Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [145]
Soldt extended a hand. “I’d go slower, if we had the time, but he’s dying, hour by hour.”
They clasped wrists. Cauvin groaned as Soldt jerked him upright. Shite for sure, he’d be aching all over come tomorrow morning.
“The Torch—he’s a froggin’ old man, right?”
“Eighty, at least.”
“Then he couldn’t have been much of a fighter before he got that wound.”
Soldt shrugged. “He killed whoever attacked him.”
“Frog all. I rescued him, remember? The Torch was game, but that made no difference to the Hiller pounding him.”
“There were two bodies in the crossing. No question one was a Land’s End sparker. But who was the other, the one they burnt, and who killed him? The sparker? He went down running with a knife in his back.”
Cauvin hadn’t known that, hadn’t thought much about the second corpse, except he knew it couldn’t have been the Torch. “Must’ve been another old pud, if the Torch managed to kill him and get mistaken for him. Wouldn’t take a lot, really, to kill an old pud.”
“Maybe not, but the corpse they burnt had been beaten to death. Its leg was broke and its nose had been hammered so far into its skull that its brains had leaked onto what was left of its chin. That’s a lot of work for an old pud, as you say. My guess is that Lord Torchholder transformed whoever attacked him.”
“Transformed? Froggin’ shite. The old pud could do that?”
“The old pud’s Lord Molin Torchholder, Archpriest and Architect of Vashanka. With the right prayer, he could do anything his god could do.”
Cauvin didn’t have time to think about that as Soldt came after him again, without warning.
They balanced, forearm to forearm. Someone sitting on the wall—if there’d been someone sitting on the wall—would have seen two men standing still, scarcely touching. But inside his skin, Cauvin felt constantly changing pressure and adapted to it. Moments passed. Cauvin kept his balance through several breaths and might have kept it longer, except he got bold and tried to do to Soldt what Soldt was doing to him. Staggering toward the wall, Cauvin imagined the pain he’d feel when he landed and, desperate to avoid it, managed to get his feet under him again before he fell.
“Better! Much better. You’re quick.”
Cauvin disagreed with a snort. He swiped sweat off his forehead. “The Torch—why pray for Vashanka to transform a froggin’ corpse? Why not pray for a bolt of lightning before he had a hole in his hip?”
“Ask him, if you dare. Something went wrong, he won’t say more than that. You’re what’s left: his heir. He says Vashanka and all the other gods are laughing. Gods.” Soldt spat the word.
Cauvin remembered soaring above Sanctuary with a god’s laughter ringing in his ears.
No froggin’ surprise—he wasn’t paying attention when Soldt closed against him. He never saw the move that flipped him ass over heels into the froggin’ grass. But that was the last time Soldt caught him unprepared, and while Cauvin couldn’t flatten the spy, he did knock him to his knees … once. After that, Soldt changed the exercise. He wanted to tie a strip of cloth over Cauvin’s eyes.
There wasn’t enough trust within the low, stone walls for Cauvin to agree to that Bloody Hand trick. He expected trouble when he said no. Soldt surprised him.
“We’ve done enough for one day, then, and whoever was watching, lost interest or nerve—or is too smart to leave cover. It’s past time to rescue Lord Torchholder from your young brother.”
“The S’danzo?” Cauvin gestured toward the box and the town, which were both in the same direction.
“Not today. You stink of swill and sweat, Cauvin—no way to visit a lady, even if she is S’danzo. Have you got enough money to get those boots dipped in sweet oil? Do you own a shirt that isn’t frayed, or breeches that aren’t patched on their patches?”
“My clothes are good enough for an honest man,” Cauvin snarled. “They were froggin’ clean when I left the stoneyard this morning. I’ll rinse ’em off in the trough and they’ll be clean again tomorrow.”
“You need better than that. There’s a laundress at the Inn of