Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [148]
An Ender steward thundered up to them.
“You there!” he shouted through a thick Imperial accent. “You there! Clear the way, pud!” His horse stamped and shook, spraying Cauvin with horse sweat.
“We’ll be through before your—”
The steward cut him off. “Don’t argue with me! Pull this porking rig off the road here and wait until we’ve passed. We’ve got trade with that ship in the harbor and can’t be waiting while you fix a wheel or harness.”
Cauvin wondered if the Ender would have been so froggin’ cocksure if it had been someone else—Soldt with his cloak and boots—walking beside the cart and not a Wrigglie like him in ratty homespun and stinking boots.
“You hear me, pud? Move it! It’s Lord Serripines’ money that maintains this road and Lord Serripines’ carts that use it first.”
“You don’t look like you’re froggin’ Lord Serripines,” Cauvin muttered. He imagined that Soldt or the Torch might have said something similar … of course, they’d have spoken Imperial and the froggin’ steward would have whored himself with apologies.
“What? What did you say to me, pud?”
“Nothing.” He wrapped an arm around Flower’s head and shoved her gently sideways.
The mule went easily. She knew when not to argue and, sometimes, so did Cauvin. A steward was always worse than a lord, no matter whether the lord was an Imperial sparker, home-grown Wrigglie, or the kingdom-captain on that galley. Lords never had to prove themselves; stewards did, stewards and stoneyard foster sons sent to collect debts from their betters. Froggin’ sure Lord Mioklas would settle his stoneyard accounts in a hurry if an assassin showed up to collect their debts.
“It’s not his road!” Bec grumbled, distracting Cauvin from vengeful thoughts once the cart was off the road and the steward had spurred his horse back to the sparker caravan.
Cauvin hissed the boy quiet. “Froggin’ Enders … Shalpa’s luck, give them a broken axle on every cart—Tell me your story. We’ve got the time.”
“It’s not my story; it’s Grandfather’s.”
“Just tell it, Bec.”
“It starts at the very beginning, with the gods. Grandfather says that every story has to start with the gods—”
“He’s a froggin’ priest. What else would a froggin’ priest say?”
The boy said nothing for a moment, as if he’d taken Cauvin’s gibe for a serious question, then began his tale in earnest: “The gods love to laugh. They gave Sanctuary a good harbor, then put the best harbor in all the world on an island just over our horizon. To amuse themselves further, they scraped most of the dirt off the island and sucked up its streams. Then they waited and waited for fools to find it—”
Cauvin caught himself staring. Bec, despite his squeaky, shortwinded child’s voice, had pretty much nailed the Torch’s style. The boy sat stiff on Flower’s back, except for his arms and hands, which stabbed the important words. The words had come from the old geezer, too—Honald and the chickens didn’t care about gods or laughter.
“It’s possible to earn an honest living in Sanctuary, not easy, but possible—” The boy’s arms dropped to his sides, and he spoke with his own voice. “You and Poppa do, and Swift, and Momma says Teera never shorts the loaves she bakes. Grandfather said an honest life couldn’t be lived at all on Scavengers Island. Only smugglers, thieves, sorcerers, and mis- mis- miscreants!”
The boy struggled to get the word past his teeth. He needn’t have bothered. It was one of the Torch’s fancy, Imperial words, and Cauvin didn’t know the meaning except by tone.
“Don’t ever forget,” he advised Bec, “that pud you’re calling Grandfather’s a froggin’ sparker lord. We’re all nothing but Wrigglies to him.”
“But the Scavengers were worse. It was them who ruled Sanctuary before the Imperials came. When Emperor—Emperor …? Furzy feathers! I can’t remember his name, and Grandfather even spelled