Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [112]
“Who told you that?” Cauvin demanded because he knew for froggin’ sure he hadn’t.
“Pendy. Right before … before she died. She said you and Reenie were sweet on each other before and when she disappeared, you thought they’d killed her. It made you moon-mad, and you got yourself in trouble just so they’d sacrifice you, too. And you did disappear, just like her; but you came back. Pendy said once you saw her again, you wouldn’t look at another girl. She said it was sorcery.”
“Pendy?” Cauvin mumbled.
He would have burst out swearing again if he could have gotten the words past the memory of Pendy’s face. Gods all be damned, Cauvin had never thought of Pendy as anything but a tagalong, a little sister who’d landed in the pits years after him. Pendy was one of the lucky ones: The Torch had locked her up, too, and her parents—her gods-all-be-damned real parents—showed up at the palace before the smoke had settled. Pendy had nightmares, though, and for years she showed up at the stoneyard once or twice a week to tell Cauvin about them. She’d weep and tremble, and he’d wrap his arms around her, rocking her gently until the shaking stopped. But not the way he held Leorin. Frog all, Cauvin hadn’t stopped looking at Pendy because Leorin had come back; he’d never looked at her as a woman, and he’d never asked himself why she’d stopped coming to the stoneyard or why she’d cut her own throat not long after that.
froggin’ gods—how could he have been so froggin’ blind?
The Hand had known him best. They put bronze slugs in his fists because he was too sheep-shite stupid for anything else. He couldn’t see anything he didn’t expect—just like Jubal’s sheep-shite fools wearing their hawk masks. No froggin’ wonder that the Torch had told him to pick up a mask, not a sword.
Froggin’ Lord Molin Torchholder used Cauvin the same as the Hand had used him: strong back, hard fists, sheep-shite head. He was no match for them, simple as that. But Cauvin was still bigger than Bec, still able to cower the boy with a scowl.
“You keep your mouth shut about me and Leorin, you hear? And don’t go spouting words like ‘sorcery’ when you don’t know what in froggin’ hell you’re talking about. You especially keep your mouth shut when we get to the ruins. I don’t want the froggin’ Torch hearing anything about me that he doesn’t already know—if there’s anything that froggin’ pud doesn’t already know. The Torch plays games with men, Bec, and he’s been doing it since before we were born … before Grabar was froggin’ born. You listening?”
Bec nodded, but he didn’t agree. “Grandfather needs you more than you need him, so if he’s playing games, you’re going to win, Cauvin.”
Cauvin snorted. Froggin’ sure, the boy knew how to get himself out of trouble. “I wish I had your faith.” He slipped a hand beneath Flower’s bridle and got her moving again.
“It’s not faith, Cauvin. Grandfather’s old and dying. You and me, we’re his last chance, and he’s too full of himself to admit he’s made a mistake with us. But, Cauv—she’s different. Pendy was afraid of her, ice-water scared. She—when the Hand cut her—you know—to take out her heart, they couldn’t find one.”
The stiffening of Cauvin’s back was all the response Bec got to that froggin’ remark. Three times the boy said he was sorry and three times Cauvin didn’t so much as froggin’ twitch. He threaded Flower through the tangled Hillside streets, pausing only to buy a skewer of roasted fish from a peddler—anything to get the tastes out of his mouth. There was enough meat to share with Bec, if Cauvin had wanted to. He didn’t.
When they were clear of the city, Cauvin stopped the mule long enough to retrieve his new knife and bind it to his leg, his left leg this time, instead of his right. Bec watched him with wide, anxious eyes. If he’d said something, Cauvin would have responded, but the boy hadn’t recovered his spirits—Cauvin didn’t doubt that he would—and Cauvin wasn’t ready to break the ice.
The fog thinned as they approached the ruins. By the time Flower was splashing along what was left of the