Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [169]
Their eyes locked by chance. Cauvin’s mind was spinning like a dog in pursuit of its flea-bitten tail. He needed to say something, but only one word came out of his mouth: “You … you … you …” He’d never felt so slow or sheep-shite stupid.
“Ah—forgive me. The Torch was your personal hero, no doubt. Leading the charge into the palace, returning you to your family. Yes. That’s why you mentioned Raith. You’d heard that Lord Torchholder favored him. You saw the lad at the funeral? I’m sorry, Cauvin—but Lord Torchholder was an old man, a very old man. One might say unnaturally old. There were rumors—no need sharing them now. Young Raith’s grieving, but he’s better off without Lord Torchholder whispering in his ear, putting dangerous thoughts in his head. There’ll be a place for Raith—a place for you, Cauvin. A city needs its master stone-workers. Indeed. How much do you need? Did you say twenty shaboozh now, the rest—oh, say after midwinter?”
Cauvin’s tongue remained thick and lifeless.
“Thirty, then? As Ils watches, I don’t have it all! Not before midwinter. How about forty? Will forty shaboozh suffice to keep you warm on Pyrtanis Street?”
With some effort, Cauvin dipped his chin and raised it again.
“Wait here. Brevis?”
The rich man and his bodyguard exchanged glances before Mioklas left the room. Cauvin found himself face-to-face with a man fondling the hilt of his sword. He had his long knife, and one steelfighting lesson from Soldt. That wasn’t going to help Cauvin, not if Brevis had been given orders to skewer him.
When moments had passed and the sword hadn’t moved, Cauvin allowed himself a question: What in the froggin’ frozen hells of Hecath had just happened? Had his ears heard Lord Mioklas admitting to the murder of Lord Torchholder? Had he—the sheep-shite stone-smasher of Pyrtanis Street—glimpsed Lord Mioklas’s secret guilt? Did Lord Mioklas believe Cauvin had guessed that secret? Was Mioklas offering Cauvin forty shaboozh in payment for his work on the garden wall? Was Mioklas in his privy chamber gathering coins from his strongbox, or was he summoning more bodyguards?
Brevis grinned when Cauvin dared a glance at the doorway. Cauvin quickly lowered his eyes. He looked at the worktable and several sheets of parchment. Without trying he could make out the Ilsigi words, even though they were reversed, as the S’danzo’s cards Lance of Flames and Archway had been.
TO MY ESTEEMED LORD. THE MATTER WHICH CONCERNED YOU HAS BEEN RESOLVED. THE CAPTAIN WHO BRINGS YOU THIS MESSAGE WILL ACCEPT …
Words could mean anything, especially an unfinished message. Cauvin turned away from the parchment, toward a round, oddly bright and blurry painting. Moments later he realized that it wasn’t a painting at all but a silvered mirror.
Leorin owned a palm-sized square of polished brass she called a mirror. She used it to guide her hand as she drew a black, cosmetic line around her golden eyes. Whenever Cauvin had tried the mirror’s sorcery, he saw blobs and scratches, nothing at all like a face, let alone his face. Mioklas’s froggin’ mirror was better than Leorin’s; good enough that Cauvin believed he was looking at sorcery.
The silver mirror reflected images Cauvin couldn’t see with his own eyes: Brevis leaning against the doorjamb, still grinning. Cauvin scowled and jumped when his reflection scowled back. Brevis laughed aloud. Cauvin shook his head; the reflection did likewise, but backward. Warily, Cauvin raised his right hand to his cheek; the reflection raised its left. He closed his left eye; the reflection closed its right. He closed his right eye—
That was froggin’ stupid.
He strode closer to the mirror.