Sanctuary

by Lynn Abbey

  “You sound like your mother,” Cauvin groused, and freed himself. The boy was probably right, but haggling left a bad taste in Cauvin’s mouth. His clearest memories of the woman he’d truly called Mother were of her haggling wine from barman upon barman. He’d had a strong back, even then, and often found himself cleaning stables or pushing barrels while she drank.

  Bec proved his usefulness in merely finding the scriptorium where Mina bought the stoneyard’s parchment. The shop was logically tucked behind a tanner’s yard deep in the Tween, but Cauvin never would have found it on his own. There were grades of parchment, grades of quills, and grades of ink as well; and none of them were meaningful to a man who smashed and squared stone for his livelihood. Bec told a charming tale about practicing his letters and writing a perfect copy of some old Imperial poem for his beloved mother’s birthday and got the best of everything at dirt-cheap prices. They left the scriptorium with a ribbon-tied roll of parchment the same pale, creamy color of Leorin’s cheeks, four “perfect” quills (that looked no froggin’ different from feathers their roosters shed daily, except for their size and colors), and a greasy lump of lampblack.

  “If your geezer’s really from the palace,” Bec said once he was back inside the stone cart, “then we should get wine, too: aged, red wine. That’s what they use in the palace to make their ink.”

  “Bad enough I had to buy soot! The old geezer can mix his froggin’ ink with water—Can’t he?”

  “Wine’s better. Wine or piss.”

  “That’s sheep-shite nonsense.”

  “Is not,” Bec insisted, and went on at length about ink-making … as if Cauvin were going to believe someone who made up tales about chickens and birthday presents.

  Cauvin guided Flower toward the Promise of Heaven and the Hill behind it. He was grimly eager to get to the abandoned estate until Bec reminded him of Batty Dol and the old man’s blankets. Reluctantly, Cauvin turned the cart back toward Pyrtanis Street.

  The addled woman greeted them with a taste of her fresh-baked bread. That was the odd thing about Batty—one of them, anyway—what she did, she did well. She was a froggin’ witch with a threaded needle, and the bread she baked was good enough to sell to taverns and houses in the better parts of town. Batty was harmless, everyone said, but she gave Cauvin the chills whenever she looked at him like she’d known him before because, sometimes, like this morning, damned if she didn’t look familiar, too.

  Batty never stopped talking about neighbors only she knew about. Bec spun his lies, Batty shook out enough threadbare cloaks to carpet the floor, and Cauvin paid a fair price for three of the best.

  “She won’t tell,” Bec said as he made himself a woolly nest in the cart. “Come noon, she won’t even remember it was us and not ghosts.”

  Cauvin grunted. He led Flower away from the tumbledown house. The boy was right, of course, and there was no reason to pity Batty Dol: She might be addled, but she never dreamt. Still, Bec didn’t know why Batty talked to ghosts, and, not knowing why, he couldn’t possibly care.

  The boy wouldn’t care, either, if the day’s adventure ended with Cauvin digging a grave. He’d turn it into story about chickens and roosters. Death, madness, and the Hand weren’t real to Bec, not the way they were to Cauvin. Cauvin envied his foster brother, who didn’t know the darkest meanings of terror or loneliness, but the boy’s carefree confidence irritated him, too. A voice deep in his mind would mutter: You’ll learn, Bec, and the older you are when you do, the worse it’ll hurt.

  Cauvin choked that voice before it got to his tongue, but he was prepared for the worst—the Torch not merely dead but torn apart by dogs or wolves, his limbs scattered, his eyes wide-open, and smeared with blood. Cauvin didn’t need a sheep-shite imagination when it came to violent death.

  “Stay here,” he said when another ten steps would have taken them into the ruined room where he’d left the Torch.

  Grabbing one of the blankets, Cauvin crossed the threshold alone.

  “So you decided to come after all.”

  The Torch was very much alive and reclining on his makeshift bed. His face had made a remarkable recovery from the previous day. What had been purple was now a pale yellowish gray. What had been swollen smooth was now sunken, wrinkled, and terribly old. If the Torch’s recovery were miraculous, his persistence was twice that, which led Cauvin toward thoughts of gods and magic. Those thoughts and the sight of the heavy blackwood staff in the Torch’s hand stopped him cold in his tracks.

  Bec wriggled between Cauvin and the doorframe.

  “Who is that?” the Torch asked in a tone that changed “who” to “what.”

  “My foster brother, Becvar—we call him Bec.”

  “I seem to recall asking for parchment, quills, and ink. What possessed you to think I wanted a boy?”

  The worst scars Cauvin had carried away from the Hand came from insults that couldn’t be evened with a well-thrown punch and words that cut deeper than the sharpest knives. Without effort, the Torch had reopened the worst of them. Cauvin stayed put, speechless and seething, but Bec—Bec, who didn’t know any better—strode forward.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, old man. I’m the one who picked out your parchment and quills, an’ I’ll make your ink, too. Cauvin wouldn’t buy any wine, and you don’t look like you could piss up a spit bowl.”

  The Torch gave a frigid smile. “Charming. Remind me not to come calling on your parents.”

  “They’re my parents. Cauvin’s are dead,” Bec corrected, pulling himself up to his full, scrawny height. “And you’ve got no right to insult his or mine. You’ve got no right to be anything but grateful that me and Cauvin came out here to take care of an old geezer like you.”

  To Cauvin’s surprise, the Torch said nothing at first, merely narrowed his eyes and gave them both the once-over before asking, “Did all go well with Sinjon at the Broken Mast?”

  Cauvin had a score of answers for that question, but before he could utter even one of them Bec asked—

  “Are you a seaman?”

  Cauvin clamped a hand on Bec’s collarbone and hauled him backward as he hissed, “Froggin’ shite, Bec, don’t go asking him questions like that!”

  The warning came too late. Lord Molin Torchholder gave another of his icy smiles. “I’m naught but a dying, old man. Once I was a priest of a great god, a builder of great temples, and a friend of emperors, but I was never a sailor.”

  “Then why did you send Cauvin to the Broken Mast? They’re all seamen—”

  Bec couldn’t finish through the shaking Cauvin gave his shoulder.

  “Let me guess: You procured the box without difficulty, brought it home, opened it, and attracted the attention of the boy? One thing led to another, and you brought him here because it was that or he’d tell his tales to his father?”

  “Something like that,” Cauvin admitted. He pinched Bec’s shoulder hard, then released him. “He talks a lot. Mostly he lies.”

  “That’s not true! I don’t lie. You know I don’t.”

  “The boy’s right,” the Torch purred. “On both counts I imagine, else you wouldn’t have brought him out here.”

  Chapter Six

  “Cauvin?” Bec whispered as his brother headed for the door. He put himself in Cauvin’s path, and though Cauvin never seemed to see him standing there, he very carefully avoided him just the same. “Cauv … ?”

  Bec raised a hand while Cauvin was still in reach. His fingers got within a handspan of Cauvin’s shirt, then his arm dropped back to his side. When his brother’s chin was down and his shoulders were up around his ears, it really was wiser to leave him alone, even if that left Bec by himself with a scary-looking old man.

  “Follow him,” the raspy voice commanded. “Make yourself useful. Tell that young man to get himself back in here. There’s work to do. I haven’t got all the time in the world. I need someplace to write, someplace to sit. Follow him, boy!”

  Bec stayed put when he heard Ca
uvin unharnessing the mule. Then, satisfied that his brother wasn’t going to abandon him entirely, he swallowed the dry lump in his throat and turned to face the old man. “My name’s Becvar; you can call me Bec. I’ll call you Grandfather ‘cause you’re too old to be anything else. Cauvin’s angry, and when Cauvin’s angry, he gets stubborn, just like the mule, an’ he’s bigger than both of us together—even if you could walk—so, there’s no changing his mind.” The ruins rang with the sound of an iron-headed mallet striking stone. “He’s angry at both of us, anyway, for talking faster than he could listen. If you’re going to talk that fast, you’d better talk to me.”

  “Nonsense. Cauvin’s the one they sent, their best answer to my prayers. There’s work to do … and money for his efforts at the end of it. Ten times what he earns in that stoneyard. Run along and tell him that.”

  There were insults lurking in the old man’s words, insults directed at him, at the stoneyard, and maybe even at Cauvin. Bec wouldn’t stand for insults. He folded his arms across his chest. “Run along and tell him yourself.”

  When stubbornness was the lesson, he’d had very good teachers.

  The old man raised his staff and pointed it in Bec’s direction. It was a thick, blackened thing with a big lump of honey-colored stone stuck on top and ashes clinging to its bottom.

  “Do as you’re told!”

  There wasn’t much sorcery on Old Pyrtanis Street. Sure, everyone talked about the big, empty lot at the western end of the street where nothing but nothing grew. Anytime she lost something in the kitchen, Momma blamed the ghost of Enas Yorl, whose magic house had vanished from the empty lot years before Bec was born. But that was just talk and Momma’s carelessness. When it came to sorcery seen with his own eyes, there were the midsummer bonfires that changed color and shape when Hazard Eprazian waved his arms in the air and old Bilibot, who lived in a shed behind the Lucky Well and claimed he could see the future in a handful of ashes cast against the wind.

  Neither of those prepared Bec for the sight of that shiny-bright stone pointed toward his heart. Before it could belch fire or lightning, he leapt sideways and pled for his life.

  “Don’t hurt me! Please. I swear—I swear, honest—when Cauvin’s angry, it’s better to leave him alone. Lots better. I can do anything he can … almost. I’ll find what you need: a table, chair, whatever you want. Just don’t point that thing at me!”

  The old man lowered his staff, and Bec tried to live up to his promises. He emptied the cart—food from the stoneyard, blankets from Batty Dol, ink and parchment from the scriptorium—then went on a quest for wood for furniture, wood for a fire, and water for tea.

  Grandfather wasn’t the first person to hole up in the abandoned estate. After gathering wind-fallen branches for the fire and filling two waterskins from a shrunken but clear-flowing stream, Bec found the remains of someone else’s weather-beaten lair stashed in what might have been a storeroom or servants’ quarters. There were enough planks for a crude worktable and a serviceable stool—if he could put together something to replace its two missing legs. Rightsized chunks of masonry would have done the job, but Cauvin had ignored Bec every time he came near the wall where he was smashing bricks, and the boy judged it wise to lie low a while longer.

  He made do with stones from the stream. The final result wasn’t pretty, but he thought it would support a skinny old man. And it would have, maybe, if the old man hadn’t had a nasty wound at the top of his right leg. The old man could stand and hobble a bit with his staff for support, but he couldn’t sit upright without the wound paining him badly after a few moments. They tried padding the stool with Batty’s blankets; that only made it tippy and harder for the old man altogether. Grandfather was wheezing and shiny before Bec managed to get him back into what passed for his bed.

  “You shouldn’t be out here, Grandfather,” Bec said, using his extracourteous voice—the one that sometimes worked with grown-ups when they were wrong. “You need to see a healer.”

  “There’s nothing a healer can do for me, boy. I’ve taken my death wound. It’s only a matter of time ’til I’m gone. Fetch one of those planks and lay it here, across my lap.”

  But that was worse than the blankets. The old man fainted clean away. Bec made strong tea with half-heated water and held the cup close to the old man’s face so the fragrant steam could work its way inside.

  “Get your brother,” were the first words out of Grandfather’s mouth once his eyes were open again. He’d said them in Imperial Rankene.

  Gamely, Bec replied, “Won’t do any good. He’s still angry,” in the same language.

  The old man propped himself against the wall, halfway between sit-up and lie-down. “Wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t what?” Bec asked, lapsing into Wrigglie, the language he knew best despite Momma’s efforts otherwise.

  “Wouldn’t, not won’t. Say, ‘It wouldn’t do any good to approach Cauvin,’” Grandfather continued in Rankene. “You haven’t done anything yet, and you don’t know for certain that no good will come of approaching your brother, so the proper form is ‘Wouldn’t do any good.’”

  Bec knotted his brows and stared through his eyelashes. “If you say so. Wouldn’t. Won’t. Means the same to me.”

  “Perhaps it does when you’ve got your mouth rooted in Sanctuary’s streets, but if you’re going to speak Rankene, you should do it properly. Who taught you what you already know?”

  “My mother.”

  “Who is not … Cauvin’s mother.”

  Slowly Bec nodded, even though he’d missed a few words between who and mother. “Want your tea?” he asked, swirling the cup so a few drops splattered onto Batty’s blankets.

  The old man clutched the cup between long, bony fingers. Bec expected him to make disgusting noises as he sipped the way Poppa and even Cauvin did when Momma served soup for supper. But Grandfather had Momma’s manners, aristocrat manners. He drank quietly, and his lips were dry when he lowered the cup.

  For several long moments, Grandfather stared at nothing.

  “You need me to do something?”

  Grandfather blinked. “There’s so little time left, but there’s nothing to do. Your bullheaded brother won’t talk to me, and I can’t put pen to parchment without seizing up from pain.”

  “I could write for you, Grandfather.”

  It seemed to Bec that the old man looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. “What I have to say is more difficult than ‘wouldn’t’ or ‘won’t,’ boy. I’ve gone through a score of scribes in my time—twoscore. Trained men, well versed in the subtleties of our language, and I’ve driven all but a few of them to drink. I have no liking for children, but you’ve done nothing to deserve that from me.”

  “I can write for you—if you go slow and spell out the hard words.”

  “No. It’s beyond question.”

  “Then my brother and me better take all that writing stuff back to the scriptorium, ‘cause it’s not going to get used. Cauvin can’t read but maybe ten Imperial words, and the only one he can write is his name—’cause I taught him how to make the letters.”

  The faraway look returned to Grandfather’s eyes. “There is justice, boy,” he said softly. “Cold, bitter justice. Very well, get the parchment. What’s left to lose, eh?”

  Bec got to work. This was more to his liking, more what he had in mind when he’d surprised Cauvin in the loft the night before. He scavenged a curved bit of crockery, wiped it off on his breeches, and set it against the wall.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Grandfather advised him.

  “But we don’t have any wine—”

  “Water will do.”

  Muttering, Bec doused the crockery with water from the skins. He set about mixing ink for only the fourth time in his literate career. Usually he wrote with chalk chips on a piece of slate. Momma didn’t trust him with ink, much less with parchment. The feather quill felt awkward in his hand and was damnably difficult to fill with
ink.

  “I’m ready,” Bec announced at last. He’d seated himself cross-legged on the hard ground with the parchment flat in front of his knees. Looking at Grandfather from that angle, all he saw was a wrinkled face hovering above the drab blankets.

  “You’ve done this before, have you?” Grandfather asked.

  Bec nodded emphatically and a great dollop of black ink landed on the parchment. He swiped it quickly with his sleeve.

  “And which language do you write best, boy? Rankene or Ilsigi?”

  “Imperial. My mother wouldn’t teach me Ilsigi letters, and my father can’t. I’ve picked up a few—some of them are the same as Imperial letters, only the sounds are different. It’s confusing,” Bec admitted. “But if you speak slow, I can sound it out and write it down. If I can’t do that, I’ll ask you to spell it out for me, if you can. What am I going to be writing about? When Momma dictates, I do better if I know what the words are about.”

  Grandfather spat out a mouthful of syllables. Imperial was like that, leading bits and trailing bits attached to a center word that might not mean what it sounded like it meant when the word was finished. Bec heard the sounds for “man” and “right” and—maybe—“blood”; he got no meaning at all.

  After a deep sigh, he warned, “Maybe you better start off spelling.”

  “Well, you tried—”

  “I can do it! All you’ve got to do is tell me what I’m writing about and spell me the hard words!”

  “All right, boy … Bec. Our story begins more than two hundred years ago, in the city of Ilsig, which gave its name to a kingdom and a language.” He paused until Bec finished writing the words. “The Ilsigi called the mountains well west of their city the Queen’s Mountains because they were harder to climb than—No, never mind why they called them the Queen’s Mountains—”

  “Should I write that—‘never mind about the mountains’?”

  “No, write what’s important. In Ranke—which was a kingdom itself, then; the Empire hadn’t been founded yet—we called those same mountains the World’s End Mountains or the Spine, which is exactly what the Irrune called them when they first saw them some twenty years ago, though the folk they drove from the mountains—the folk who’ve lived in these parts longer than any of us—called the mountains Gunderpah, for the clouds that hide their peaks—”