Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [139]
Storms before Cauvin’s birth had whipped up the placid White Foal River into a torrent, and the river had carved itself a new channel to the sea. The change had transformed a fishermen’s village into a bracken marsh, good for hunting crabs and birds, but little more, and gouged a treacherous cove into the middle of what had once been Caravan Square. The fishermen had rebuilt their stilt-y homes on what was left of the square. What was left of the caravan trade came through the East Gate near Pyrtanis Street because there was a man-deep ditch connecting the cove and the eroded wall.
The ditch wasn’t empty, and it wasn’t really a ditch, but the remains of a tunnel meant to transfer water and waste from Sanctuary’s west side to the sea. It still did; it just didn’t do it very well. The stream at the bottom of the ditch was low or high, fast or stagnant, depending on rainfall and the season. This time of year, the stream should be nearly pure swill, knee deep and rank as froggin’ hell.
Some families from the Shambles had built a footbridge from their quarter on the eastern side of the ditch to the bazaar on the western side. They’d set gates at both ends of the bridge and hired bruisers too froggin’ stupid to join the watch to sit beside them, charging every man, woman, or child a padpol to keep his feet dry.
Froggin’ sure, no one had to use the Shambles bridge. People could slide down the ditch bank, jump across whatever happened to be flowing at the bottom, and climb up again on the other side, but if a person misjudged the breadth of the swill or lost his footing, which was damned easy to do, then that person was going to be out boots, breeches, and a tub of coarse soap from the gluemaker. If Cauvin had wanted to take chances with his boots, he could have braved the arch to Governor’s Walk. Instead, he extracted the smallest padpol from his belt pouch and advised Soldt to do the same.
Five people had beaten them from the arch to the bridge—or maybe they were froggin’ rich enough that they regularly paid to enter or leave the bazaar. A handful of others stood on the Shambles side. Though the bridge looked sturdy enough for a horse, the padpol collectors didn’t allow but one person at a time on its planks. Someone left the bazaar or someone entered. Cauvin and Soldt waited their turn.
Cauvin let his mind wander. He’d returned to the gray fog of his palace years, thinking of nothing at all, when he got rocked from the right. As fast as Cauvin’s hand dropped to his belt, he knew his coin pouch was gone before it touched. The thief, a sprout Bec’s size, was already out of reach, three strides from the ditch. The man to Cauvin’s right—not Soldt—had seen it all and shouted an alarm—
“Thief! Thief! Catch him before he gets away!”
But no sheep-shite fool was going to follow the sprout into the ditch, not for the size of Cauvin’s purse. No sheep-shite fool except for Cauvin himself. Arms and legs pumping, he took one stride where the sprout took two and caught the thief halfway down the bank. With one hand on a scrawny neck and the other on a pair of ragged britches, Cauvin threw the little bastard clear across the swill stream.
The sprout landed hard, but had shaken off the shock before Cauvin had bounded the stream himself. The child turned and showed a face that was softer, even, than Bec’s. A girl—a froggin’ girl—Cauvin realized—had thieved him! Embarrassment pushed Cauvin to the limits of restraint. The girl saw the change. She brandished the leather pouch she’d sliced from Cauvin’s belt, tossed it downstream into the sludge, and clawed her way, hand over foot, up the Shambles bank.
Cauvin had a choice to make: vengeance or his money. No way he’d have both. Turn his back on the pouch, and some other thief would claim it. Take the moment to retrieve it, and the sprout would get away. Cauvin chose his froggin’ money, but there was no way to retrieve it without letting one foot sink ankle deep in swill. Gritting his teeth, Cauvin took the step and plucked the pouch off a slick brownish lump he hoped to the gods