Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [232]
Grandfather nodded.
“Why can’t I feel it anymore?”
“Because you are a very brave young man. We wouldn’t be here right now if I’d had the wit to set wards like that before the storm.”
“Is it still there?”
“Very definitely. When Soldt and your brother return, we shall likely hear some very rude language.”
Bec stared at the floor below. “Unless he succumbed.” Grandfather didn’t reply. Bec waited a few moments before asking: “Are you dying, Grandfather?”
“I’m past dying, boy. I should have died yesterday. I would have—if your brother had listened to my directions and gone to the palace instead of visiting his ladylove. Now, I could say that was bad luck all around, or I can count myself fortunate to have one last breakfast with you, because, sitting here, I realize that I’ve forgotten to tell you a story. It’s a very important story, especially if our prayers aren’t answered.
“I need to tell you the story of a man who waited—”
Bec wasn’t interested in a story. “If you die, what happens to the warding?”
“It will last a little while.”
“And then? What happens to Momma and Poppa and me if our prayers aren’t answered?”
“They will be—You must have faith if you expect the gods to answer your prayers. Cauvin will know how to set wards. He’ll struggle at first. The knowledge won’t come naturally to him—He’ll need your help. Imagine I showed you a letter written in Old High Yenized. Could you copy it? Not read it or write a reply, only copy it, letter for letter, word for word?”
Bec nodded. “Can you teach me how to copy wards, Grandfather?”
“No, but I tell you what—when I’m gone, you can have my staff.”
“What if Cauvin doesn’t come back?”
Grandfather closed his eyes. He rubbed the wrinkles between his eyebrows and groaned a little. When he reopened his eyes they were noticeably dimmer. Patting the straw beside him, Grandfather said, “Come, Bec. Sit beside me. Let me tell you the story—we haven’t much time.”
With a groan of his own, Bec dragged his feet to the pallet. “If you say so, Grandfather.”
“If only your brother felt the same way. The man I’m going to tell you about was named Hakiem—”
“Was? He’s dead?”
“I should think so. He was some years older than I, and I’ve become the oldest man I know not cursed with eternal life. But perhaps he still sits comfortably in a Beysib garden. The last time I saw him—which I did not know would be the last time—he said the climate there was better suited to a man’s declining years.”
“Beysib? Hakiem was a fish?”
“Not at all. Hakiem was born in Sanctuary, just like you. We were very much alike, Hakiem and I, though I did not realize that for many years, each men of fixed desires whose lives wandered far from the courses we’d charted in our youths. Of course, my desire was to build a great temple for my god atop Graystorm Mountain overlooking the Imperial city. Hakiem’s desire was to get drunk as often as mortally possible and as cheaply …”
Some men could command respect dressed in nothing but fishnet and rags. Other men might dress themselves in the finest silks, visit the most skilled barbers, but wind up looking no better than a man dressed in fishnet and rags. Hakiem was one of the latter such men.
He was short of spine, of legs, and of arms; paunchy and swaybacked, cursed with a fickle beard and a head of hair that was neither bald nor full, straight nor curled, black nor gray. The gods had cheated him out of a second eyebrow; he suffered beneath a single bushy ridge that spanned his entire face and kept his eyes forever in shadow. His lower lip was pendulous, his teeth were crooked and the color of ancient ivory. His feet were splayed like a duck’s and he waddled when he walked.
Not surprisingly, Hakiem pursued a sedentary life, preferably in the corner chair at a corner table with a good view of the commons—and all the doors—of a lively tavern where the wine was sweet enough to drink on an empty stomach. His favorite tavern, an establishment which