Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [93]
He and the old man were both drained by the time the job was done. Cauvin surveyed his efforts from the foot of the stairs. The cellar was dark and dusty and reeked of decay.
It was like a froggin’ tomb.
It was likely to be a froggin’ tomb.
“Bring me a lamp tomorrow. Better, bring several. And a brazier.”
Cauvin didn’t bother arguing.
“And give this to the boy.” The Torch produced a lump of what appeared to be hardened tree sap from the depths of his robe. “Tell him to suck on it. He’ll feel better.”
Cauvin tucked the lump in his boot and left. With no anger to sustain him, he was hollow inside, convinced he’d as good as buried the Torch and convinced the froggin’ old pud had left him no other choice.
Chapter Nine
The storm clouds looming on Sanctuary’s horizon collapsed as Cauvin led the mule home to the stoneyard. Mina said the improving weather was a good omen, an omen that Savankala and Sabellia had welcomed Lord Torchholder and that he’d continue to befriend the city from the lofty heights of paradise. Cauvin agreed with her. Froggin’ sure he couldn’t tell his Imperial foster mother that her gods had to be sheep-shite fools if they were wasting good omens on the corpse of a man who was a murderer, not a priest.
Come to froggin’ think on it: Molin’s god, Vashanka, was the Imperial god of storms. Maybe a break in the clouds wasn’t a good omen at all.
Cauvin worried that he’d get trapped into escorting his brother to the froggin’ funeral. He’d assumed the boy had been working on Mina all day and with that kind of time, Bec usually got what he wanted. The boy wanted to go to the funeral. He wanted to see a corpse burn, no matter whose it was. But Bec was hurting still. One eye was swollen nearly shut, his lower lip was the size of a chicken sausage, and everything in between was angry purple. He sat slumped over his right side, favoring ribs that the Hand had probably broken.
For mercy’s sake, Cauvin heard himself suggest that he’d stay with Bec on Pyrtanis Street while Grabar and Mina went to the feast, but Mina would have none of that. Her precious son was moving slow, and she wasn’t about to let anyone else take credit for his recovery. It was a froggin’ trial to steal a moment’s privacy to press the lump of tree sap into the boy’s hand.
“He says to suck on it and you’ll feel better,” Cauvin whispered. He wanted to muss Bec’s hair the way he usually did, but didn’t dare.
“Who says?” the boy demanded with a wince.
“Your froggin’ grandfather, that’s who.”
“Is it sorcery?”
The question hadn’t entered Cauvin’s mind until Bec asked it.
“He didn’t say. Better not be. I’ll wring his froggin’ neck.”
Bec popped it in his mouth and immediately made a demonface. “It’s sour. I’m going to shrivel up like dried fruit!”
“You could do with a little shriveling, sprout.” Cauvin patted Bec’s hair lightly and stood up. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later tonight?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow. You go to bed tonight and you stay there.”
“You’re going to see her, aren’t you?” The boy stuck out his lower lip. With the swelling, it was an impressive sight.
“Maybe.”
“You’re going to make babies?”
Cauvin hadn’t given a thought to that possibility, either. “Tomorrow, Bec, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to that other place, are you? That seaman’s place …?”
Cauvin didn’t answer.
When Grabar suggested they walk down the Stairs together, he said he’d rather go alone and left immediately. There were still swatches of clear sky overhead, but clouds were back. They’d swallowed the sun, and there’d be no saying for certain when sunset became evening. Arizak’s shaman would have to guess when to light the froggin’ pyre. He’d figure it out; priests always found a way to do what their princes, if not their gods, wanted them to do.
Grabbing