Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [20]
The previous spring, when it had rained so much they’d thought they’d all drown, Bec had come up with an idea to channel the roof runoff into a covered cistern. It had taken Cauvin three tries to get the cistern built right—the boy didn’t understand that wood bent and swelled when it got wet until Cauvin explained it to him—but the whole idea had been Bec’s, and they’d been froggin’ sure glad of the cistern’s clean water a month before, when the well went rank.
Cauvin went to get his tools. Grabar intercepted him in the shed, where neither Mina nor Bec would witness their conversation.
“Don’t go taking the wife to heart, son.”
“I’m not your son, Grabar; your wife froggin’ sure never lets me forget that.”
“She frets over the boy, but she don’t mean no harm by it. Those bodies in the crossing this morning. She fancies she should’ve known the sparker. You know how it is: We all got things we don’t talk about, don’t think about neither—’til something up and grabs your balls.”
Cauvin shouldered out of the shed with an armload of chisels. “Now Mina’s got froggin’ balls?”
“Cauvin.” Grabar’s tone pled for peace. “Cauvin, the stoneyard’s yours after I go. I said you were my son when I brought you home from the palace. I meant it then, and nothing’s changed since. You’re the eldest, Cauvin—the burden falls on you because you’re the one who’s strong enough to bear it. Bec’s your brother. If I’m not here, you’ll see to it that he’s set up someplace that suits him … and you’ll take care of the wife—because the wife’s your mother, too, not just the boy’s. You’re my son. The wife’s your mother. The boy’s your brother.”
The clatter of wood and metal as Cauvin dumped the tools in the cart served as his reply.
“You’re family, Cauvin. The wife knows it. There’d be no talk of jewelers and apothecaries but for what you’ve done these last ten years. You’ll inherit the yard, Cauvin, I swear it. The quarter knows; they’ll stand up for you … all the way to the palace.”
Cauvin took the mule’s lead rope and got the cart moving toward the yard gate.
“I’m an old man now, Cauvin. I can’t run the yard without you. You go now, and it won’t be just the wife and me who’ll suffer. The boy’ll suffer. You know he’s not made for smashing stone and brick. He’ll break early. You don’t want that, Cauvin. I know you don’t.”
There was a desperate edge to Grabar’s voice that burrowed under Cauvin’s skin. “You want me to smash out those froggin’ redwall bricks or you gonna stand in front of the froggin’ gate all day?”
“I’m trying to ease your mind.”
“Froggin’ sure, I’m family, Grabar. If you weren’t passing me off as your sheep-shite son, you’d have to pay me wages, and that’d put a froggin’ quick end to Bec’s apprenticeship. No froggin’ goldsmith or ’pothecary’s gonna take him for less than a fistful of soldats—old-fashioned, froggin’ sweet on the tongue, silver soldats. Or some nice gold coronations from an emperor who didn’t cut his coins with copper. If you had ’em, you wouldn’t be sending me out to smash bricks froggin’ nobody wants. An’ if the palace knew you were hoarding coins ‘stead of paying your froggin’ taxes, they’d be down here digging up the garden and knocking on the rafters.”
Grabar’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. They’d never talked about where he kept his little hoard. Maybe he thought Cauvin didn’t know. Froggin’ sure, if he’d chosen better hiding places, Cauvin wouldn’t.
“Froggin’ sure, I’m family,” Cauvin repeated. “Up to my froggin’ neck I’m family.”
He reached for the bar across the gate, and Grabar, at last, got out of his way. At an arm’s length, people usually got out of Cauvin’s way. They usually got hurt if they didn’t. His temper made life simple, not good. Time and froggin’ time again, Cauvin found himself too far gone and looking for a way back.
“I’ll be