Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [117]
“You must think I’m one great sheep-shite fool, too stupid to come out of the rain. I froggin’ damn sure knew Leorin didn’t walk out of the palace. I figured she was dead, but I didn’t know that, any more than I froggin’ knew what happened to the Whip, or Baldy, or the rest of those Hand bastards. I hoped they were dead, and I’ll go on hoping as long as I live. So, listen close, Torchholder—when I spotted Leorin one afternoon and I hadn’t seen her for eight froggin’ years, the first thing I did was ask her how she’d gotten away when practically no one else had and where she’d been hiding.
“That’s when she told me about gutting the Whip and lighting north on her own. She said she came back ’cause here at least she knows why she has the nightmares.”
The Torch gave Cauvin a chance to catch his breath before saying, with his sharp tongue: “I think I’d have nightmares, too, if I’d given my heart and soul to Dyareela.”
“She didn’t!”
“She’d hardly tell you if she had, now, would she, pud? You wear your heart for all to see. What would you have done if she’d told you she’d decided to take the Whip’s place along with his disguise?”
Cauvin had wrestled with the question two years ago. “I believe what she told me,” he said after a moment, and realized his belief wasn’t as strong as it had been an hour ago. “What else could I do? She can’t prove anything. Shite for sure, I can’t froggin’ prove that I’m not in league with the Hand right this very moment.”
“He’s got a point,” Soldt commented. “You can demonstrate that something is, but how do you demonstrate that it isn’t?”
“The Savankh,” the Torch replied quickly, as though he’d been interrupted.
“Which is?” Soldt asked, betraying his foreign roots.
Even Cauvin knew what the Savankh was—a slender bone rod that stood for Imperial power in the hands of a prince or governor. The rod would fry the hand of any sheep-shite fool who told a lie while holding it, at least it would, if Savankala were paying attention. But that wasn’t all Cauvin knew about the Savankh. “Nobody’s seen a Savankh in Sanctuary since last prince lit out.”
The Torch nodded, lost in his thoughts.
“All gods can hear the truth, can’t They? And whatever a god can do, so can His froggin’ priest, right? So, Torchholder, can’t you say a froggin’ prayer to prove her and me right?”
“In a temple with an altar, an acolyte beside me, and a bowl of flaming unguents, assuming I had an altar, an acolyte, and unguents that haven’t been seen in Sanctuary since before the Savankh disappeared. And assuming your Leorin isn’t sitting snug under her goddess’s protection. The gods aren’t active in Sanctuary these days, especially when it comes to meddling with the devout—which is a good thing, pud, until you need justice or information. I’d do better with holding a rod of red-hot iron under your ladylove’s bare feet than I’d do with a prayer—but I don’t suppose you’d stand for that.”
Cauvin blinked. “You can’t be froggin’ serious—”
“No,” the Torch assured him. “Torture’s not perfect. Most people say what they think will end the pain, and of the rest, you can’t be sure if they’re telling the simple truth or they’re simply true believers.”
“We’re back where we started,” Soldt said. “Strong suspicions but no way to get past them.”
“You could believe me,” Cauvin shouted. “I’m telling you: I know Leorin, I know the Hand—Frog all, I’d know if she was one of them!”
Cauvin would never know if it was his shouting or something else, but Flower chose that moment to get ornery. With an echoing bray, she kicked the cart with her hooves then reared up in the traces. Bec—who was the likelier cause of the mule’s outburst—dangled from the bridle.
There were no questions in Cauvin’s mind. His feet were moving as soon as