Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [135]
Guided by the Torch’s map, Soldt made their way to the manhigh Settle Stone in the middle of the bazaar where he paused to consult the parchment a second time. The Settle Stone had been carved from local rock, which meant it had weathered so badly that Cauvin could scarcely have read the inscriptions, even if he’d known how to read. The legend was that it had been raised by the Ilsigi slaves who’d founded Sanctuary. Fitting, then, that in Cauvin’s experience it was the daytime home of beggars displaying their misfortunes.
Cauvin had lived on the streets long enough to know a few beggars’ tricks—a leather harness to bind a healthy leg from sight, a few grains of pepper to bloody an eye and make it weep all day. He knew, too, that a bound leg eventually withered and soon enough a peppered eye would bleed and weep itself to true blindness. He’d rather break his froggin’ back smashing stone every day than cripple himself beside the Settle Stone.
Some of the beggars didn’t resort to tricks. They exposed twisted feet, fingerless hands, and faces fit for nightmares. Cauvin dug into his belt pouch and tossed a black padpol to a girl about Bec’s age who’d been cursed with a lopsided, wine-colored face and moon eyes.
Soldt folded the parchment. He’d watched gods knew how much of Cauvin’s charity. His eyes were utterly without pity when he sneered: “They’re all frauds.”
“Not all of them. That girt—she couldn’t fake that.”
“And she won’t keep your measly padpol, either. She’s got a keeper, Cauvin, someone who tends her, same as you tend your mule. He—or maybe she—will get your charity while that girl gets gruel.”
Soldt was right—and he wasn’t telling Cauvin a truth he didn’t, in his head if not his heart, already know. He’d tossed the padpol because cheap charity felt good, but Soldt left him feeling foolish and, worse, soft around the heart. He hated feeling soft around the heart. “At least she gets something!” he snapped in his own defense.
The Torch’s stranger gave Cauvin a once-over stare, then set off in the general direction of Davar’s forge. Cauvin almost let him get away. Yes, the conversation in the ruins had rekindled all his froggin’ questions about Leorin, and when the Torch had said he could get the answers, Cauvin went along willingly to get them; that didn’t mean he trusted the Torch’s stranger. But, not trusting Soldt was all the more reason to stay on his sheep-shite tail. After a final glance at the beggar girl—whose silvery eyes were looking for new targets—Cauvin caught up with the dark-dressed man.
“According to what Lord Torchholder’s written, about fifty paces on, we should be coming to a perfumer’s stall. If we turn left there, the blacksmith’s should lie straight ahead—”
“Depends,” Cauvin shot back. “How long do you think it’s been since the old pud bought perfume? The bazaar changes, you know, like the Maze.”
“Fifty paces, whether there’s a perfumer’s stall there or not.”
Soldt wasn’t Grabar. Cauvin couldn’t get the better of him, and they’d have to turn left—turn north—in about fifty paces, if they were going to Davar’s. He swallowed all the sheep-shite clever replies that came into his mind and followed Soldt when he turned left … at a perfumer’s aromatic stall.
Cauvin would have recognized Davar anywhere. His arms were longer than his legs, giving him the look of a tall man squeezed short. There was more gray in his hair than Cauvin remembered, but his beard was still black and confined in three stiff braids. Davar didn’t look pleased to see them, reminding Cauvin that his friendship with Swift didn’t count for shite in the bazaar.
“Come to get an edge from a master?” Davar asked, flicking a thumb toward Cauvin’s new weapon.
Cauvin shook his head. When the knife needed honing, he’d take it to Swift.
“What then?”
Before Cauvin could answer, Soldt announced. “We’re looking