]
Amid the charred wood, dented tankards, and the rusted iron that might have been a hanging lamp holding the shield upright against the wall, there was one chunk that seemed straighter and less damaged than the rest. Closer examination—Cauvin hadn’t shaken himself free of the froggin’ spell that drove him to touch whatever caught his sheep-shite eye—revealed a sheath of dark, scaly leather and, within, a long-bladed dagger quite unlike the tool he kept in his boot cuff. Both edges had been honed and a middle groove from hilt to sharp tip made the blade ideal for stabbing. The hilt was wire-wrapped wood, sweat polished, and the right size for Cauvin’s palm and fingers.
When they were in their cups and talking about the days before the Irrune, before the Hand, the Lucky Well regulars insisted that there was a perfect weapon for every hand. To the extent that Cauvin listened—which was no froggin’ great extent—he presumed his perfect weapon was his right fist closed over a lump of bronze. Not so. A vulgar unicorn had been guarding Cauvin’s perfect weapon for gods knew how long.
Once he’d held the long-bladed dagger in his hand, Cauvin knew he’d want it nearby always.
Thongs trailed from the sheath. Cauvin could attach them to his belt or around his leg, but the weapon would rest comfortably against his thigh only after he’d loosened his belt to a dangerous extent. He’d need a froggin’ second belt, or a single belt, long enough to wrap once around his waist and again over one hip. He could see the long belt in his mind’s eye. Thanks to the Torch’s box, he had the coins to purchase it, if any cobbler could match the sheath leather.
Or perhaps he’d sling the sheath inside his breeches … or up his sleeve, or tucked in at the small of his back. As natural as the dagger felt in Cauvin’s hand, it was awkward everywhere else. Except for the bronze slug, which hid inside his shirt, Cauvin never carried a weapon. He left the dagger tied to his thigh, though it got in the way climbing the stairs to the atrium. While walking the Maze to the Vulgar Unicorn—Leorin’s Unicorn as opposed to the one below the atrium basement—Cauvin was froggin’ sure the knife was drawing attention from everyone who saw it.
Leorin was working, or trying to. Business hadn’t improved. She spotted Cauvin as he came through the door and pointed toward one of the empty tables along the walls. Privacy cost at the Unicorn, and though Cauvin had the coins to buy it for one night, he didn’t want to develop either the taste or the habit. He took a seat at one end of a long, common table with a view of the front door. The knife, he realized, was the first thing anyone entering the tavern would see.
Maybe he should sit on the other side of the table? Or, maybe he should bind the knife to his other leg? Cauvin was right-handed; he carried his boot knife in his right boot; he’d naturally slung the knife on his right side, but the men who wore swords—and there were several in the Unicorn—wore them on their off-weapon hip. Was his long-bladed dagger a froggin’ knife or a froggin’ sword? And what would the Torch’s froggin’ armsmaster think if the man saw Cauvin with a weapon worn the wrong way around?
The unanswerable question reminded Cauvin that he needed to display the froggin’ mask. Where? Froggin’ sure not tied over his face. He settled on his belt, folded over the knife’s hilt. It was a clumsy solution, but the best he could do before Leorin arrived.
She greeted him with a mug of beer and “Welcome, stranger. Missed you last night.”
Leorin’s moods were never easy to follow—his weren’t either—but neither anger nor disappointment seemed to dominate her voice.
“Things ran late at the stoneyard.” He decided he’d stick to that. Leorin dreamt. She’d work herself up to a sleepless week if she knew the Hand was loose again and he’d tangled with them last night.
Leorin nodded and took a solid swig of his beer. “The old pud dead yet?”
“Not yet.”
“He give you any more silver or gold?”
Cauvin shook his head.
“Maybe the gods will take him tonight, now that everything’s