Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [223]
The altar and its furnishings were revealed by five great lamps hung along the cavern walls. A dark keyhole passage opened beneath each lamp, and, one by one, the survivors of Hand emerged to greet their visitors. Cauvin counted five men and three women before a tall man strode into view. His head was bald and his hands were pale, but even if Leorin hadn’t hailed him as Strangle or he hadn’t carried a coiled whip below his waist, Cauvin would have recognized the Whip. Put a wig on his head, exchange his breeches and shirt for silken robes in sunrise colors, and the Whip became the Ilsigi broker Cauvin had seen in the palace talking to Prince Naimun.
“So, your sleepwalker came home,” the Whip said to Leorin. “Good for you.” Then he turned his contempt on Cauvin. “Ah, Cauvin—full-grown at last. And why have you come to us, Cauvin? True love? A change of heart? A need for rebirth? Something simpler?”
Leorin tried to speak for him, but Cauvin’s voice was stronger. “Something simpler. I came to offer myself in exchange for my brother. I’m the one you want. I’m the Torch’s heir.”
“So we’ve heard. But, can you prove it, Cauvin? Your word isn’t nearly enough.”
That was a challenge Cauvin hadn’t expected. Froggin’ sure, other than the Torch’s word—which wouldn’t count for much with the Hand—all he had for proof was an old knife, dreamy conversations with dead men and dead gods, and a knack for reading languages he couldn’t speak. He hadn’t even kept the Torch’s damned black ring!
Before Cauvin made a sheep-shite fool of himself, Leorin got between him and Strangle.
“I’ll swear Cauvin’s not the man he was last week. He’s been transformed. He has what we need, and he’s sworn to submit to Dyareeta—in exchange for his brother, who we know isn’t the heir.”
“I’m sure you’ll swear it, Honey. You’ll swear anything to have him in your bed every night.” Once again he turned immediately to Cauvin, asking, “She is very good, isn’t she? Worth waiting for? Worth dying for?”
Watching Leorin stiffen, Cauvin believed she did hate Strangle to the core of her icy heart. It wasn’t enough to make him trust her, but there was a chance that they faced a common enemy. He felt bold enough to say: “I’m not answering any of your froggin’ questions until my brother’s out of here.”
“You’re in no position to dictate terms, Cauvin,” Strangle said. When Cauvin didn’t blink, he shouted, “Show him!”
Another six men entered the altar cave, two of them emerging from the passage behind Leorin and Cauvin. They came in pairs, one carrying a torch and the other a short spear with a barbed point. Although the men appeared to be roughly his age, Cauvin was a little surprised that he recognized none of the faces.
“Go ahead, kill me—and you’ll never know what the Torch knew and who he told. And you’ll never know where he’s stashed enough treasure to raise an army ten thousand strong.”
Cauvin sealed his doom with that empty boast, but it was worth it to watch the Whip’s greedy eyes narrow and hear him shout another order:
“Fetch him! Fetch the whelp!”
Two women hurried into a dark passage. Cauvin clenched his fists to keep them from shaking while he waited—not long—for the women to reappear with Bec. The boy walked tall despite a rag tied over his eyes, his hands bound behind his back, and a noose tied around his neck. He was shirtless—that was to be expected—and filthy. There was a scabby cut on his forehead and two bloody welts crossing his narrow chest. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed, though surely there were bruises under all that dirt. A whip had made