Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [185]
“You find the ship,” Leorin purred. “I’ll get the wine and the oil.”
Cauvin stood beneath a streaming gargoyle on Stink Street. The storm had scoured the roofs. He let the water splash against his face without fear and marveled that he’d walked away from Leorin again. Overhead there were stars shining through high, shredded clouds. The Irrune torches were all soaked and useless, but with every puddle turned into a mirror by the starlight, Cauvin could see his way to the Processional.
He hadn’t planned to go back to the stoneyard, but short of the ruins, there wasn’t anywhere else to go. Cauvin turned left on the Processional, toward the palace, and had the avenue to himself—or he’d thought he did. He’d passed Mioklas’s darkened mansion before he realized he wasn’t hearing the echo of his own footsteps following him.
Cauvin’s shadow raised a lantern, revealing a face—Soldt’s face. They met in the middle of the avenue.
“You’ve been following me?”
“I was at the Vulgar Unicorn waiting for you when you came downstairs. I thought we’d share a pitcher of mulled wine, but I couldn’t catch your eye.”
This was a different Soldt. If Cauvin had joined him at the Unicorn, there wouldn’t have been much wine left in his pitcher. The assassin was short of drunk, but not by much. Cauvin asked himself: Why would the Torch’s man drink himself tipsy?
“He’s dead.” Cauvin answered his own question. “The Torch is dead.”
Soldt shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, though my knowledge stops with the storm. First thing this morning I told him there was a gale-storm coming. I’d found a quiet room inside the walls—”
Cauvin guessed that he knew where.
—“But there’s no moving Lord Torchholder when his mind’s set. I could have forced him, one way or another; no doubt, that would have killed him sure as the gale. I hauled extra blankets for his bed and oilcloths to nail over the cellar way. I’d have stayed with him, damn him, but he’d have none of me. He was worried about you and what sort of trouble you’d gotten yourself into. Said I needed to keep an eye on you. And your imp of a brother.”
“Bec? What’s happened to my brother?”
“He’s home in the stoneyard, asleep in his bed—or plaguing his parents. The little demon showed up while I was collecting supplies …” Soldt laughed—a small heave at the shoulders, marking unshared humor. “At first, I was glad to see him. If anyone could move Lord Torchholder, I thought he might be the one. There’s not many beautiful women who can wheedle half so well as that boy. But Lord Torchholder was adamant, so the imp started in on me! If Lord Torchholder wouldn’t leave, then we should stay with him … telling ghost stories, no doubt. Lord Torchholder wouldn’t hear of that. He gave the boy a good scolding for insolence and said to take him home. I thought we were done, but the imp scampered. He’s got the makings of a spy in him. By the time I dug out his bolt-hole, I thought we’d be caught in the storm. The weather held—Lord Torchholder’s a storm priest. I got Bec to the stoneyard before they closed the gate.” Another shoulder heave. “You’re not truly collecting eggs from talking chickens?”
Cauvin chuckled. “Who knows? They play dumb when I’m around. Too bad Bec couldn’t persuade the Torch to move. He’s going to die alone out there—”
“That’s what he wants. He’s down to pride and fear. I tried to clean that wound—It’s hopeless. His leg’s turned black. Any other man and the flesh would have gone putrid, but Lord Torchholder’s a priest. One morning, soon, he’ll be gone but for his bones; maybe them, too. He’s a believer again, saying his prayers, making the signs. Lord Torchholder knows Vashanka’s waiting for him. I think that frightens him more than death itself. Can’t say as I disagree. If I can’t die quick, then let me die alone. Pride’s stronger than fear.”
The wind behind the gale blew cold. Cauvin shuddered. He thought about the thousandth eye of Father Ils, the eye that saw the deeds of a lifetime and weighed the soul accordingly. He’d survived the Hand by doing what he’d