Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [141]
“Cauvin,” followed by another word, “home.”
And “blacksmith” above another dot, which, froggin’ come to notice, was at one end of a crooked line that had “Settle Stone” at its beginning. Above the third dot the Torch had written “Elemi’s home” and in a column beside it, a series of street names: “Wideway,” “Stink Street,” “Shambles Cross,” “Shadow Street,” “Dippin Lane,” and “Paddling Duck” …
Dippin Lane. Dippin Lane. Cauvin knew Dippin Lane. It was one of those froggin’ Shambles’ dodges off the street they called Shadow because it was so narrow and the roofs so high that sunlight never got down to the ground …
The parchment slipped through Cauvin’s suddenly lax fingers. His vision blurred. If someone had asked—and froggin’ held his head underwater until he’d answered honestly—Cauvin would have admitted he was crying. Crying because he was reading—reading froggin’ Imperial Rankene. He didn’t know why he was reading or weeping.
It had to be the Torch meddling with him again. The box had to be like the brick in the Maze atrium—larded with sorcery and set to trap him. Cauvin tried to be angry, but his tears washed away anger. He wanted to go home, to the stoneyard where Bec practiced his letters on a slab of slate. Froggin’ sure writing had to be easier if you could read.
Soldt picked up the parchment. “Careless is as careless does.”
Cauvin’s anger returned.
Cauvin was froggin’ sure Soldt was the Torch’s cat’s-paw, but, just as sure, he hadn’t caught the sorcery passing between Cauvin and the parchment. At least Cauvin didn’t think Soldt had, because Soldt had that sheep-shite smirking grin glued on his face when he put the parchment into the scrip he wore folded over his belt. Cauvin smiled back. He no longer needed Soldt to lead him to Dippin Lane. He could follow Soldt to the White Foal, pound the froggin’ snot out of him, and leave him there to rot.
froggin’ sure the Torch would have questions, of course, when Cauvin showed up to reclaim Bec and the mule without the spy behind him. The Torch could believe whatever lies Cauvin concocted between now and then; or not believe them. It didn’t much matter. Cauvin had the box, he knew where to find the froggin’ S‘danzo, and those questions the Torch had asked about Leorin— Cauvin froggin’ sure had asked them himself and he’d froggin’ sure sleep better when he had the answers he wanted from the S’danzo … from Elemi.
Cauvin knew the S’danzo’s name now; he’d froggin’ read it.
With Soldt in the lead and Cauvin seething behind, they doglegged around Davar’s forge and left the bazaar through the old Common Gate with a single word weathered on the lintel. Today, for the first time, he read it—“Sanctuary.”
They passed the fane of Shipri All-Mother, the finest of the rebuilt temples, though it, like all the others, was small and built more from wood and brick, than stone. Through the open door Cauvin saw Shipri’s painted statue atop the altar. It seemed the goddess was looking straight at him, smiling at him, too—the soft, proud mother’s smile that Bec got from Mina all the froggin’ time.
Cauvin knew he should thank the goddess, but Cauvin had never been one for visiting temples. Except for the time when he’d walked out of the palace behind Grabar,