Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [43]
Froggin’ sure, Cauvin thought he’d seen more than three coronations tumble to the floor of Leorin’s dormer, which meant—probably—that she’d froggin’ palmed one for herself. Shipri’s tits—he didn’t hold the theft against her. Probably, he’d have palmed one of the froggin’ huge coins himself, had their positions been reversed. Froggin’ sure, he could buy a year’s worth of Mina’s affection with a coronation, maybe two, or make her think twice before selling the stoneyard out from under him.
Leorin had wanted to use the coins to run away from Sanctuary …
Cauvin had thought he knew the woman he’d decided to marry, thought he’d come face-to-face with all her moods and demons, but he’d never guessed she wanted to leave Sanctuary. Froggin’ sure, he threatened to leave all the time—leave the stoneyard, anyway. In his froggin’ heart of hearts, Cauvin couldn’t imagine out-and-out leaving Sanctuary. Miserable though it was, Sanctuary was home: not loved, but familiar.
When strangers moved into Sanctuary—and froggin’ odd enough, there was always a steady stream of strangers moving into Sanctuary—they sooner or later came to the stoneyard to resurrect whichever ruin they’d claimed for their own. While he and Grabar figured out how much and what kind of stone the reconstruction required, the newcomers would complain about the city’s flaws: the rank smell of its sea air, the bitter taste of its water, the grating sound of the Wrigglie language he and Grabar spoke as they worked, the coarseness of their clothes.
Cauvin had no desire to live where everything would be as unpleasant to his senses as Sanctuary was to its newcomers. No, all Cauvin wanted from his froggin’ life was Grabar’s stoneyard when Grabar no longer needed it. But if Leorin wanted to leave—
“Cauvin! What are you doing?”
Cauvin was a spark in dry tinder when taken unawares. He was on his feet with his fists clenched in front of him before his thick wits found anything familiar in the face peeking up through the ladder hole in the floor and needed a good long moment before he could trust himself to speak to Bec. By then the boy was in the loft and had gotten a glimpse of silver and gold.
“Furzy feathers!” Bec exclaimed, and fell on the treasure. “Where’d you get these? Did you find them out at the red-walled ruins or did you steal them from that merchant you said you helped today?”
(Cauvin didn’t know what a furzy feather was; no one did. They—him, Grabar, and Mina together—didn’t want the boy cursing, so he made up oaths of his own.)
“I froggin’ sure didn’t steal them,” Cauvin snarled, and seized Bec’s wrist for good measure. The boy yelped and shed the coins onto the floor.
“So, you held out on him! You gave Poppa a pittance to keep him happy and held out the rest for yourself. That must have been some load of moving you did this afternoon.”
“It was,” Cauvin agreed, gathering the coins.
“Bet he was stealing—the merchant you helped, that is. I’ll bet everything you helped him move was stolen fresh from the palace, from Arizak and his ladies—or maybe from the Dragon. I’ll bet he stole what the Dragon stole first. I’ll bet you half of these coins—”
“Don’t go making bets you’re going to lose, Bec.”
The boy’s imagination and his recklessness worried Cauvin. He foresaw Bec falling in with men who’d squeeze him dry.
“How, then? Poppa would bust his froggin’ gut if he knew you had this much silver-and gold, too!”
“Mind your mouth. You’ll have Mina down on me, if she ever hears you talking like that.”
Bec rolled his lower lip. “Momma will come down on you twice as heavy if she thinks you’re holding out on her and Poppa. Poppa, too, if I tell them you’re hoarding a hundred shaboozh.