Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [29]
“No one’s begrudgin’ you a bit o’ celebration,” Grabar insisted.
He got to the feed bucket first and poured grain into Flower’s manger, then he pushed the cart into its proper corner of the shed. Cauvin tried to remember the last time Grabar had done his chores for him. He was too irritated to be certain, but it had been a year if it had been a day.
“Go see that woman of yours. A man’s got silver, a man’s got to see his woman.”
Leorin’s face floated into Cauvin’s thoughts, a cool breeze at the end of a hot summer’s day. With silver in his boot, he didn’t have to settle for the Well’s sour wine or Mina’s froggin’ mutton stew. He could walk into the Vulgar Unicorn, order a mug of their best ale with a plate of sweetmeats beside it, and Leorin would sit in his lap as he ate. She knew how he’d gotten out of the palace by mistake and the Torch’s grace; she’d appreciate the tale he could tell.
“Just you be careful,” Grabar continued. “The Unicorn’s no place for an honest man. You got yourself overpaid for an honest day’s work. Don’t think it’ll be a habit. There’s not so many fools in Sanctuary.”
Trust Grabar to douse him with froggin’ ice-cold water, but Cauvin shook off the warning. “Any more about the corpses in the crossing?” he asked innocently.
“The talk at the Well was that the young man was a Serripines from Land’s End and the other, some old bastard from the palace. Digger said it was Lord Torchholder, then Honald said the Torch’s been dead for years, so it couldn’t have been him. But the bells were ringin’ all afternoon, so maybe it was—or maybe they were puttin’ on a show for the Serripines. Gotta keep the Enders happy. No one’s owned up to killing the pair o’ them. You be careful tonight. The Dragon’s still loose in the town—don’t get into trouble that’s not your own. Wouldn’t surprise me none if ’twere the Dragon what kilt the Torch—if’n it were the Torch that got kilt.”
The Dragon!, Cauvin thought, then excused himself to get his spare shirt from the loft and clean himself up at the stoneyard’s trough. If the Torch had killed the froggin’ Dragon—Or more likely, if the Torch had killed one of the Dragon’s froggin’ cronies, then no wonder he didn’t want to go back to the palace. But if one of the wild Irrune had attacked the Torch, would he have used an Imperial knife? Wouldn’t the Dragon’s men use a sword? Or an arrow? The Irrune were froggin’ fierce archers, shooting better from the saddle than the guard could shoot while standing on their froggin’ feet.
Could the Torch have ravaged a corpse to make arrow holes look like they’d been made by a froggin’ knife?
Did the froggin’ sun come up in the froggin’ east?
Grabar shattered Cauvin’s wandering thoughts. “Remember, got to eat your supper first, or there’ll be no peace around here for weeks.”
Mina’s peace offering was a thick, tasty stew that Cauvin ate faster than he knew he should. He kissed her on the cheek to make up for his haste. She wasn’t fooled. Leorin’s name had come up while they were eating. Mina hadn’t offered up her opinion of women who served in taverns or lived in rented rooms above them—and that was a blessing for which Cauvin was duly grateful.
He’d stripped to the waist and was sluicing dried sweat with icy water and a rag when Bec asked—
“You want to hear a story? A new story. I thought it up just for you.”
The rag leapt from Cauvin’s hand to the dirt, and his heart damned near leapt out of his chest. The boy could be as quiet as a cat when he wanted to be.
“You made me a story?”
“I said so, remember? This morning, before you left? I made one up about Honald. Scratch and Honey get tired of him strutting and crowing—”
When Grabar mentioned Honald, he meant the blowhard potter who lived at the other end of Pyrtanis Street. When Bec mentioned Honald, he meant the stoneyard rooster who was every bit as loud and preening. Scratch and Honey were Bec’s favorites among the hens.
“Not now, Bec.”
“But you said that