Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [82]
There was only darkness in the shadowy moonlight, but if there’d been sunlight Cauvin knew with cold, sinking certainty, the patch of darkness behind Bec’s shoulder would have turned bloodred. Cauvin wasn’t fighting the froggin’ Irrune or Wrigglie street scum; he was squared off with his own past.
Cauvin’s every instinct was to cut and run, and if it weren’t his brother between him and the Hand, his froggin’ instincts would have seized control of his feet. But it was Bec with a face as bright as the moon and rigid with terror. Cauvin mastered his fear and, meeting eyes he couldn’t see, strode forward.
His sheep-shite life wouldn’t be worth living if the Hand finished what he’d started, but he had a chance. If the Hand wanted Bec dead, the boy would have been dead before Cauvin set foot in the atrium. He raised his weighted fist.
“Let him go, or I’ll rip your froggin’ guts out,” Cauvin snarled, and, to his astonishment, the Hand gave Bec a shove forward, then took off for the street.
Bec gasped and staggered to his knees. Without hesitation, Cauvin caught the boy before he fell completely. The Hiller Cauvin had smashed into the pillar wasn’t moving, but the others were. Probably they wouldn’t be interested in continuing the fight now that their Bloody Hand leader had fled, but Cauvin wouldn’t take that chance. He hoisted Bec onto his shoulder and lit out for Pyrtanis Street.
Halfway down an alley shortcut, Bec, who’d started wiggling the moment they’d cleared Silk Corner, slipped free.
“Leave me alone!” the boy protested. “I’m not hurt.”
A little voice at the back of his sheep-shite mind told Cauvin to ignore the wide, woefully ineffective punches Bec promptly threw at his gut, but no froggin’ little voice stood a chance against the aftermath of a four-against-one brawl with the Bloody Hand of Dyareela. Before he could stop himself, Cauvin had clamped his hands over the boy’s shoulders and shoved him against a wall.
“Not froggin’ hurt? You could’ve been froggin’ killed, Bec! Froggin’ killed. Eshi’s tits! You’d be dead now, if I hadn’t come along. Froggin’ worse than dead—”
Undeterred by earlier defeat, the little voice shot another notion through Cauvin’s mind: When he’d left the stoneyard he’d thought Bec was just ahead of him, but the boy had been long gone by then. Still, if Cauvin had awakened later, he’d have missed the scuffle; he’d have missed it, too, if he’d awakened much earlier. Froggin’ sure—it couldn’t have been any froggin’ accident that he’d woken up exactly when he had.
Maybe he should hie himself out beyond the west gate and say a prayer or two at Sweet Lady Eshi’s altar—a thankful, respectful prayer that didn’t mention Her most obvious attributes. Or, maybe he should start asking questions about the Torch’s god, Vashanka.
Shaken and sobered, Cauvin released his brother. “Frog all, what’s the froggin’ matter with you, Bec? Didn’t I tell you the Torch’s damned games were too froggin’ dangerous? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to the palace? Did you think that was a froggin’ invitation for you to go instead?”
Bec wrapped his arms tight around his chest. “Somebody had to. If you wouldn’t, then it had to be me. I remembered everything Grandfather’d said about getting into the palace and getting out again, so I did what he said. I got the picture right here—” He patted his shirt above his heart. “I got it, and I kept it.”
“He’s not your froggin’ grandfather, Bec. He’s the froggin’ Torch. Maybe he’s a froggin’ hero in this town, but he’s a froggin’ hero because he doesn’t care who froggin’ lives or dies—not him and not you or me, either.”
“That’s not true!” Bec protested loudly. “He said there