Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [26]
Cauvin stared at the amber and shivered. “The old red-walled ruins?” The place was a roofless ruin with trees growing in the empty rooms. But, the outbuildings were in better shape—or they had been, the last time Cauvin had scavenged bricks. “Froggin’ sure you’ll sing a different song before the day’s done.”
Cauvin got Flower moving, and the old man let the staff fall to the bottom of the cart. His eyes closed. For a moment Cauvin thought the geezer had froggin’ died, then his chest began to move, slowly, steadily. Sure as shite, he’d wind up bringing the old man back into the city. Grabar would be frothing pissed because the cart would be empty when he got back to the stoneyard, but Grabar had been frothing pissed before.
Chapter Three
The feather mattress had seen better days. Its cover was stained with the gods froggin’ knew what, and the feathers had molded. The only good that could be said of it was that it didn’t move by itself when Cauvin shook it onto the bed frame.
Cauvin could have afforded better—the purse the Torch had given him was heavy with froggin’ silver soldats, bright soldats minted years ago in froggin’ Ranke itself—but bedding wasn’t like eggs or oil: You couldn’t just walk onto a market square and find someone selling it. Folk didn’t need a froggin’ bed all of a sudden. They planned. They went to a chandler and ordered something for delivery in a week or two or they made do and slept on froggin’ straw the way Cauvin slept in the stoneyard loft.
Except the Torch was too frail to sleep hard and, though he’d surprised Cauvin by looking better by the time they got to the red-walled ruins than he had when they left the Promise of Heaven, it still didn’t seem likely that he had more than a couple days left to his life. The bruises he’d gotten in his struggles with the Hiller weren’t serious, even for him, but there was a weeping hole at the point of the old man’s hip. The wound didn’t bleed much, but it went down to the bone.
So Cauvin had walked the Spine path through the Hillside quarter, begging for bedding.
“I wish you’d let me take you to the froggin’ palace,” Cauvin said, and not for the first time. “So the guards made a mistake identifying your body. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve made a froggin’ mistake, and Arizak will send for a priest to heal you—maybe even that wild-man brother of his.”
“I am a priest, pud, and I know the limits of prayer. The limits of prayer, magic, and witchcraft together. None of them will help. I’m dying, pud, and I’m more aware of it than you can imagine, but I’m not dead yet.”
Having seen the wound, Cauvin was inclined to agree. “Arizak will see that you’re kept warm. He’ll have someone sit beside you to tend your fire and bring you food—”
“I have more food than I can possibly eat—” the Torch swept a hand toward the bread, fruit, and greasy sausage Cauvin had brought back from the Hill. “And you’ve laid the fire.”
“You can’t tend it yourself. You’ll fall if you try to rise from the bed, and if you froggin’ fall, you’ll froggin’ lay on the froggin’ cold ground until you’re froggin’ dead.”
“I can reach everything I’ll need with my staff. I have everything I need—well, everything that you could scrounge up. You’ve done well, Cauvin—better than I’d hoped. Go home. I can take care of myself—”
“Froggin’ hell you can take care of yourself! You’re old, you’re injured, and you’re outside the walls! If the froggin’ cold doesn’t kill you, something else will.”
“A ghost perhaps?” the Torch asked, wrinkling his battered forehead and raising a single eyebrow.
“Maybe. The women say this place is haunted. I’ve never stuck around after sunset to see if they’re right.”
“Then you’d better get moving. The sun’s sinking, and the sky’s turning red.”
Cauvin opened his mouth, but before he could utter his familiar protest, the Torch cut him off.
“Has it occurred to you, yet, to use that lump of unshaped stone you’re hauling around at the top of your neck and