Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [120]
“Which point?” Bec demanded.
Cauvin had yet to answer Bec’s first questions and didn’t get the chance to answer his last either because Soldt did.
“There’s no keeping secrets around sprouts,” Soldt said. “Send him—”
“I can so keep a secret! Tell me anything and, pain of death, I won’t tell anyone what you’ve said.”
“No need to attract attention. I’ve used Lord Torchholder’s maps before. They’re good. We’ll be done before sunset. Let the boy stay here—unless he’s the wandering type.”
“I’m not!” Bec insisted. He would have given the toes on his left foot to unravel the mysteries of Grandfather’s map with Cauvin and Soldt, but he knew the difference between possible and impossible. He met Cauvin’s eyes with a silent plea that all his past misadventures be forgotten.
“It would be simplest to leave the boy here, if you trust him,” Soldt said, acknowledging Cauvin’s authority where Bec was concerned, but clearly inviting Cauvin to agree with him.
“If all goes well,” Cauvin said with a tone that was far from agreeable. “And if it doesn’t, he’s a boy outside the walls with an old man who should have died yesterday.”
Soldt scowled at Cauvin. “Best for you, lad, that you shed the habit of borrowing trouble. If the boy’s not safe here, then he’s not safe anywhere.”
Bec held his breath, fearing an outbreak of Cauvin’s legendary temper. All the signs were there: shoulders rising, neck thickening, lips going thin and pale, eyes, too. But Cauvin didn’t shout. He cupped his hand beneath Bec’s chin and made sure that their eyes were locked as he said—
“Count yourself lucky, sprout, and don’t do anything to shame us.”
“Not a single thing,” Bec agreed, nodding free of Cauvin’s callused hand. “I’ll get the ink and parchment and write down more of Grandfather’s stories.”
“Grandfather?” Soldt laughed.
It Poppa had asked about Soldt, Bec would have said, No, he’s not the one, he won’t buy stone, but stone wasn’t the question. Soldt had flanked Cauvin’s temper, he’d gotten Bec a day of freedom, and he thought it was funny that Bec had called the great Lord Torchholder “Grandfather.” No doubt about it, Soldt was a man to be reckoned with—a man who created changes. Bec felt it when he led them to the weathered cupboard where he’d stowed the parchment and ink.
Sometimes grown-ups talked in names and places, as though their words couldn’t be heard by anyone whose head stopped short of their eyes and sometimes they talked with “he‘s” and “she’s,” “there’s” and “later’s” that had no meanings by themselves. Bec endured both of those times while Grandfather sketched a map. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been able to get a glimpse of the words Grandfather wrote between the lines.
Cauvin couldn’t make head nor tail of a map no matter what was written on it; he’d never have thought to block Bec’s view. Soldt, on the other hand—Soldt who’d been so helpful a few moments earlier—kept himself between Bec and the map like a dog guarding its bone. Bec sidled right; Soldt did the same. Bec sidled left, so did Soldt. Then he snatched up the parchment before the ink could possibly be dry.
With the map hidden from Bec’s curiosity in the inside flap of Soldt’s fancy leather scrip, the two able-bodied men linked arms to carry Grandfather away from the cellar. They didn’t reconstruct Grandfather’s wooden bed, but arranged blankets on the remains of a broad-sill window overlooking the city and the sea, then set Grandfather atop them.
“The boy will serve until we get back,” Soldt assured Grandfather without asking Bee. “Is there anything we can bring you?”
Grandfather winced as wrapping the blankets tight around his legs though the day had warmed, and Bec planned to shed at least one of his three tunics soon. “A new body? One without holes.”
Soldt laughed, but Bec didn’t think the joke—if it had been a joke—was funny, and neither did Cauvin. Cauvin spun on his heel, crunching hard through the gravel toward Sanctuary. Soldt had to break into a run