Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [92]
“Now, recite those instructions I gave you again.”
With his eyes closed tight, Cauvin reconstructed the Torch’s words in his mind. He stumbled a few times, but in the end, he put them together correctly and knew, as he finished, that it would be a good long time-if ever—before he forgot them.
“Good, lad. I see it in your eyes—you’re cleverer than I thought, cleverer than you give yourself credit for. Run along and enjoy my funeral before you hie yourself into the Maze.”
“I’ve got work to do.” Cauvin pointed at the empty cart.
“On the day of my funeral?” the Torch asked with a rare hint of humor.
“Frog all,” Cauvin replied in the same tone. “I know you’re not dead—” He paused. “How do you know today’s your funeral?”
“You told me. Something about Arizak declaring a feast day and why you were late.”
Cauvin thought a moment. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything about a feast or a funeral.” But maybe he had. He was sheep-shite stupid and couldn’t remember half the gods-all-be-damned words he’d said to the Torch today, but he’d swear on his mother’s name that the Torch was toying with him.
“Well, then, call it wishful thinking. I’ve been dead two days, haven’t I? By Irrune custom, they burn their dead at the second sunset. My old friend Arizak swore he’d send me off with an Irrune funeral.”
“He is,” Cauvin admitted. “The pyre’s built … and your froggin’ corpse is atop it. I guess. Somebody’s corpse is. I haven’t seen it; others have.”
“How many horses are they going to roast? How many oxen, and pigs?”
“Don’t know,” Cauvin shrugged. “Mina said, but I wasn’t paying attention. No froggin’ reason to. Look, I’ve got to smash some froggin’ bricks out of these walls or Grabar’ll have my sheep-shite hide—” He headed for the cart and his mallet. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he saw the flaws in everything he and Molin had been discussing.
“It’s froggin’ useless, old pud. Grabar’s not going to give me the froggin’ time to become some froggin’ hero warrior. I used up all my froggin’ excuses this morning, coming out here to tell you that I’m hauling your sheep-shite butt down to the palace. The only froggin’ reason I’ve been coming out here at all is because the Dragon and his men have kept honest folk off the streets—an’ he’s leaving—doesn’t want to be around when his froggin’ father lights your froggin’, pyre. Come tomorrow, I’ll be down at the waterfront, standing in mud all day, piling stone around the piers. I won’t be coming back out here until froggin’ Tobus hires us to get the stone for a dower house. There’s no telling when that’s going to happen. Maybe spring. Maybe never.
“You’re going back to the palace, old pud, going to die in your own froggin’ bed—”
“Tobus?” the Torch asked. “Tobus the wool dyer? Little man with big eyes? Afraid of his own shadow?”
Cauvin nodded. “He faced the house he’s got now with bricks from this place. He’ll want the dower house to match, but he and Grabar haven’t come to terms … haven’t froggin’ started. It’s not going to work. I smash stone, Lord Torchholder; that’s all I froggin’ do. Anything else is dreams … nightmares. Get yourself ready. I’m taking you to the palace.”
“Smash your stone, Cauvin, if that will keep the peace at the stoneyard. Let me worry about Tobus and Grabar and the rest. The only thing you need to worry about is how crowded the Unicorn’s likely to be while my bones are burning.”
“No,” Cauvin said with patience that surprised him. “It’s over, Lord Torchholder.”
As Cauvin advanced across the rubbled floor the Torch reached for his staff. The old pud didn’t have the strength to ward off a froggin’ lapdog, but Cauvin stopped short of manhandling him.
“You asked me to swear an oath by my god, Cauvin, and I did. Now you’ve got to trust me and listen to me and do what I say.”
Another time and Cauvin would have slipped into a stubborn rage. This time his temper failed to kindle. He smashed a few bricks, then noticed that clouds were piling up above the ocean. Sanctuary had gone four days without rain; at this season, the