Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [91]
“Cauvin, you’re here and now, not there and then. Do you hear me, Cauvin?”
Memories couldn’t harm him. Even so, he was dripping sweat and shaking. There was a froggin’ black staff pointed at his chest again. Cauvin tried to convince himself it was only the old pud stirring his memories.
“You need vengeance, Cauvin. You wish for vengeance.”
“I wish I’d died with the others. It froggin’ ended for them. No froggin’ memories. No froggin’ dreams. The ones you separated—the ones that the Hand didn’t manage to kill—do you know how many are still alive?” Cauvin began to tick off the names of those who weren’t.
“Spare me, Cauvin, I’m years past guilt. They had the same chance you had, and you’re still here—I count that victory enough, but you take me back to the palace, and I’ll be dead in a day. I can’t fight the Hand any longer, and I have no sons alive, none to finish what I’ve started. Let me make you my heir, Cauvin. My wisdom, my cunning; your eyes, your ears, your strength. My vengeance and yours together—the Bloody Hand of Dyareela will know the fear that you knew in the pits.”
Cauvin shook his head. “You’ve got froggin’ nothing I froggin’ want,” he swore, because there was nothing that would set him free of his memories.
“Not for you, Cauvin, for your brother.”
Cauvin snarled a fast rejection, but the damage was done. “Can you swear it by your god-all-be-damned Vashanka—Bec stays safe from the Hand forever?”
The Torch grinned; his face looked like parchment stretched over bone. He lowered his staff. “Swear by my god—is that what you want me to do? Very well, then: For little Bec and the future of Sanctuary, I swear by Vashanka that I’m offering the noblest vengeance a mortal can taste. Open your mind, Cauvin—you’ve got a lot to learn and precious little time for learning it. We’ll start with the lessons you’ll welcome—you need to become a fighter. You were lucky once, but luck isn’t enough when you’re confronting the gods—”
“I can fight. That’s the one thing I can do; it’s what the froggin’ Hand taught me.”
“Dyareela has no use for a man who can think. They have no use for men. Why do you think they steal children? The Hands take boys and make them brawlers, little more than trained beasts. You’ll never best them with the weapons they gave you. Be honest with yourself: You were lucky last night, and you won’t likely be that lucky again, not after they’ve seen your face.”
Cauvin opened his mouth to protest. The Torch’s flicking hand warned him to silence. He could grow to hate that froggin’ gesture as much as he’d ever hated anything in the pits.
“Obviously, I cannot teach you, but I’ll second you to the best armsmaster in Sanctuary—in lands far beyond Sanctuary. He’ll teach you now and when I’m gone. He’ll keep you alive until you can carry that burden for yourself. You’ll find him in a place you already know—the Vulgar Unicorn. He’ll recognize you by the token you’ll be carrying—a mask, not red silk, but leather, boiled hard and dyed blue. You need not wear it—just expose a bit of it as you sit and drink. Listen close; I’m going to tell you where I’ve left a cache of them.”
The cache was in the Maze, and the Torch’s directions were as tangled as that quarter’s streets. Cauvin recited them back after the Torch finished laying them out, then endured a froggin’ oration—
“A man who wishes to revenge himself on the Bloody Hand of Dyareela can rely on neither steel nor sorcery. He must be a master of both—and a quiet master at that. Let no one suspect the depth of your skills, once you’ve acquired them. It’s always best to lull your enemies into underestimating you. I speak from experience. For that matter, Cauvin, it’s never a bad idea to have your friends underestimate you a bit, too. Make it look too simple, and they’ll take you for granted. They’ll fail to show up when you need them—”
Cauvin wondered how many of Torch’s experiences might have led to that froggin’ conclusion. He was still wondering when the old