Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [146]
Cauvin swallowed and nodded. He and Grabar had once delivered stone there, but other men had done the wall-building. It was that kind of inn, maybe the only Sanctuary inn where a husband needn’t worry about his wife’s virtue if she stayed there alone.
“Her name’s Galya—she’ll stitch you up a white-linen shirt for a soldat—maybe less, if she likes your smile.”
Cauvin grimaced.
“You must have a spare soldat? I paid the blacksmith.”
“Not to spare. What am I going to do with a froggin’ white-linen shirt?”
“Tuck it into a pair of woolen breeches.”
Soldt did a one-handed vault over the wall. In the whirl of cloak and cloth Cauvin caught sight of a dark pole hung straight along Soldt’s spine and what looked to be a froggin’ sword hilt hanging out the bottom end.
Come winter, when the nights were long and even Mina’s kitchen was too cold for working, Grabar would lead the whole household to the Lucky Well. Neighbors who didn’t speak the rest of the year would crowd the common room until it was toasty warm. While the innkeeper’s idiot son stirred a simmering kettle of watered wine—a dip for a padpol—Bilibot and Eprazian took turns telling tales. A night didn’t go by without a tale about a man who wore his sword upside down along his spine. Not quite a villain, but never a hero, such a man showed up to do what no one else could do. Sometimes he carried a message across enemy lines, or rescued a prince and averted a war. More often, though, he stepped out of the shadows, sword in hand, for a fight to the death that wasn’t his. If he was on the hero’s side, he was called a duelist. When he was paid by the villain, Bilibot and Eprazian called him assassin.
It made sense—perfect sense—that the Torch was on close terms with a duelist … an assassin. But for Cauvin … ? Could a sheep-shite stone-smasher have been more foolish than to confront such a man with a lump of bronze in his fist? Cauvin wanted to run and hide for a month—it would be that long before his cheeks ceased burning; but he retrieved the wooden box instead and followed Soldt wherever he led.
Chapter Thirteen
“Cauvin, do you know what Inception Island used to be called?” Bec asked from atop Flower’s back.
They were headed back to the stoneyard well ahead of the sunset.
Cauvin would have preferred to linger at the ruins. Well, not exactly linger. froggin’ sure, there hadn’t been a reason to linger. The Torch and his assassin had made it clear that they wanted to be alone. No matter what Cauvin or Bec suggested, the Torch froggin’ twisted it into a reason for them to leave the ruins. He even let himself be stowed in the cellar again, just so Cauvin could get Bec home “before the boy’s mother begins worrying about him.” Frog all, the Torch didn’t worry about anyone except his sheep-shite self.
Cauvin found it impossible to ignore the old pud’s direct orders, but he would have dearly loved to creep up close to the two men and eavesdrop on their conversation which, shite for sure, be all about him. He could sneak back to the ruins after supper. Cauvin knew where there were gaps in the city walls, and he wasn’t afraid to go outside them after dark—though he rarely did. But they knew languages he didn’t froggin’ recognize, much less understand, and were canny enough to use them whether they were alone or not.
Besides, he was aching from more froggin’ bruises than he cared to count and—despite his best efforts with sand and water—his swill-doused boot had ripened to a fine stench. There’d be no sneaking up on anyone until he soaked the leather in sweet oil.
So he’d loaded the wooden box and his Ilbarsi knife into the back of the otherwise empty cart, plopped Bec on Flower’s back—the boy was a gentle rider and light enough that the mule didn’t mind carrying him when the cart was empty. They’d taken the roundabout, easy route home along the Eastern Ridge Road.
“Scav-something,” Cauvin answered Bec’s question. “Scavenge Island. Something like that. It was long before me. Long before your parents, too.”
“Scavengers Island and forty