Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [80]
Cauvin hesitated, then nodded. No reason not to go, even if the man in the pyre wasn’t Molin Torchholder. He bid Swift a good night, then closed the gate. One of the iron straps that held the bar in place against the door was loose. It pulled out of the wood planks entirely when Cauvin tried to tighten it. There were two other straps; the bar wasn’t going anyplace tonight, but he’d have another froggin’ chore tomorrow morning, along with Flower’s harness.
A raw wind blew off the harbor and through Cauvin’s loft. He could have used another layer of fleece above and below, but the winter bedclothes were still hanging from the rafters … Another froggin’ chore for the morning. Cauvin pulled off his boots, nothing more, and huddled beneath the blankets. He had no trouble falling asleep. A man who couldn’t fall asleep whenever the opportunity presented itself wasn’t working hard enough, and a man who couldn’t sleep ’til dawn was a fool.
Cauvin proved himself a sheep-shite fool a few hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright. His nerves were jangled, and every sense strained to its utmost, trying to absorb the quiet darkness. He didn’t know what had awakened him, not a nightmare, maybe a noise. Cauvin held his breath, listening, hoping whatever had awakened him would repeat itself.
Most night noises did repeat, and most thieves eventually got caught because they didn’t know how long to remain quiet after making a noise. The best thieves knew that while an unexpected noise might awaken an entire household, honest people would stay put in their beds if no further noise stoked their suspicions. Cauvin knew what the best thieves knew—the froggin’ Bloody Hand of the froggin’ Mother of Chaos had beaten the lessons across his shoulders—but he had no talent for thieving. He’d gotten himself caught and locked in the crypt every froggin’ time they’d tested him.
Silence had been no protection in the froggin’ dank and stinking crypt, and it didn’t reassure Cauvin now.
His boots were where he’d left them, and the pitchfork he used to muck out Flower’s stall was a decent weapon so long as no one was shooting arrows. Cauvin might not have been good enough to steal for the Hand, but he slipped out of the work shed without disturbing Flower, the dog, or the chickens. The moon was past full and sinking, but bright enough for shadows and wouldn’t set until after sunrise. With the pitchfork angled in front of him, Cauvin prowled the stoneyard.
He started with the house, where Grabar, Mina, and Bec slept. Nothing appeared wrong: The door was shut, the windows were dark, and the place was quiet as a tomb. Farther on, the yard dog had its glowing red eyes on Cauvin, same as Cauvin was watching it. And beyond the dog—
The damned froggin’ gate was open—not wide-open, but cracked a handspan or two, and the heavy bar lay on the ground.
Forgetting caution, Cauvin dropped the pitchfork and raced to the gate. Rich folks put their faith in fancy locks and winched gates, but a froggin’ bar anchored on the hinge side of a door was every bit as good at keeping trouble out. A barred gated could be scaled, of course, but that’s what the dog was for; or it could be battered down, but that would splinter the bar and wake the sheep-shite dead. The yard dog wasn’t barking, and the bar wasn’t broken. Cauvin had a pretty good idea what had happened before he got to the gate.
“Bec? Becvar!” If the boy had made the noise that awakened Cauvin, then he wasn’t out of earshot yet. Cauvin didn’t shout, but his hoarse whisper would carry all the way down to the empty lot where Enas Yorl’s house had stood. “Becvar Grabar’s son—if you can hear me, get your froggin’ ass back here!”
Silence, utter and complete.
Cauvin shut the gate without barring it and tried the house a second time. The door was unlatched, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Once inside, Grabar’s snoring echoed from the walls and rafters. The man made one froggin’ racket once he closed his eyes for the night. Cauvin had moved into the loft