Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [184]
“So?”
“So, you’re right—the Torch didn’t help you get free of the Hand. So he thinks—He thinks you must have had the Hand’s help.”
“I told you!” she snapped. “The Whip dragged me along until I got the drop on him. One slit clean across his froggin’ belly. His guts fell out, and I was alone … days away from Sanctuary.”
“That’s what I said, but he didn’t believe me. The Torch believes you left with the Hand and came back the same way.”
“Sweet froggin’ Mother, Cauvin! You sound as though you believe it, too.”
“Where do you go when you’re not here?”
Leorin seized the water jug with both hands. “So that’s the froggin’ bone!” She raised the jug shoulder high. Water sloshed over her hair and gown. “It’s not the flea-shite Torch and it’s not the Hand—it’s you! Have you forgotten that the froggin’ Stick doesn’t pay us wages? I buy every froggin’ mug I serve, and the froggin’ Stick charges rent for this flea-shite room on top. If it’s been a slow week—and between the damn froggin’ Dragon and a froggin’ funeral for a corpse that wasn’t the frog-all Torch, this has been one froggin’ slow week—and I need the rent, or padpols for the Sisters of Eshi or, Sweet Mother forbid, I’ve torn a hole in my shoes, the froggin’ gods know I can’t turn to you. ‘Til this week, you’ve been poorer than dirt, but don’t hear me complaining, do you? I do what I have to do and get what I need from my regulars. It’s what I know how to do, Cauvin. I don’t froggin’ enjoy it, but I do it because I’ve eaten dirt, and it doesn’t froggin’ fill your stomach.”
Ashamed, Cauvin said, “I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant—I froggin’ meant that you were so close to them. You can think like them, and sometimes you’re as froggin’ cold. It’s hard not to wonder, that’s all. The Torch had me take his doubts to a S’danzo—”
Leorin’s arms trembled. It seemed she would heave the jug, but she set it down hard on the dressing table instead. “There’s a froggin’ poor joke. I’d sooner be Hand than S’danzo. Why don’t you jump her broom?”
“Because, frog all, you’re the woman I love, Leorin. I want to get us out before the darkness closes in over both our heads. You couldn’t see yourself during the storm—the look in your eyes, the way you turn cold as death. I don’t want to lose you to the Hand! They’re back, Leorin. What do you think they’ll do if they find out you slit the froggin’ Whip?”
In silence, Leorin wrapped her arms around herself so tight it seemed she’d break. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. Cauvin caught her just as she began to topple.
“I ran once,” she whispered, squeezing his ribs, now, rather than her own. “And no matter how far I went, the dreams were already there, so I came back.” Leorin looked up at Cauvin, her amber eyes shining in the lamplight. “It was better here.”
“Because I hold you when you dream. Think how much better it will be when we’re in Ranke.”
“Ilsig.”
“But?”
“I’ll go wherever you go, Cauvin. Give me a day to get ready, to sell what I can; and one other thing: We’ve got to be married before we leave. No priests, no processions or feasts—just you and me. Tomorrow, at sunset, we’ll make our vows, just to each other. We’ll have one night, together and alone, together in Sanctuary. The day after tomorrow, lead me onto whatever ship, bound for whatever port.”
“We don’t have to wait until tomorrow,” Cauvin whispered in Leorin’s ear. Anger could become lust faster than any mage could cast a spell.
“I want wine, Cauvin—good wine from Caronne, perfumed oil for the lamp … and elsewhere.” With a kiss-moistened fingertip, she drew a swirling shapes down Cauvin’s chest that took his breath away. “I’ll have it all here before sunset tomorrow—” Leorin paused, then grinned. “Today! Froggin’ sure, it’s hours after midnight.”
Cauvin let go slowly. He’d been caught in the undertow once already tonight; twice was almost more than a man could endure without