Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [84]
“To be like seamen?” Bec asked eagerly.
The question jolted Cauvin. “Seamen? What have froggin’ seamen … ?” Then he remembered the boy’s curiosity and disdain the night before after he’d visited the Broken Mast. “No. She’s got—Dyareela’s got the private parts of men and women. A herm-something.”
Bec pulled away, shaking his head and his shoulders, too. “No—that can’t be. Either there is one, or there isn’t, right?” The boy waited futilely for Cauvin to say something. “I’m right, aren’t I? I’ve got to be right—you’ve either got one or you don’t.”
“Gods and goddesses are different.”
“Not that different. There’s a statue of Father Ils at the fane. He’s all naked and he’s got one and that’s all he’s got. He’s got no titty-bits.”
“That’s Father Ils, Bec, not Dyareela. Dyareela didn’t need any sort of lover. She could do for Herself.”
“Furzy feathers! Does Grandfather know?”
The danger with answering any one of Bec’s questions was that there’d always be a second, worse than the first.
“I don’t know if Grandfather knows, I don’t care, and you don’t either.” Cauvin realized he’d said “Grandfather” and groaned.
“Grandfather should know, if he doesn’t. Something like that’s got to be important. Do Momma and Poppa know? Should we tell them?”
“Froggin’ no!” Cauvin snarled back, loud enough to draw more unwanted attention. “Can’t you get it into your sheep-shite skull”—he cuffed the boy behind the ear for emphasis—“the Hand’s on the streets again and you’ve got to keep your froggin’ mouth shut ’cause if you don’t, there’s no telling who’s going to overhear you—”
Bec just stood there, an arm’s reach away, rubbing the spot Cauvin had slapped.
Cauvin felt small and shamed by his outburst. “Froggin’ gods, Bec, I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we’ve got to be careful, both of us—so careful it froggin’ hurts.”
“My head’s sore … sorer than it was. I’ve got a lump.”
Cauvin hauled Bec closer. He probed the lump gently and turned the boy so his face caught what was left of the moonlight. There were shadows where shadows shouldn’t be.
“You’re raising bruises—Mina. Shite. Froggin’ sheep-shite—your mother’s going to take one look at you come morning and start asking questions—”
“Don’t worry, Cauvin.”
“Don’t worry!” he sputtered. “What am I going to tell her? Can’t be the truth … but it’s got to cover the froggin’ bruises—”
Bec extracted himself from Cauvin’s embrace and pulled himself up to his full height near the middle of Cauvin’s breastbone. “I’ll think of something.”
“What can you say to your mother—”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ve got until after dawn, don’t I … ? Wait! Furzy feathers—I know what I’ll tell her! I’ll wake myself up before she does, and get myself out of bed—but I’ll fall. Get it …? I’ll make like I get tangled in my blankets, then I’ll pretend to trip, then I’ll pretend to fall and—furzy feathers—I’ve got bruises! You watch—I won’t have to tell Momma a word about what’s really happened—”
Cauvin saw holes in that froggin’ bucket. It wouldn’t hold water if he were the sheep-shite carrying it, but with Bec. When it came to telling stories, only a froggin’ fool would bet against Bec.
“Can I have my picture?”
They were near the empty lot at the head of Pyrtanis Street. If the sun were shining, they could have seen the stoneyard.
“You did a sheep-shite stupid thing, Bec, going to the palace like that. If the Torch isn’t froggin’ dead when I go out there later, he’s going to wish he was. I’m taking the cart and putting him in it. He can interrupt his own froggin’ funeral. We’re done with him, Bec; I froggin’ sure swear it. Say your prayers before you fall out of bed. Pray that once the Hand knows that froggin’ Lord Molin Torchholder’s back in the palace, they’ll look for him there and they’ll