Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [188]
“Needless to say, I stalked and plotted myself straightaway into Lord Torchholder’s trap. He offered two choices; I negotiated a third. We’ve done well by each other, and Sanctuary’s become the place where I am when I’m not somewhere else. The city’s been good to me, whatever it’s been to Lord Torchholder. Most of those who think they want to hire my services hesitate before venturing into a city where the stuff of sorcery’s scarce as hen’s teeth. But messengers do come. I might leave tomorrow, or the next day, for Ranke or the kingdom, or wherever else vengeance calls. I was born on a ship, Cauvin; I have no roots. I’m not the man to serve the soul of this city.”
“Neither am I,” Cauvin agreed. “Maybe we’ll be on the same froggin’ ship. You wouldn’t get in my way, would you?”
Soldt shook his head. “Far from it, lad—but I’d try to be on a different ship. Any captain who takes money from you is likely to watch his ship founder before it casts its last mooring rope.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Cauvin took a backward stride toward Pyrtanis Street. A stray thought crossed his mind. He dug into the broker’s purse and flipped a shaboozh at Soldt. “For Galya. Tell her, thanks, but I won’t be needing that shirt she’s making for me. And, thanks, too, for passing my message to you. Maybe Mioklas is Sanctuary’s man. He’s got the wealth and the ambition … and he’ll be looking for vengeance once he finds out the Hand’s back. You can work for him.”
“Not a chance. A man’s got to have someplace where he can be seen by his neighbors. For me, that’s Sanctuary. I don’t work here— except to teach a few youngsters how to stay alive: you, Raith at the palace—”
“I’m not the Torch’s heir,” Cauvin insisted. “I appreciate the lesson you gave me, and the advice, even about changing my shirt. But this is good-bye. Leorin and I are leaving Sanctuary.”
He held out his hand. Soldt’s remained at his side.
“I’ll wish you good luck, Cauvin; you’ll need it, but I’ll hold my good-byes until I see you standing on a ship’s deck.”
“Suit yourself,” Cauvin said and walked away.
Chapter Sixteen
The gate was barred when Cauvin arrived at the stoneyard. He could have put his shoulder against the planks, raised a racket, roused the dog, and awakened his foster parents—not to mention everyone else on Pyrtanis Street. He’d done that once, about a month after Grabar led him out of the palace. Once had been enough. After that, Cauvin had hammered out a set of footholds near the east corner.
He hauled himself to the top of the wall, waited for the dog to recognize his scent, then dropped onto a heap of broken bricks and scree. A few stones rolled and clattered, but not enough to awaken the lightest sleeper—and considering the way Grabar snored, a light sleeper would never rest at the stoneyard.
Flower whickered when Cauvin passed her stall. He bribed her with oats and clambered up the ladder to his loft. The roof had leaked, the way roofs did when the thatch was starting to rot and gale-force winds drove rain deep into the straw. Cauvin’s pallet was against the northern wall, the coldest wall in winter, the hottest in summer, but leeward during sea storms. His blankets were dry.
Cauvin shed his new clothes without lighting a lamp. He spread the cloak over the blankets for extra warmth and crawled between the lowest layers. He’d had a long and troubling day, but was satisfied with how talking to Soldt had ended it. His mind was drifting toward sleep before his eyes closed—
Swish! Bang!
The lower door opened and crashed against the wall. Cauvin cursed himself for forgetting to latch it. He’d have to climb down the ladder … butt naked. He could get dressed … At the very least he’d have to pull on his boots …
“Cauvin! Cauvin!”
That was