Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [167]
There were two doors to a rich man’s home—the high door where his family and peers made their entrances and the low door near the storerooms for servants and tradesmen. When Cauvin worked on the wall, he’d come and gone without complaint through the low door, but when he came to settle debts he climbed the stone steps to the brightly painted high door and let the bronze ring strike hard against the plate beneath it. Within moments a woman’s face appeared at a barred round window and quickly vanished.
He could imagine the messages whispered from one servant to the next: He’s here again—That sheep-shite stone-smasher from Pyrtanis Street—You tell the master—No, you tell him—
Just when Cauvin was about to hammer the door a second time, it creaked and cracked open.
“We receive tradesmen below,” the housekeeper snarled, as though he’d never laid a sheepshite eye on Cauvin before.
“Tell Lord Mioklas that Cauvin, Grabar’s son, is here on business.”
“Lord Mioklas is not at home—”
The housekeeper tried to shut the door. He wasn’t quick enough, or strong enough. Cauvin slapped his palm against the wood and effortlessly held the door open against the housekeeper’s best efforts.
“I know the pud’s here, in his workroom, counting his coins.”
“He’s not expecting you—”
“That’s his froggin’ problem, not mine and not yours either, unless you don’t take me to see him.”
Though the housekeeper sported a tuft of black beard on his chin, the rest of his face bore the soft, unfinished features of a lifelong eunuch—not someone who was likely to stand his ground against a stone-smasher. In fact, he hadn’t on the other occasions when Cauvin had come to collect a debt. Cauvin put his strength into his arm and, straightening his elbow, moved the door—and the housekeeper with it—far enough to get across the threshold.
“You won’t cause trouble, will you?” the housekeeper pleaded.
“Not if you get your ass turned around and take me to Mioklas. Or, I could take myself. I know the froggin’ way. I’ve been here how many times before? Your froggin’ lord doesn’t pay his debts. He’s froggin’ greedy, and he’s froggin’ cheap. I’ll wager he doesn’t pay you on time, either; does he?”
The housekeeper shot Cauvin a look sharp enough to draw blood but didn’t deny the accusation. He led Cauvin down a corridor and stairway each painted with murals of Ilsig’s gods and Ilsig’s glory. Cauvin counted three braziers, each piled high with charcoal and ready for the flame, ready to heat the froggin’ corridor.
Mioklas’s bodyguard, his sword now properly belted below his waist, blocked the workroom door. “You’re here to make trouble?”
“Lord Mioklas said autumn. It’s been froggin’ autumn for weeks now. We were expecting him at the yard. He should’ve been expecting me.”
“Let him in, Brevis,” the froggin’ lord himself called from behind Brevis’s back.
Brevis—Cauvin had forgotten the man’s name until he’d heard it again—stepped back, putting himself inside the workroom before Cauvin entered it. They exchanged keep-your-froggin’-hands-to-your-froggin’ -self glances as Mioklas rose from his chair. He was a few years younger than Grabar and in better shape than either Grabar or most rich men nearing the end of their prime. His eyes were sharp, his handshake firm and freely given—even to a man who might make trouble.
“How’s the garden?” Cauvin asked, freeing his hand.
“A delight. Would you care to see it?” Mioklas beckoned Cauvin toward the door behind his table, the door through which Cauvin had watched him moments earlier. “I’ve planted evergreens and gathered driftwood ornaments for the winter—”
Cauvin stayed put. “Up on Pyrtanis Street, we’re gathering driftwood for the froggin’ hearth. You know what I’m here for, Lord Mioklas.” He hadn’t meant to swear, not this early in the conversation, but oaths and curses were part of him, like breathing.
“It has been an unsettled season, Cauvin—I wouldn’t expect you to fully understand. With Arizak dwelling in the palace now, our Irrune are preoccupied with their own affairs.