Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [27]
“Maybe you’ll be dead,” Cauvin countered, though once he considered the Torch’s question he could appreciate the old man’s caution.
“And if I am, then you’ll bury me and get on with your life—but if I’m not dead, then I expect you to be here with leaves of parchment, good black ink, and three goose quills—good quills, from a white gander.”
Cauvin raked his hair. “When I get home and Grabar sees that there’s practically nothing in the cart he’s going to ream me out for froggin’ sure. I’ll be out here tomorrow smashing stone as if my sheep-shite life depended on it—if I’m not singing for my supper at the Lucky Well.”
“I’ve already told you what to tell Grabar: On your way to the wall a merchant persuaded you to use your cart and mule to help him relocate his shop. You’ve got the coins to prove you were well paid for your labor. If by some chance the remains of my purse don’t soothe your foster father’s temper, then don’t waste your time trying to sing for your supper, lad—I can tell you don’t have the throat for it. Come back here with the parchment, ink, and quills; I’ll have work for you to do.”
“If I hold out enough money to buy your froggin’ parchment, there’s no way Grabar’s going to think I was froggin’ well paid for my labor.”
The Torch scowled. “So it’s more money that you’re looking for?”
Cauvin was too embarrassed to answer the question honestly, but his silence was enough for the Torch.
“I may have enemies, Cauvin, but I’m not completely without friends in Sanctuary … or resources.”
“So, I’m to go to the palace after all?”
“Forget the palace, pud. I do have friends at the palace—friends who are no doubt mourning my death and putting men in the streets looking for my murderer. You show up there laying claim to my property, and you’re going to find yourself in parts of the palace you’ve never imagined.”
“I froggin’ sure doubt that,” Cauvin shot back defiantly. “Your froggin’ friends or your enemies can’t show me anything I haven’t seen before. Or have you froggin’ forgotten where you froggin’ found me the first time?”
It seemed to Cauvin, as he met the Torch’s sharp, black eyes without flinching, that the old pud did, finally, remember their previous meeting.
Then those eyes narrowed like a thief’s, and the Torch murmured: “You’ll do. I believe you’ll do just fine,” before continuing in a more normal voice: “Fortunately for you, Cauvin—for both of us—I’ve never been one to keep all my resources in one place. My late, unlamented wife taught me that trick. There’s a tavern—the Broken Mast—along the wharf, past the Processional, near the docks where the fishermen tie up their boats—but it’s a seaman’s place, not for fishermen. The owner’s name is Sinjon. Give him this—” The Torch fussed with his robe and came up with a bit of green stone, from where Cauvin couldn’t have said. “Tell him that there was blood on the moon last night—”
“Blood on the moon? The moon was plain as white—”
The Torch sighed. “It’s a password, Cauvin. Tell Sinjon that there was blood on the moon last night—exactly those words—and he’ll give you a box that should ease your mind for a week or two.”
Cauvin took the token. It was a tiny ship, and the stone was apple green jade, worth its weight in pure silver. “Is it ensorcelled?” he asked, turning it over and looking for a carver’s mark.
“No. There’s no sorcery more potent than a man’s conscience. Take your mule and cart. Go home, eat your