Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [79]
Maybe the froggin’ smartest thing Cauvin could do was hope that someone did stumble into the redwall ruins. Then someone else could tote and haul for the old man, or haul him back to the palace—
A wad of meat stuck in the back of Cauvin’s throat when he tried to imagine telling the palace Irrune that the froggin’ Torch was still alive. He tried to swallow the meat and the image, but neither budged. Tears streamed down his face by the time Grabar pounded him between the shoulders.
“You’ve got the graces of a dog,” Mina complained.
“It’s a shock to him, Mina.” Grabar pounded Cauvin again. “The Torch saved his life. Hadn’t’ve been for him separating a few lads from the rest, the Hand would’ve killed our Cauvin.”
Cauvin took shelter where he could find it, but his appetite was gone. He pushed the bowl away. “I’m done.”
Mina sniped, “Finish your food!” and Cauvin felt his temper starting to fray, then Bec came to his rescue.
“‘Hadn’t’ve been.’ That means something that would have happened—could have and should have happened, but didn’t. Tell me, Momma, how would I say hadn’t’ve been in Imperial?”
Mina couldn’t resist an appeal like that. She started singing away in Imperial, shutting Cauvin and Grabar out. Grabar went back to his eating, but Cauvin’s appetite was truly gone. He poured his soup dregs into Grabar’s bowl and started for the door. Grabar caught his wrist.
“Stay atop the Stairs,” Grabar advised his foster son. “Word at the Well was that the Dragon’s fired up about the honors his father means to heap on the Torch. They say he’s taking his men and that hell-spawned mother of his out of town tonight, before they light the fire, but your friend Swift says he heard from the palace smiths that they’ve been grinding swords all day—for the Dragon. I’m not thinking the Dragon’s fool enough to fight in his father’s forecourt, but the rest of Sanctuary’s fair for mischief, especially the Maze. Tonight’s no night to go visiting your lady friend.”
Cauvin hadn’t intended to visit the Vulgar Unicorn. He hadn’t intended to leave the stoneyard at all. A piece of Flower’s harness had come loose on the way home from the ruins. It needed mending, and the rest of the harness needed close inspection. When one strap worked loose others would soon follow, and they couldn’t risk injury to the mule. But Grabar had put the notion in his head where it clung like a barnacle. He gave his word that he’d stay on Pyrtanis Street and made his way to the Lucky Well, where the wine was as cheap as it was sour.
His friend Swift held down one end of the center table along with the potter whose daughter he hoped to marry. Swift spotted Cauvin before Cauvin’s eyes had adjusted to the smoke-shadow light and made room for him on the bench. A good man, Swift was; and damned well aware that he was froggin’ lucky to have avoided the Hand and their pits while he was growing up. They’d been closer years ago, when Swift’s father was still alive to work the forge day in, day out and Cauvin struggled to change the habits he’d learned in the pits and on the streets.
The smith repeated the tale he’d heard from his metal-pounding peers at the palace. “The Dragon’s fit to set the world alight. Him an’ his mother, they thought it was the Torch pulling strings and that once he was gone, Arizak would go back to the old ways, their ways. Now Arizak’s giving the Torch an Irrune send-off, and they’re talking abomination. You know where that can lead.”
Cauvin did. There wasn’t enough wine in froggin’ Sanctuary to blot those memories from his mind. He poured dark liquid from Swift’s pitcher and lost himself in those memories. Grabar came in after a while. They acknowledged each other, but sat with different men at different tables until the keeper’s boy, Dinnas, shouted last call. Grabar wasn’t interested in a final mug of wine and took his leave, but Cauvin held on until a drudge cleared the table. He wasn’t nearly drunk—It took a braver man than Cauvin to get drunk on the Well’s wine—but Swift walked him to the stoneyard.
“See you at the feast tomorrow?” Swift