Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [208]
Cauvin stopped. “Do you know that man?”
“Naimun,” Soldt replied. “Nadalya’s eldest. Thinks he was born to rule.”
“No, the pud he’s talking to.”
Soldt scratched his chin. “He’s a merchant—more of a ship’s broker. He’s Ilsigi, from Ilsig, but his name doesn’t come to me. Works mostly for Caronne and Aurvesh, exchanging their wines for Land’s End grain—at no risk to the Serripines, mind you. He used to stay at the Ravens. Stays at the palace these days … for obvious reasons. Galya might know his name, or your friend Lord Mioklas. They’re in the same circle, always buzzing around Naimun.”
“He’s always been—what did you call it?—a ship’s broker here?”
“Not here. I don’t remember seeing him here until about two years ago. But he’s got connections all along the western coast, from the Hammer clear up to Caronne and across the Sparkling Sea to Aurvesh. That sort of web takes a lifetime to put together, maybe your father’s lifetime and your grandfather’s—”
Cauvin stopped listening. Two years. Two years ago, Leorin had reappeared in Sanctuary.
No!—Cauvin chided himself. He was imagining things, feeding suspicions for no good reason, other than he was here, where he’d been before, and the Hand had Bec. Cauvin struck off again, walking faster than before.
Maybe that change in determination attracted the broker’s attention. Or something else. Or nothing at all, and the man wasn’t truly giving Cauvin the once-over, as though he saw something vaguely familiar coming toward him. Grinning, the broker touched his right forefinger to his temple. The Hand greeted one another that way: May Dyareela keep watch over you. But half of Sanctuary used the same gesture to invoke Eshi’s blessing or to simply say, I see you.
Then Cauvin got the itch, the froggin’ itch at the base of his froggin’ neck, the itch that told him he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t always a bad itch, but here at the palace, with a man who looked like the Whip making Bloody Hand gestures and him not able to hide—
Cauvin pointed himself at the Processional gate and started walking. “Frog all, Soldt. I can’t do this.”
“Nonsense.” Soldt got in front of Cauvin to stop him. “You’ve got the ring. If Lord Torchholder says the ring is the key to getting the help you need to rescue your brother, then, if I were you, I’d believe him. Follow his instructions—”
“I can’t.” The words hurt his throat. “All my froggin’, sheep-shite life I’ve done what I’m told—”
“Then do it again. Do what you’ve been asked to do one more time. Now’s not the time to quit, Cauvin.”
“froggin’ shite for sure, it’s the right time.” Cauvin struck out for the gate again. “What do I do after the majordomo takes me to Arizak? You heard the Torch; I’m on my own. Tell him my little brother’s missing and we froggin’ think the Bloody Hand of Dyareela’s got him ‘cause we know the Hand’s back in Sanctuary ’cause they tried to kill the Torch … Froggin’ sorry, but no, that wasn’t his body you burnt the other night.
“Shalpa’s midnight cloak, Soldt—he’ll have me thrown in the dungeon! And if he doesn’t—what? The Hand isn’t just in Sanctuary, the Hand is here, in the froggin’ palace. They got the Torch, Soldt. They didn’t kill him straight off, but they froggin’ sure got him. His plans aren’t perfect. He doesn’t know everything. And me—I don’t know sheep-shite about anything.”
They passed between the great iron-wrapped Processional doors. Cauvin veered left, toward Pyrtanis Street.
“I’m going home, Soldt. If Grabar’s still there, he and I can go looking for Othat in the Crook.”
Soldt stayed with him, saying nothing until they were well beyond the gate and its guards, then Soldt spun Cauvin against the wall and held him there with an implacably extended arm pressed to his breastbone.
“Can you hear yourself? Othat is nothing. The Hill is nothing. The Hand is in the palace, and I believe you, Cauvin, if you say you recognize them, feel them. And that’s why you’ve got to get to Arizak. He’s the only one who can root it out.