Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [204]
“Put it on the third finger of your right hand.”
The Torch’s gift was a ring. In the loft’s twilight, Cauvin couldn’t be certain, but he’d wager it was the black-onyx ring that he’d retrieved from the rubble in the froggin’ temple of froggin’ Ils.
“See if it fits.”
Cauvin thrust the golden hoop down his finger. It passed the first knuckle easily, but jammed on the second. Should he pray? To whom? To Ils? What had any of Father Ils’s eyes done for Cauvin? To Vashanka? When the Torch himself was cursing that god’s name? The metal cooled. It slid easily to the base of the third finger of Cauvin’s right hand.
“It fits. Nothing happened. I don’t feel any different.”
“That’s good. Go to the palace. Show it on your hand to the majordomo. Tell him that Arizak, chief of the Irrune and lord of Sanctuary, wishes to see you. Show it to Arizak the same way, then do what you’re told. After that, Cauvin, you’re on your own.”
“Froggin’ shite,” Cauvin muttered. He turned around, saw three faces staring at him, each different with worry and all the same with expectation, and cursed again.
Soldt spoke first. “You want company?”
Cauvin shrugged. He was good at doing what he’d been told to do. Had Elemi foreseen how easy the choice would be? He stood over the hole in the loft’s floor and dropped to the straw-covered ground beneath.
“There’s soup on the hearth,” Galya told him, as though she’d heard nothing of what had happened above her head.
“I’m not hungry.”
He got out of the way, letting both Grabar and Soldt use the ladder to leave the loft.
“You should eat before you go the palace,” Galya persisted. “No ring is going to get you to Arizak without a long wait first. You’ll think clearer if your mind’s not distracted by your gut.”
Cauvin tried arguing, but he was hungry, and he could slurp down a bowl of soup—even the thick, creamy soup Galya ladled out for him—in less time than it took to object to it. Or he could have, if everyone hadn’t been watching him, and Galya hadn’t followed the soup with a snowy white bundle of linen.
She shook the cloth out and held it against Cauvin’s shoulders. “If you’re going to stand before Arizak, you need to look your best.”
There was nothing fancy about the shirt, no gold-thread patterns or lacy fringes, just fine-woven cloth and rows of tight stitching.
“Sweet Sabellia!” Mina complained, snatching a sleeve for closer examination. “Where’d you get the soldats for this? Look me in the eye and tell me your hands are clean.”
Mina got an eyeful of Galya instead. “I keep what gets left behind at the Ravens and I do with it as I see fit. If I charged Cauvin ten soldats for making a shirt or a single shaboozh or nothing at all, that’s my affair. Would you rather Cauvin pled for his brother’s life in rags?”
The sleeve slipped through Mina’s fingertips. “You don’t forget who took you in when you had no place to go. We fed you and kept you in clothes. Treated you as our own. Don’t you forget that when you’re standing in the damned palace.”
Cauvin had no intention of forgetting. He didn’t blame her for her choices, either. He’d have made the same ones. Shite for sure, his own mother would have chosen Bec over him.
The new shirt fit Cauvin perfectly. Galya produced a tortoiseshell comb and dragged it through his hair. Batty Dol pronounced him a “right handsome young man.” Cauvin turned to Grabar.
“You coming with us?”
Grabar looked at his hands. “Lord Torchholder didn’t give me his ring. I’m minded to visit the Crook and see if I can find this Othat. Could be he did see something.”
“The Hiller was right—he’ll see more if you dangle a shaboozh or two in front of his eyes. There’s a broker’s purse under my pallet, under the Torch. It’s full of the money I collected from Mioklas yesterday—” Cauvin wouldn’t be needing it any time soon.
“Who gave you—”
“Wife!” Grabar silenced Mina. “No need to disturb the old man. We’ve got shaboozh in the hidey.”
“You ready?” Cauvin looked at Soldt.
Soldt shrugged. He seemed on the verge of saying no, then shrugged again