Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [97]
Before Cauvin could make up his sheep-shite mind, the Irrune started pounding their drums again. The aroma of roast meat wove through the funeral crowd as oxcarts emerged from the palace kitchens. Servants bore a platter of delicacies to Arizak and his close companions. The Irrune tossed fatty morsels onto the pyre, where they burst into sorcerously bright flames: The false Molin Torchholder’s funeral feast had begun.
The women of Sanctuary had the foresight to bring bowls and knives. They and whoever stood beside them devoured generous portions of meat and bread. Cauvin, who’d come to the funeral feast without a woman or a bowl, pierced a stringy slab of ox shoulder with his boot knife. He burnt his fingers, got stains on his shirt, and savored each juicy mouthful.
Street musicians roamed the forecourt with their instruments and leather cups. They sang new songs that celebrated the Torch’s life and the traditional dirges of Ilsig. Neither withstood the onslaught of the Irrune drums. Nothing could compete with that pounding; nothing could resist it, either, not after the casks were breached and the ale began to flow.
Ordinary folk who wouldn’t froggin’ dream of dancing like a Red Lanterns whore clapped and whirled about. Swift’s face was as red as his forge fire when he and his ladylove spun into Cauvin’s view. They called Cauvin’s name, inviting him into their celebration. He’d sooner leap blind off the froggin’ highest wall in the city and beat a retreat to the crowd’s fringes. There he spotted Batty Dol arm-in-arm with Bilibot. Once he’d seen that gods-forsaken sight, Cauvin was ready to look for a blue leather mask.
The Maze was quiet, nearly deserted, which made it all the more froggin’ dangerous. Cauvin loaded his fist with bronze and, with the torch he’d carried down from Pyrtanis Street in his off-weapon hand, straddle-walked the gutters that ran down the middle of the quarter’s twisted, narrow streets. His directions were precise, including the number of paces between turns as well as the corner turns themselves, but Cauvin didn’t entirely trust them.
The Maze was riddled with tunnels, sewers, and other hidden passageways that were apt to collapse without warning, taking a house or two with them. New buildings sprang up almost immediately, but never in quite the old location. Season to season, the streets of the Maze moved like a flooded stream, finding new courses between familiar places or disappearing altogether. Since he’d started seeing Leorin, Cauvin had made it a point to visit the Maze at least once a week, lest he lose the Vulgar Unicorn.
The Torch was far too old for carousing in taverns or chasing wenches. Froggin’ sure it had been more than a week since he’d visited the Maze. A man following the old geezer’s directions put himself at risk for getting lost or worse. Cauvin’s shoulder muscles were aching knots as he counted another eight paces, turned a tight corner, and found himself unexpectedly staring at the lantern-lit doors of the Vulgar Unicorn.
Like the rest of the quarter, the Unicorn was uncommonly quiet. Through an open window, Cauvin saw two of the wenches sitting at a table, deep in their own conversation. Neither of them was Leorin, but she was surely working. She hadn’t been at the funeral. Crowds spurred her nightmares—not the rowdy crowds that frequented the Unicorn, but open-air crowds. She said they reminded her of executions. She’d never have gone back to the palace to see a man burn, even a dead hero.
Two nights ago, Leorin had wanted to run away from Sanctuary forever. Last night Cauvin had gone home to bed, not to the Unicorn. They didn’t see each other every night, or every other night for that matter. Theirs wasn’t the sort of love that left the lovers red-faced and spinning like Swift and his lady, but it