Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [173]
That was Soldt’s problem; Cauvin wasn’t going out to the ruins. If the assassin solved it—if he dragged the Torch from the ruins, then Cauvin would be at a loss for finding the old pud again, no matter what—
Good riddance! I can leave this froggin’ city with a clear conscience—
But as soon as Cauvin had that self-congratulatory thought, it began to slip away. He’d never know if the Torch were truly responsible for his sudden literacy. He’d never know what the old pud thought of the forty-two shaboozh Lord Mioklas had given him or whether the rich Wrigglie could possibly be in league with the Bloody Hand. And if he were … ? Or if he weren’t … ? Or he was in league with someone, but he didn’t know that someone was in league with the Bloody Hand?
I don’t care. He’s an old man—unnaturally old, just like Mioklas said—and I’m leaving Sanctuary forever. Leorin and I. Together. We’re getting out. Going to Ilsig and never looking back. If the Hand’s here—If Mioklas set the Torch up—It’s a lot of froggin’ nothing to me. I don’t care!
Cauvin did care. His conscience whispered that he cared in so many ways that his gut knew he’d never leave the city if he counted them. If Cauvin listened to his conscience, he’d make his way to the ruins. To quiet his conscience, Cauvin needed a middle course—and found it when two girls hurried past, their hands covering their mouths, as though their fingers could keep their shrill, giggling laughter from his ears.
No wonder they’d laughed. Children laughed at Bilibot when he passed out on the street, and, froggin’ sure, Cauvin looked worse than Bilibot. His face was bloody. His shirt was in tatters. A torn sleeve dangled from his belt. Cauvin had one other shirt … folded beside his pallet in the stoneyard loft. The odds that he could swap shirts without Bec or Grabar or Mina taking notice of him weren’t good.
He also had forty-two shaboozh beating against his thigh and the name of a laundress at the Inn of Six Ravens who, according to Soldt, would fit him with a white-linen shirt for a soldat or less, if she liked his smile. Cauvin couldn’t count on his smile for water on a rainy day, and he had no idea how long it took to make a white-linen shirt, but maybe the laundress could repair the one he was wearing if he tempted her with a shiny shaboozh.
More to the froggin’ point, the six black birds huddled on a single branch signboard were visible from where Cauvin stood.
The Inn of Six Ravens was a quiet place where a rich man could lodge his wife, daughter, or favorite mistress. It had its own stable, a fountain courtyard, and a closed iron gate. A man in green livery sat inside the gate. He wasn’t drunk, and he wasn’t going to let Cauvin inside. He wasn’t even going to stand up until Cauvin mentioned Soldt’s name.
“Master Soldt told you to come here?” the guard asked on his way to the gate.
“He told me the laundress named Galya lives here … works here. He said she’d make me a shirt—” Cauvin shrugged a naked shoulder. “I need a shirt.”
“She’s around back. Follow the path around the stable.”
As easy as that, Cauvin was through the gate and on his way to meet a laundress whose visitors were admitted if they mentioned an assassin’s name. He tried to be ready for anything at the back end of the stone-paved path but he wasn’t ready for the inn’s cramped, rear courtyard: A huge wooden tub dominated the yard with a short, stocky woman standing on a stool beside it.
The laundress sang up a storm as she pounded the tub’s contents with a beater that looked a lot like the shaft of a stone-smashing