Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [25]
The pieces didn’t fit. The geezer was so thin, so frail; he couldn’t have bled that stain and survived. He was wealthy enough to have a gold ring and a polished staff, but his fine-woven wool robe hung around him like rags. And his eyes—All the old men Cauvin knew—and admittedly he didn’t know many—had cloudy, weak eyes. Not this one. This old pud’s eyes were bright and sharp as a hawk’s. Froggin’ sure he wasn’t just anybody’s grandfather—but Lord Torchholder? Maybe, if the guards hadn’t just said that the Torch had been killed in the crossing …
Or maybe Gorge was wrong about the corpse they’d carted up to the palace? Were those the eyes Cauvin had met behind a table inside the liberated palace? Was that the voice, the accent that had ordered him to follow a stranger to a tiny room where he’d sat, cold and terrified, while the Hand’s other orphans died?
“Don’t stand there gaping—go fetch my staff. You’re a disappointment, pud, no doubt you are. I prayed for better, but you’re what I got.”
Without a word, Cauvin returned to the dead-end shadows. The staff was where they’d left it, but he took another moment to search for the Hiller’s knife. The blade was rusty and brittle, not a weapon an emperor would give his name to.
Which meant froggin’ what?
Froggin’ nothing.
Cauvin slipped the knife inside his boot and put the staff in the cart beside the old man.
“If you’re Lord Torchholder, then I guess I better take you up to the palace.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. It’s too late for that. Too late or too soon. I can’t tell. You’ve got a home somewhere; take me there. I need time—” The old man winced and pressed a hand against his hip. “Time. So little time. Listen, pud—listen close, and you’ll hear the gods laughing.”
“I’ll take you to the palace, Lord Torchholder,” Cauvin decided. “They’ll know what to do—”
“The hell they will, pud. By now, they think I’m dead, and this is no time to contradict them. I’m staying with you; you’re all I’ve got—the Emperor of Sanctuary, or do you have another name?”
“Cauvin,” Cauvin replied, stalling for time because the pieces were starting to fit, and he didn’t like the shape they were forming. “They call me Cauvin. You called me Cauvin once, if you’re really the Torch.”
“Oh, I am, Cauvin, or I was until last night. But you’ve got me at a disadvantage. I’ve known too many people to remember them all.”
“The day Arizak led the Irrune into the palace. You talked to all of us, one at a time—”
The old man’s eyes widened. “Ah, Vashanka,” he whispered, almost in prayer. “How our deeds come back to haunt us. I tried to build Him a temple, right here on the Promise of Heaven. It was a mistake—the biggest mistake I made … until last night. Listen to the wind, Cauvin. My god is laughing. After all these years, Vashanka has avenged Himself upon me.”
There wasn’t a breeze stirring so much as a leaf on the Promise of Heaven.
“I’ll take you to the palace, Lord Torchholder.”
“Not there,” the old man insisted. “Think of a better place. Where do you live, Cauvin?”
“Grabar’s stoneyard,” Cauvin answered before he could stop himself. He imagined Lord Torchholder at the stoneyard. There was Mina squawking to all the neighbors that she had the froggin’ Hero of Sanctuary, in her kitchen. Grabar would complain about the cost of keeping him and Bee—! Froggin’ sure Bec would be telling stories about the froggin’ chickens until the Torchholder’s froggin’ eyes rolled back in his head. “No froggin’ way I can take you there.”
The palace was simple. The palace was where Lord Torchholder belonged, and the palace was close by; Cauvin could see the Gods’ Gate from the cart, and there wasn’t anything the old man could do to stop from leading Flower in that direction. Yet their argument continued until the goat boy was staring at them, and three women with nothing better to do were walking toward them.
“You can’t stay here—” Cauvin pled desperately.
The old man—the legendary Torch—grabbed his staff and pointed its amber end at Cauvin