Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [183]
“They nearly got Bec,” Cauvin informed her, lifting his head. “The boy followed me”—that was a lie, but it would stand—“and wound himself tight with the old pud and decided to do him a froggin’ favor—after I told not to. The froggin’ sprout got jumped coming home. Froggin’ sure it was the grace of the damn gods I got there in time. I dreamt the boy was in trouble—”
Leorin scowled. She said, “You’ve always said you don’t dream,” as though this were the most potent lie Cauvin had ever told.
“I’ve been dreaming a lot since the Torch didn’t die—”
“You should have told me.”
“It’s just dreams, not nightmares or terrors. The important thing is, I dreamt Bec needed rescuing, and I went out after him. I wound up fighting the Hand in an old courtyard off Copper Corner.”
“How do you know it was the Hand?”
“The bastard getting ready to twist Bec’s head around wore red silk over his face.”
“Sweet Mother, Cauvin—that doesn’t prove anything. Why did you wear the red silk in the first place? It was as much to frighten people as to hide your faces. So, what better way to wait in an alley or courtyard than with some red silk wound over your face? Froggin’ gods—you fell for it quick enough.”
“All right—it was more than the silk, it was the way he fought, the way he had his hands around the boy’s head, all set to snap his neck. I know what the Hand taught me, Leorin. I know it when I see it. If that bastard wasn’t consecrated Hand, then he was froggin’ taught by them.”
“Maybe not everybody who walked out of the palace decided to live like a sheep-shite dog smashing stone for stewed meat twice a week.”
“I know every one the Torch set aside, every orphan who walked out of the palace the day after … everybody who’s left.” Cauvin was on his feet. His right hand had become a fist. He didn’t remember either act.
“You didn’t see me walk out, did you, Cauvin? The froggin’ Torch never did anything for me.”
Leorin’s words were fists in Cauvin’s gut. It wasn’t merely that she was right; Leorin usually was. But he’d never considered that Leorin might not be the only orphan who’d survived the Hand’s collapse without the Torch’s help.
“We’ve got to leave Sanctuary,” Cauvin said. His fist fell open to his side. “Anyone who doesn’t want to meet the Hand again has to leave—” Grabar and Mina, Swift, Batty Dol, and everyone else on Pyrtanis Street marched past his mind’s eye. Even rich Lord Mioklas on the Processional and Gorge of the city guard, who wasn’t a bad sort. And Bec. Mostly Bec. “They’ve got to be warned. I’ve got to tell them!”
“You haven’t told anyone what happened? The brat hasn’t?”
Cauvin shook his head. “He came up with his own lies.”
“But you’ve told Grabar and Mina about the Torch?”
Another headshake. “He doesn’t want anyone to know. The old pud’s clever. He’d have my liver if he knew I was telling you.”
“Me, in particular?”
“No, any—” Cauvin’s breath caught on that he.
“What did you tell him about me?” Leorin demanded. “You’re keeping secrets. Gods all damn you, if you’re keeping secrets!”
Secrets! Cauvin was drowning in them, froggin’ secrets and lies. He wanted to tell her everything, just to be free again—“When I came here to the Unicorn, what—two nights ago, three?” Time blurred for Cauvin with Leorin glaring at him. “It was because the Torch sent me to meet someone.” The colder Leorin’s eyes got, the more Cauvin realized there were worse fates than drowning in secrets. “I didn’t see him, but he saw me … and you.”
“And wondered why I was here, not out at Land’s End?”
Suddenly there was a branch within a drowning man’s grasp. Seize it and he’d be safe, with another lie, another secret hanging over him. “That, and other things, too. I told him that we’d known each other a long time—before the pits and in them. You