Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [113]
Somehow—Cauvin didn’t want to know how—the geezer had dragged himself to the light. He’d propped himself against the wooden uprights of the cellar entrance. The black staff lay across his legs, which were sticking out straight in front of him. His head was cocked back, soaking up sunlight and not moving so much as an eyelid as the cart crunched to a stop.
“He’s dead,” Cauvin said softly, for himself.
Bec beat Cauvin to the cellar. The boy seized a withered hand and the old pud awakened with a jolt that must have hurt. He studied them, eyes black as midnight, yet burning. No froggin’ wonder he was known as the Torch. But the Torch was ancient, despite his fire, and needed several moments to get his words flowing.
“I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I’ll wager that’s true,” Cauvin agreed. He gave Bec a swat across the shoulders. The boy got out of the way. “I went to your froggin’ funeral, then I followed your froggin’ directions.” He unwound the blue mask from his belt and shook it. “I went to the froggin’ Unicorn. I waited there ’til past midnight. Your armsmaster never showed up, Lord Torchholder. You made a sheep-shite fool out of me … and you owe me for two mugs of ale.”
The Torch’s gaze fell to Cauvin’s thigh, which was square in front of his face. No way the old pud wasn’t looking at the froggin’ dagger.
“Seems you helped yourself to more than a mask. Sell the knife, if you need to get yourself drunk. It’s Ilbarsi. You should be able to get thirty soldats for it, even in Sanctuary.”
Never mind that the Torch couldn’t stand, that there was mud on his black woolen robe, or that his skin, wherever it wasn’t still dark with bruises, was so thin that Cauvin could see through it. Never mind any of that, because the Torch’s tongue remained sharper than any knife.
“You used me. You sent me down to the Maze and you knew what would happen—”
“Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you?” the pud asked with a froggin’ grin.
“Why?” Cauvin countered. “Why play me with sorcery, then leave me sitting in the Unicorn waiting for a man who froggin’ sure doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, he exists all right, pud,” the Torch said an instant before Cauvin heard footfalls that weren’t Bec’s or the mule’s.
A stranger emerged from the bushes that grew around the cellar entrance. His clothing was a study in shades of black: tunic, breeches, high boots, and a leather cloak rolled back from his left shoulder. His hair was a bit lighter and worn long with braids to control it near his face. Not a Wrigglie style, nor Imperial, nor Irrune. The braids were touched with a few strands of gray. Cauvin guessed the man was maybe ten or fifteen years older than he was, but it was only a guess.
For adornment, the stranger wore a chain hung around his neck and wide bracelets over his wrists. They were black and shiny and not like any familiar metal. Cauvin looked for weapons—if the man was an armsmaster, there should have been some, but except for a knobbed pommel rising out of the stranger’s right boot, Cauvin saw none. Which didn’t mean Cauvin was reassured; when their eyes finally met, the stranger looked through him like a froggin’ ghost.
The stranger and the Torch exchanged words that weren’t any sort of Ilsigi dialect Cauvin recognized and weren’t—judging from the confusion he gleaned from a quick glance in Bec’s direction—Imperial either. When Cauvin heard his own name tossed about, he’d had enough.
“If you’re going to froggin’ talk about me, froggin’ talk about me so I can froggin’ understand what you’re saying.”
The Torch swiveled his head around, as slow as Flower on a hot day in summer. “Soldt says you are the man with the hawkmask that he saw at the Unicorn last night.”
“Froggin’ hell he did. I looked the commons over when I got there, and I