Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [109]
The stoneyard stood on high ground, along with the rest of Pyrtanis Street, so it didn’t froggin’ flood out like most of Sanctuary, and for thirty-odd years Grabar had been thickening its dirt with stone chips. Even so, after a nightlong rain, the yard was a quagmire. Cauvin stuck to the paving-stone paths. Several stones shifted beneath his weight; he knew what he’d be doing as soon as the ground dried.
Grabar said as much while Cauvin splashed trough water on his face.
“Got to reset those stones before the wife or the boy gets hurt.”
Cauvin grunted. Grabar never worried that Cauvin might get hurt, or himself, for that matter; it was always Mina and Bec.
“Saw you at the feast,” Grabar went on. “By yourself—where was that woman of yours? Don’t tell me she was working. The Well shut itself down. Nobody paying for what they could get free at the funeral.”
“The Unicorn doesn’t close for funerals.” Cauvin dried his face on his sleeve.
Grabar snorted his opinion of taverns that didn’t respect the dead. “Back to work for us: The Torch’s gone to his gods, and the Dragon’s gone, too. There’s an archway that wants building along the wharf. Figured we’d pull stone and lay it out.”
“Today?” Cauvin asked incredulously. The stoneyard built everything twice—laid flat in the yard where they selected and shaped the stones and again upright with mortar. Cauvin’s favorite part of any job was fitting the stones together, but not when the yard was ankle deep in mud.
“Got to get it done,” Grabar countered. “’Less you’re giving up food for the winter. If you noticed, we haven’t been busy around here, and there’s no assurance Tobus is going to buy those bricks you’ve been hauling each by each.”
“He will,” Cauvin muttered. The Torch had said he’d take care of it. Cauvin didn’t trust Molin, but after last night, he froggin’ sure believed him. “I’ll wager you Tobus comes round today to see what we’ve got. Just wait.”
“Meanin’ you plan to go back out there?”
“If I have to drag the froggin’ cart myself, yes. Face it, Grabar— winter’s coming, we’re between jobs, and there’s too much mud to pull stone. It’s go out there and smash us some bricks or sit here and carve.”
In deep winter, when building was impossible, Cauvin and Grabar sat beside an open hearth adding value to their stock by carving it. Grabar could do passable faces, male or female. Cauvin had a knack for birds—sharp-beaked hawks, mostly—and hands. He could turn a rock into a fist in an afternoon. There was a merchant whose warehouse door was framed with Cauvin’s fists.
“Sure you’re not taking your woman out to those ruins? You seem damned determined to get there day after day.”
Cauvin shook his head. “Not froggin’ likely.” He asked, “How’s Bec this morning?” to steer the conversation away from tender subjects.
“Haven’t seen him, but the swelling was down last night. He should be sprightly. Boys heal fast, even spindly ones. The wife’s got the fire up. Breakfast’s cold, but there’ll be hot supper. I stuck around last night, helped the cooks with the pots and got us a leftover boar’s head. The wife had it in the pot before sunup. Now, that’s something to look forward to.”
Cauvin nodded—red meat three froggin’ days in a row—but Mina’s cold breakfasts were nothing to celebrate. “I’ll be behind you,” he told Grabar. “Flower needs her grain.”
And Cauvin needed to move his new knife from its hiding place to the back of the cart, where he wrapped it in canvas and tucked it beneath his tools. He felt sheep-shite foolish for hiding the weapon; he intended to wear it openly, proudly … but not until he felt froggin’ confident that he wore it properly. When Mina or Grabar asked where he’d gotten it, he’d tell them—the idea came to him like lightning—he’d froggin’ tell them that he’d found it while smashing stone out at the redwall ruins.
Pleased with his uncommon cleverness, Cauvin entered the kitchen. Mina stood guard over the hearth. Grabar and Bec were eating through a cold breakfast of stale bread slopped in a buttery mixture of stewpot dregs and