Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [151]
A silent moment passed before Bec said softly, “Everybody hates the Imperials. Maybe they’re right to. Momma talks, but I wouldn’t want to live at Land’s End, even if I could. I don’t think they’re nice.”
Bec’s hair was darker than Cauvin’s. So was his mother’s, where it grew out of her head. Mina would rather look like a heap of straw at the end of summer than a Wrigglie. She bought bleach from the dyers and daubed it on her scalp until it bled and made froggin’ sure Bec wasn’t proud of anything he’d gotten from his Wrigglie father.
Cauvin wasn’t proud of his ancestors, either. On the whole, his people—the sons of thieves and daughters of slaves—weren’t as clever or brave or honest as other people. But Cauvin never liked to see Bec with a frown on his face. He dropped a hug around the boy’s scrawny shoulders.
“If nice mattered, sprout, we’d put Batty Dol in the Governor’s Palace—she’s just about the nicest person I know, but look out afterward, ‘cause she’s mad as a magpie. I hate the Imperials because they sit out at Land’s End, proud as peacocks, getting richer every day even without their froggin’ Empire to back them up, and there’s not a froggin’ thing we can do about it. But the Ilsigis—the real Ilsigis from the kingdom, not us bastard Wrigghes—would be froggin’ worse in the palace. To Imperials, we’re barbarians, but, shite for sure, they think everyone who’s not a citizen is a barbarian—”
“I’m a citizen. Momma made Poppa pay to put my name on the rolls at the palace. She keeps a copy behind a hearthstone, all sealed in wax to protect it.”
“Then you could live at Land’s End. That’s the way the Imperials are: They’ll treat you like a froggin’ turd, but show up with the right piece of parchment, and you’re one of them … well, maybe not quite—you’ll wind up like that steward, always having to make yourself important. I’m telling you, though—it’s different with the Ilsigis. We look like them, pretty much; we speak the same language, almost; and when some sparking Ilsigi comes to Sanctuary the only thing he sees is escaped slaves. A turd’s got use in this life—leave it alone and plants grow better; but a runaway slave means somewhere there’s a master who’s frogged himself. If we bow down to King Sepheris, we’ll stand up in chains with hot brands on our backs.”
“It’s been over two hundred years, Cauvin. All those slaves who ran away from their masters are dead and their grandchildren and their grandchildren’s children, too. Nobody could come into Sanctuary and say—you, your great-great-grandfather was a runaway slave. Nobody remembers who their great-great-grandfather was.”
“The Ilsigis won’t care. Far as their kingdom’s concerned, Sanctuary’s worse than a mistake, it’s shame, and there’s nothing worse than shame. It’s all smiles and shaboozh now, but if Sanctuary goes to bed with Sepheris, that parchment over the hearth won’t mean froggin’ shite.”
Cauvin had surprised himself with his passion. He’d surprised Bec, too. The boy squirmed free.
“Furzy feathers!”
Embarrassed, Cauvin mumbled, “I don’t know—I never froggin’ thought about it much, but everything just came clear in my mind all of a sudden.” He didn’t like the way that sounded, almost as if the thoughts hadn’t been his, the way reading hadn’t been his yesterday. “If it comes to choosing—If anyone asks me, I’d say Sanctuary should stick with the froggin’ Empire. The worst they’ll do to Sanctuary is start collecting taxes again.”
“Furzy feathers!”
Young as he was, Bec was the stoneyard’s clever one. When Bec’s mouth hung open with disbelief, Cauvin could be certain he’d made a fool of himself … again.
“I—”
“Furzy feathers! Grandfather said almost the same words. He even told me that the palace rolls wouldn’t count for anything with the Ilsigis, and that’s why Raith’s got to succeed his father, not Naimun or the Dragon. Did Grandfather tell you what to think?”
Stunned, Cauvin