Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [198]
The assassin shook his head. “If you think Lord Torchholder’s there,” he said and, with a shrug, disappeared into the laundry, emerging moments later in his black cloak.
Soldt and Vex followed Galya out of the inn. Cauvin seriously considered returning to the Maze but followed the dog instead.
The stoneyard gate was closed but not bolted. Cauvin shouldered it open. He saw the brown horse tied by the water trough and Flower, still harnessed, standing in front of the work shed before Batty Dol came out of the kitchen with her skinny arms wrapped around a too-heavy jug. Batty screamed, and all ten of Hecath’s hells erupted as the yard dog—that no one had remembered to chain up for the day—took exception to Vex and Soldt and maybe even Galya.
Batty had dropped the jug while dodging the yard dog, breaking it beyond repair. The brown horse panicked. It broke free and charged through Mina’s herb garden and knocked the chicken coop off its stone piers. Not to be outdone by sheep-shite lunatics, women or horses, Flower—froggin’ sensible Flower—kicked until she was half out her harness and had tipped the cart over. And all the while, the two dogs went at each other. Cauvin’s clothes were torn and his arm was bloody before he got the yard dog chained. Vex, the assassin’s dog, trotted back to its master, wagging its ratty tail as though nothing had happened.
The mule didn’t appear to have hurt herself, but she would if someone didn’t get her untangled quickly. Batty had vanished, along with Galya. Soldt went after the horse, which left Cauvin to deal with Flower, since neither Grabar nor Mina—not to mention the Torch—had made an appearance.
He was grappling with leather straps and buckles when Soldt showed up to help. Together they righted the cart, which made unharnessing the mule simpler but which had been more than Cauvin could do by himself. Soldt noticed the Torch’s blackwood staff on the ground when they finished.
“We’ve got a bigger problem than we thought,” he said, picking up the staff.
Cauvin looked up at the sky. “How much bigger? Is it going to rain fish?”
“Seriously, that’s an Irrune horse wearing an Irrune saddle and bridle.”
“froggin’ shite. The Irrune and the Hand. I’d’ve sworn that’s the one direction we didn’t have to worry about. Twice froggin’ shite.”
“We can’t conclude that the Hand’s got allies among the Irrune, just that at least one of those who went out to the ruins at dawn went there on a horse from the palace stable.”
“Say what?” Grabar interrupted on his way through the gate. He was panting and carrying a steamy pot that smelled of meat and leeks and plenty of garlic—soup fit for an Imperial Lord. “You’re Soldt, aren’t you? What’s this about the Irrune and the palace?”
Soldt repeated himself, adding, “Where’s Lord Torchholder?”
Grabar hooked his thumb backward at the work shed. “In the loft. Damned bad idea, if you ask me—but no one did. I was for putting him inside—in my own bed, mind you. And the wife was for it, too, until him and her started jabbering away in Imperial. Next thing I know, it’s ‘rig a sling, husband, and haul him up where he wants to be.’ Damned near killed him getting him up here. He passed out once. I thought he was dead, then those wild eyes sprang open and he was telling me to pull harder. Then him and the wife send me down the Stairs for a bucket of green soup—nothing in our larder, nothing on the whole street to tempt an Imperial appetite. That’s one troublesome old man,” Grabar concluded, catching Cauvin’s eye with a hint of understanding. “No wonder he’s lived so long. The gods don’t want him telling them how to run paradise—or Hecath’s hells, either. You’re sure that’s Irrune gear?”
“Irrune gear on an Irrune horse. Could’ve been stolen, but there’s a hundred men no more Irrune than you or me who walk into those stables every day. Half of them could walk out with a saddled horse, no questions asked.”
“I know a guard, Gorge—you know him, too,