Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [154]
Even tucked away in a root cellar, the froggin’ Torch had the power to shape a sheep-shite stone-smasher’s life.
Then conversation turned to the day’s bad news—not the appearance of an Ilsigi galley or the surge in prices at the market, but runners who’d appeared at the stoneyard not long after Cauvin had taken off in the morning. A building had collapsed in a quarter south of the palace and as Sanctuary’s only master stonemason it fell to Grabar to decide where men could safely dig for survivors.
“That rain we had last night must’ve done for the walls,” Grabar muttered. “The corner gave at the bottom and everything above collapsed. We pulled one lucky fellow out—he’d been asleep in the attic when it fell; he’ll live. The poor bastards below—”
“Husband!” Mina snapped with a sidelong glance at Bec, who was all ears listening.
“Damned miserable morning. Could’ve used you and the cart,” Grabar said in Cauvin’s direction.
“You knew where 1 froggin’ was,” Cauvin said, which wasn’t a complete lie—not for the morning, and he was covered for the afternoon: Bec would have said if runners had come to the ruins after he and Soldt had taken off. Shite for sure, the runners would have noticed the froggin’ Torch sitting on the window ledge, and that’s the story the city would be serving with supper, instead of a collapsed building or an Ilsigi galley.
Damned gods knew, Cauvin had been as lucky as the fellow Grabar had pulled out of the rubble. He couldn’t resist the relief, or the shame. Pushing the empty bowl aside, Cauvin left the kitchen for the loft. With no lamp or candle to break the gloom, Cauvin threw himself down on the straw, wishing he could unlive the last five days or, failing that, fall asleep.
As far back as he could remember, Cauvin’s best and surest defense had been sleep. No matter what had happened with his mother or with the Hand, once he was alone in the dark, Cauvin could retreat into the gray, hide in dreamless sleep, and wake up with an armor of emptiness between himself and his memories. Day or night, rested or exhausted, he’d been able to will himself into dreamless sleep, so it came as a froggin’ unpleasant surprise to find himself wide-awake and staring up at the shades-of-black rafters.
They were all there, whirling in Cauvin’s mind: the Torch with his glowing staff and parchment skin; Sinjon and his mismatched staring eyes from the Broken Mast; the guards, the watchmen, the Hiller from Ils’s temple, and the Ender steward on his sweating horse; the would-be killers who’d laid their red hands on Bec in Copper Corner; and—looming larger than Lord Molin Torchholder—the froggin’-sure killer, the assassin, Soldt. A crumbled home Cauvin hadn’t seen with his own eyes filled the center of Cauvin’s confusion. In his mind, it was a froggin’ redbrick ruin.
Cauvin’s friends were in there, his loved ones: Bec and Leorin, Grabar and Mina, Swift and his Pyrtanis Street neighbors; Pendy, Jess, and everyone who’d ever died. Even his ghostly mother was trapped beneath red bricks. He had to get them out, with a mallet, not a shovel—his mallet with a shiny bronze head. It was more than comfortable in his hands, and Cauvin swung it with confidence, certain that he could smash the bricks aside in time.
The ruins shuddered each time Cauvin struck them, loosening more bricks, piling them higher and higher. Between heartbeats the ruins swelled like waves before a gale. Growing faster than they crumbled, the brick walls towered over Cauvin’s head. He staggered backward, defeated, looking desperately for Grabar, who could read the strength