Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [110]
Bec hadn’t learned Cauvin’s trick. The boy took small bites, chewed them endlessly, and stared at Cauvin the whole froggin’ time. Cauvin dodged the boy’s eyes, though not before noting that his bruises had faded and the swelling was almost unnoticeable. Grabar was right: Boys healed fast, a little too fast. Cauvin knew if he gave Bec the chance, he’d have froggin’ company out at redwalls. That was reason enough to gag down his dregs and eggs before Bec was halfway through his.
This late in the year, fogs didn’t lift, they sank into the froggin’ ground, in lungs and guts. A fog like the one hanging over the stoneyard took Cauvin back to the palace and coughing memories. It wasn’t sacrifice that claimed most of the orphans, but cold and raw fogs. The Hand said he was blessed because he never got sick; blessed meant he dug the graves.
Cauvin tossed the harness across Flower’s back with a vigor that made the mule swipe sideways with a hind hoof. He took time to reassure her with a handful of oats. Mules were froggin’ clever beasts. They knew what they deserved. A man could whip a mule bloody and it still wouldn’t do what it shouldn’t. The Hand didn’t keep mules, not when they had sheep-shite orphans to do their work.
Cauvin was squatted down, attaching Flower’s harness to the cart, when he saw Bec’s feet and legs in front of him. “No,” he said, answering the boy’s questions before they were asked.
“I’ve got our lunch. Momma’s made bear’s-head stew to keep the cold from our bones.”
“Boar’s head,” Cauvin corrected. “What makes you think ’our bones’ are going somewhere?”
“Grandfather’s got to eat.” He set a cloth-wrapped crock into the cart and climbed in after it.
“Shalpa’s cloak! You told Mina?”
“Never! I asked, since breakfast was cold, if we couldn’t have hot lunch. She said we could have some skimmings, so I filled a pot. She said I should bring it out quick.”
Skimmings were a vast improvement over breakfast, but Cauvin wouldn’t let his stomach get the better of his head. “She didn’t say anything about letting you go out to the ruins in a fog, did she?”
Bec didn’t answer.
Cauvin gave the last harness strap a hard yank, stood up, and targeted his foster brother. “Frog all, Bee—How much trouble are you trying to land me in? Get back inside before your mother comes out here looking for you.”
The boy braced himself into a corner. “froggin’ no. I’m working for Grandfather, writing for him. I missed yesterday. I’m froggin’ not going to miss today, too.”
“Watch your mouth. Mina’ll have my hide when she hears you talking like that.”
“Then I froggin’ won’t let her.”
Cauvin steadied himself. “Get out, Bee. Thanks for the pot; I’ll share it with him, if the rain and fog haven’t done him in, but you’re not going anywhere except back into the kitchen—”
“Froggin’ no.”
“Bee—”
“I’m going with you, and we better get going before Momma comes looking.”
The boy had always been persistent, but flat-footed defiance was something new.
Cauvin wasn’t pleased. “I’m warning you—”
“And I’m warning you: I’m telling Momma and Poppa that when you came back from seeing her you had a great big knife tied around your leg.”
“You’ve been dreaming.”
“Yeah? Then why’s it all wrapped up here in the cart?”
Bec held up the wrapped weapon. He unwound the canvas and drew a finger’s length of sharpened steel from the sheath.
“Put that down … now!”
Bec shed the sheath and the canvas. He pointed the knife at Cauvin’s chest. The boy wasn’t serious—at least Cauvin didn’t think he was—but that didn’t make the moment less dangerous.
“Now, Bee. Now … and get out of the froggin’ cart.”
“I’ll tell them what happened night before last … what really happened, how you dragged me with you and left me alone and how I got lost and beaten up.”
“That’s a froggin’ damned lie,” Cauvin snarled, and brought his fists up.
The boy had earned