Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [203]
“Frog all—” Cauvin protested.
He writhed within his shirt. His old shirts would have torn from the strain, but Galya’s linen was strong, her seams, stronger. The Hiller hit the closed gate like a panicked cat, scrambled over the top, and disappeared.
“You want to follow that boy into the trouble that’s waiting for him on the Hill? Do you want to save his life or your brother’s?”
Cauvin swallowed hard and ceased struggling. “We can’t just wait around here. We’re not saving Bec this way.”
The others had filed out of the kitchen wearing the wary looks of sheep-shite folk who didn’t trust their leaders but weren’t ready to challenge them.
“Is Lord Torchholder still alive?” Soldt asked.
“He was, last time we looked,” Mina replied. “Before that boy came.”
Soldt led them into the work shed; Cauvin led them up the ladder.
“He’d better be dead,” he muttered.
No luck there. The Torch’s weird eyes were open, watching Cauvin as his head cleared the floor.
“What was all that noise?” the old man demanded. “Did you find anything out at the ruins; or had the Hand scoured everything? I heard a boy—not the missing one. What did he want? Was that him going over the gate?”
The Torch had made a miraculous—or more likely sorcerous—recovery. He still resembled a skeleton wrapped in rotting skin and crowned with wild, silver-gray hair, but there could be no doubt that his mind had cleared.
Soldt gave Cauvin a prod, and he swung up into the loft before answering the Torch’s questions. “Some sprout from the Hill. He brought Bec’s shirt, torn and bloody. Soldt said he was going to lock him up, then let him go instead.”
“He had the shirt, Lord Torchholder, nothing else. He was a pawn. If he’s lucky, he’ll be dead by sundown,” Soldt added, as if that settled everything; and it did, for the Torch.
“Does the Hand know I’m here?” the Torch asked.
“They know you’re not in the cellar. The place had been scoured. Hard to tell, though, whether they knew that when they sent the Hiller; he took time for breakfast and to hide the padpols they’d given him.”
The Torch repeated Soldt’s verdict, “Pawn,” then targeted Grabar, who’d just heaved himself off the ladder. “They’ve told you they’ve got your boy. Now they’re giving you time to think about how much you want him—”
“I don’t need time—”
“Will you surrender me?” Grabar gaped at the question; the Torch pressed on. “I would. It would be a good bargain—if the Hand would offer it. If they don’t realize I’m more dead than alive and won’t last long enough to satisfy them or their deity. More likely, they’ve realized the stoneyard son they want is Cauvin. He’s not quite your son, is he? Would you give them Cauvin to get Bec?”
Grabar didn’t twitch, and Cauvin’s heart stopped beating while Mina called up from below, “If it’s him or my boy, he goes.”
The fiery white eyes turned to Cauvin. “There you have it, lad. We’re down to our last chances, Cauvin. I’d hoped for more. Damn Vashanka—I’d hoped it would never come to this. Are you ready to turn the key in the lock? I have a plan to keep you alive.”
Cauvin glanced across the loft. Mina wouldn’t meet his eyes; Grabar was pleading silently. “Me or you?” he asked, and immediately thought of the S’danzo, Elemi. “Do I have a choice?”
“There is always a choice. You could choose to run, like that boy just did. Who’s to say, you might find a hole deep enough to hide you for the rest of your life.”
Cauvin thought, I should have died in the pits. I should have begged this man to send me back there, but he hadn’t done either, and the habit of living was too hard to break between one breath and the next. “All right. What’s your froggin’ plan?”
“Here.” The Torch sat up, steadying himself with his blackwood staff—drawing strength from it. He held out a closed hand.
Two steps separated Cauvin from the dying priest. Right foot forward, then left. Cauvin didn’t feel either one. Shite for sure, he felt the Torch’s cold, dry flesh when their hands touched, and it took all his strength not to run, screaming, from the loft. Something colder still, hard, and