Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [191]
“An old man?” Mina hooted. “An old wounded man, and he bent you to his will?”
Cauvin had an answer for that one: “An Imperial lord. A froggin’ priest of Vashanka. Who was I to argue with him? He said, where are you going? I said out to smash bricks, and he said, take me with you.”
“The merchant who hired you to help him move his stock?” Grabar asked.
“A lie,” Cauvin admitted, then added quickly: “The Torch didn’t want anyone to know he was still alive—especially his enemies. He wanted them to think they’d killed him.”
“Did he know who attacked him? Not some damned Hiller, I’ll venture.”
It was time for another deep breath. “The Hand. The Bloody Hand of Dyareela.”
Mina let out a shriek that was sure to wake the length of Pyrtanis Street, Grabar turned pale as his nightshirt. As he confessed the rest, Cauvin learned—to his astonishment and horror—that the suspicions he held against Leorin could be held against him.
“Nobody’s clean,” Grabar admitted, after Cauvin had related his meeting with Mioklas for a second time. “If it came down to you or your neighbor, your cousin, or your brother, the choice was so clear it wasn’t rightly a choice at all—”
“Speak for yourself!” Mina snapped.
“Sahpanura,” Grabar replied, equally quick.
It was a name, a woman’s name, that meant nothing to Cauvin but, sure as froggin’ sorcery, it froze Mina’s tongue to the roof of her mouth. In the silence that followed, Cauvin repeated something he’d said many times already—
“I’m sorry.”
“I brought you home to be our son,” Grabar said to the wall behind Cauvin’s head. “I knew what you’d done, but Lord Torchholder said, not to worry. He trusted you and so could we, because the Hand was gone. I can’t say I’m surprised the Torch was wrong about the Hand—vengeance has a long memory. But you, Cauvin—how could you not tell us? If not when you found the Torch, then—by the mercy of Ils—after you saved the boy in Copper Corner? I don’t know whether to thank you for that or curse you to Hecath’s deepest hell.”
Mina said, “I know.”
“Frog all, I didn’t plan this!” Cauvin snarled in her direction. “I didn’t ask Bec to follow me like a lonesome puppy. I didn’t tell him to sneak into the palace in the middle of the night. I didn’t tell him to go out to the ruins today, or sneak out again after Soldt walked him home. I’ve done wrong, and I’m sorry—but it’s not all my froggin’ fault. Blame the Torch, why don’t you? His froggin’ Lordship needed someone who knew Imperial to write down his froggin’ testament and, shite for sure, that wasn’t me, was it, Mina? You’re the one taught Bec that an Imperial man was a better man. And, what about Bec … when it comes to lying—”
Cauvin didn’t finish his rant. Grabar’s right fist rounded out of nowhere and knocked him out of his chair. He sprang up, fists cocked and ready for a brawl … but not with Grabar. The pain in his cheek wasn’t Grabar’s fault. He’d have wept for pain or grief or fear or aching disappointment, if he hadn’t cried all his tears long ago.
Mina flung herself on the bed, sobbing loudly and dramatically. Grabar stood on the far side of the table, the look of vengeance on his face. Cauvin held his ground; bad as the moment was, he’d endured worse. Grabar cracked first, stomping out of the house. Cauvin listened for the sound of the gate swinging open, but wherever Grabar went, it wasn’t out the gate.
He waited a few moments. A tear might have leaked down his cheek, or maybe it was cold sweat. Honald the rooster gave his first crow of dawn. Mina’s sobs had quieted; Cauvin was careful not to disturb her on the way out. Grabar was below the loft, tightening the buckles of Flower’s harness.
“I’m coming with you,” Cauvin said.
Grabar didn’t respond, which was a better reaction than Cauvin had feared he might get. He bounded up the ladder to get his new cloak, which drew a sour glance, nothing more from Grabar. They walked down Pyrtanis Street with the mule between them, not saying a word. No matter what they found outside Sanctuary’s walls, it