Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [137]
Cauvin put his foot to the shovel and removed the loosened dirt from his hole. He enlarged the hole to shin depth, striking up a crop of rocks and broken crockery and an arm’s length of rusted iron that Davar claimed for his hoard. He had the pick in hand and was chipping out another littered layer when he and Davar both heard a sound hollow enough to be a box. Before Cauvin could get down on his knees and clear the rubble, Soldt had reappeared, doling out unnecessary advice.
“Careful now. The box itself is apt to be valuable. Use your hands—”
Cauvin had half a mind to splinter the damn thing, just for froggin’ spite. He could feel it by then beneath the rubble: one hand by two … wooden … carved …
A froggin’ big brother to the one he’d gotten from Sinjon at the Broken Mast! The Torch must have bought out a froggin’ peddler!
“Give it here,” Soldt commanded.
Cauvin tucked it under one arm and clambered to his feet.
“Give it here. I’ll hold it while you repair the damage you’ve done to this man’s yard.”
Both Davar and Soldt were giving Cauvin a scowl with edges and, reluctantly, he surrendered the froggin’ box for the froggin’ shovel.
“Are you certain you don’t want the anvil replaced,” Soldt politely asked Davar once Cauvin had the hole refilled.
Shite for sure, Soldt wasn’t planning to move it if Davar did but, sensing another defeat, Cauvin walked behind the anvil, ready to heave it on his forearms. He got his first good look at the mark Soldt had mentioned; he’d been on the other side when they’d moved it before. A shattered face, that was true, as far as it went. It didn’t describe how the face seemed to bleed off each of the jagged shards or how the whole thing seemed to froggin’ shimmer the longer Cauvin stared at it.
“No—‘s’like I told you—it’s better here, closer to the fire.” Davar held out his hand, and not for froggin’ courtesy.
For one of the rare times in his sheep-shite life, Cauvin had the seven soldats Soldt had promised the smith, but he froggin’ sure wasn’t going to part with them. “You made the deal,” he said over his shoulder in Soldt’s direction. “You pay the man.”
He didn’t know what he’d do if Soldt didn’t fork over the soldats, but it would involve fists, blood, and lots of trouble afterward. Soldt took his own damn time figuring out the obvious before he dug out two of the weightier Ilsigi shaboozh coins that passed for four soldats in most parts of Sanctuary. Not in the bazaar. Davar dropped the coins into a pouch he wore around his neck and gave no hint that he’d considered returning a soldat or even a padpol.
“He’d have accepted less from you,” Soldt argued when they were clear of the smithy. “And, either way, you had more than enough left from Lord Torchholder’s treasure.”
“I’m not carrying it with me,” Cauvin lied, while wondering if Soldt were guessing about the contents of the Broken Mast box or if he’d been spying from the start. “You made the deal. You owed the money.” Spying was a good bet. Hero or not, the whole of Sanctuary knew that the Torch was a damned spider with a web full of spies. “If you’re pinched, you shouldn’t have offered Davar the extra soldats. And give me the froggin’ box.”
“I paid for it. I should think that it’s my froggin’ box.”
“Fine—then you talk to the froggin’ S’danzo when we find her.”
They’d reached the perfumer’s stall. Soldt pulled right, Cauvin to the left.
“We turn this way,” Soldt said.
“Only if you want to go the long way back to the arch. My way, and we’ll be out in half the time.”
Soldt stopped and studied Cauvin. “You knew another way?”
“I know more than you think I do,” Cauvin