by Lynn Abbey
The cart was quiet, but not for long. “It doesn’t matter, does it? if you jump the broom? Or if you’ve got a real bed with a feather mattress? You don’t have a feather mattress, but she does, doesn’t she? at the Unicorn? The feathers aren’t important, are they? Except for the chickens and the rooster. Dogs don’t need feathers, and feathers wouldn’t turn Flower into a momma mule, would they? So, if it’s not the broom and it’s not the feathers, what is it?”
Cauvin brought Flower to a halt. He faced his brother. “What in the froggin’ frozen hells of Hecath are you talking about?”
“Momma,” the boy admitted, staring at the planks he sat on. “Poppa’s face was all red when he came home last night. Momma said he’d had too much wine and blew out the candle, but he and Momma didn’t go to sleep—and I couldn’t, either, ‘cause of the bed. Creak-creak. Creak-creak. I snuck outside—watched you come home. This morning, I asked Momma if they’d made a baby—’cause I’m ready to be older. She said the feathers were wore out. I don’t understand what feathers have to do with it. Or brooms. I heard Batty Dol say that Honald’s daughter Syleen jumps the broom with a different man every night, but Syleen’s got no babies. She doesn’t have a feather bed, either—I looked, she sleeps in straw, same as you. So, what about her—about Reenie—she’s got a feather mattress and she jumps the broom same as Syleen—just not with you. Why doesn’t she have babies?”
“Leorin’s not like Syleen!” Cauvin sputtered before he could stop himself.
“Maybe not every night, but some nights.”
“You don’t know that—”
“She lives above the froggin’ Unicorn, Cauvin—everybody knows.”
“Everybody doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Momma does. Momma says—” Bec cleared his throat and launched a dead-on imitation of his mother’s voice. “It’s a shame, a god’s own shame. We took him in, raised him as our own, and what does he do? Chases a whore in the Maze. Gods forgive me, but they knew what they were about when they plucked him up. Him and his whore. Alike as peas. No surprise they found each other in that cess of a tavern. Blood will out. It always does. I bar the door every night. No telling when they’ll come to slaughter us—”
Mina thought Cauvin had a foul tongue in his mouth; Grabar, too. They thought his language was a bad influence on their precious son, but they’d never heard him use the words he used to quiet his foster brother. Bec certainly didn’t know them, except by tone. His face paled, and he wedged himself into the farthest corner of the cart.
Cauvin covered his eyes in shame. It wasn’t Bec’s fault he listened to his mother. Frog all, most of what Bec heard was the froggin’ truth, or froggin’ close enough that, angry as he was, Cauvin couldn’t call Mina a liar.
“It’s not true, is it?” Bec managed, little more than a whisper. “You and Reenie, you’re not really alike?”
“I’ve known her since I was younger than you, sprout. We remember the same things, all of them; but froggin’ shite, Bee—you know we don’t agree about everything.”
The boy blushed but sobered quickly to ask, in a quivering whisper, “The Hand marked both of you for sacrifice, and you both survived?”
“Who told you that?” Cauvin demanded because he knew for froggin’ sure he hadn’t.
“Pendy. Right before … before she died. She said you and Reenie were sweet on each other before and when she disappeared, you thought they’d killed her. It made you moon-mad, and you got yourself in trouble just so they’d sacrifice you, too. And you did disappear, just like her; but you came back. Pendy said once you saw her again, you wouldn’t look at another girl. She said it was sorcery.”
“Pendy?” Cauvin mumbled.
He would have burst out swearing again if he could have gotten the words past the memory of Pendy’s face. Gods all be damned, Cauvin had never thought of Pendy as anything but a tagalong, a little sister who’d landed in the pits years after him. Pendy was one of the lucky ones: The Torch had locked her up, too, and her parents—her gods-all-be-damned real parents—showed up at the palace before the smoke had settled. Pendy had nightmares, though, and for years she showed up at the stoneyard once or twice a week to tell Cauvin about them. She’d weep and tremble, and he’d wrap his arms around her, rocking her gently until the shaking stopped. But not the way he held Leorin. Frog all, Cauvin hadn’t stopped looking at Pendy because Leorin had come back; he’d never looked at her as a woman, and he’d never asked himself why she’d stopped coming to the stoneyard or why she’d cut her own throat not long after that.
froggin’ gods—how could he have been so froggin’ blind?
The Hand had known him best. They put bronze slugs in his fists because he was too sheep-shite stupid for anything else. He couldn’t see anything he didn’t expect—just like Jubal’s sheep-shite fools wearing their hawk masks. No froggin’ wonder that the Torch had told him to pick up a mask, not a sword.
Froggin’ Lord Molin Torchholder used Cauvin the same as the Hand had used him: strong back, hard fists, sheep-shite head. He was no match for them, simple as that. But Cauvin was still bigger than Bec, still able to cower the boy with a scowl.
“You keep your mouth shut about me and Leorin, you hear? And don’t go spouting words like ‘sorcery’ when you don’t know what in froggin’ hell you’re talking about. You especially keep your mouth shut when we get to the ruins. I don’t want the froggin’ Torch hearing anything about me that he doesn’t already know—if there’s anything that froggin’ pud doesn’t already know. The Torch plays games with men, Bec, and he’s been doing it since before we were born … before Grabar was froggin’ born. You listening?”
Bec nodded, but he didn’t agree. “Grandfather needs you more than you need him, so if he’s playing games, you’re going to win, Cauvin.”
Cauvin snorted. Froggin’ sure, the boy knew how to get himself out of trouble. “I wish I had your faith.” He slipped a hand beneath Flower’s bridle and got her moving again.
“It’s not faith, Cauvin. Grandfather’s old and dying. You and me, we’re his last chance, and he’s too full of himself to admit he’s made a mistake with us. But, Cauv—she’s different. Pendy was afraid of her, ice-water scared. She—when the Hand cut her—you know—to take out her heart, they couldn’t find one.”
The stiffening of Cauvin’s back was all the response Bec got to that froggin’ remark. Three times the boy said he was sorry and three times Cauvin didn’t so much as froggin’ twitch. He threaded Flower through the tangled Hillside streets, pausing only to buy a skewer of roasted fish from a peddler—anything to get the tastes out of his mouth. There was enough meat to share with Bec, if Cauvin had wanted to. He didn’t.
When they were clear of the city, Cauvin stopped the mule long enough to retrieve his new knife and bind it to his leg, his left leg this time, instead of his right. Bec watched him with wide, anxious eyes. If he’d said something, Cauvin would have responded, but the boy hadn’t recovered his spirits—Cauvin didn’t doubt that he would—and Cauvin wasn’t ready to break the ice.
The fog thinned as they approached the ruins. By the time Flower was splashing along what was left of the graveled paths, they were bathed in sunshine. Bec said “Where … ?” when the cart didn’t stop where it had two days before, but he didn’t finish his question, so Cauvin said nothing until they were on the far side of what had been the main house, in sight of the root cellar and in sight of the Torch.
Somehow—Cauvin didn’t want to know how—the geezer had dragged himself to the light. He’d propped himself against the wooden uprights of the cellar entrance. The black staff lay across his legs, which were sticking out straight in front of him. His head was cocked back, soaking up sunlight and not moving so much as an eyelid as the cart crunched to a stop.
“He’s dead,” Cauvin said softly, for himself.
Bec beat Cauvin to the cellar. The boy seized a withered hand and the old pud awakened with a jolt that must h
ave hurt. He studied them, eyes black as midnight, yet burning. No froggin’ wonder he was known as the Torch. But the Torch was ancient, despite his fire, and needed several moments to get his words flowing.
“I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I’ll wager that’s true,” Cauvin agreed. He gave Bec a swat across the shoulders. The boy got out of the way. “I went to your froggin’ funeral, then I followed your froggin’ directions.” He unwound the blue mask from his belt and shook it. “I went to the froggin’ Unicorn. I waited there ’til past midnight. Your armsmaster never showed up, Lord Torchholder. You made a sheep-shite fool out of me … and you owe me for two mugs of ale.”
The Torch’s gaze fell to Cauvin’s thigh, which was square in front of his face. No way the old pud wasn’t looking at the froggin’ dagger.
“Seems you helped yourself to more than a mask. Sell the knife, if you need to get yourself drunk. It’s Ilbarsi. You should be able to get thirty soldats for it, even in Sanctuary.”
Never mind that the Torch couldn’t stand, that there was mud on his black woolen robe, or that his skin, wherever it wasn’t still dark with bruises, was so thin that Cauvin could see through it. Never mind any of that, because the Torch’s tongue remained sharper than any knife.
“You used me. You sent me down to the Maze and you knew what would happen—”
“Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you?” the pud asked with a froggin’ grin.
“Why?” Cauvin countered. “Why play me with sorcery, then leave me sitting in the Unicorn waiting for a man who froggin’ sure doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, he exists all right, pud,” the Torch said an instant before Cauvin heard footfalls that weren’t Bec’s or the mule’s.
A stranger emerged from the bushes that grew around the cellar entrance. His clothing was a study in shades of black: tunic, breeches, high boots, and a leather cloak rolled back from his left shoulder. His hair was a bit lighter and worn long with braids to control it near his face. Not a Wrigglie style, nor Imperial, nor Irrune. The braids were touched with a few strands of gray. Cauvin guessed the man was maybe ten or fifteen years older than he was, but it was only a guess.
For adornment, the stranger wore a chain hung around his neck and wide bracelets over his wrists. They were black and shiny and not like any familiar metal. Cauvin looked for weapons—if the man was an armsmaster, there should have been some, but except for a knobbed pommel rising out of the stranger’s right boot, Cauvin saw none. Which didn’t mean Cauvin was reassured; when their eyes finally met, the stranger looked through him like a froggin’ ghost.
The stranger and the Torch exchanged words that weren’t any sort of Ilsigi dialect Cauvin recognized and weren’t—judging from the confusion he gleaned from a quick glance in Bec’s direction—Imperial either. When Cauvin heard his own name tossed about, he’d had enough.
“If you’re going to froggin’ talk about me, froggin’ talk about me so I can froggin’ understand what you’re saying.”
The Torch swiveled his head around, as slow as Flower on a hot day in summer. “Soldt says you are the man with the hawkmask that he saw at the Unicorn last night.”
“Froggin’ hell he did. I looked the commons over when I got there, and I kept an eye on the door the whole time I was there—and he wasn’t there.”
“I was there when you came in, lad, and there when you left. I would have joined you, had I trusted the company you kept.”
The stranger had an accent Cauvin couldn’t place and a smile he didn’t like. Feeling cockier than he had a right to feel, Cauvin restated his claim. “The Unicorn was dead-quiet last night. I could see who sat at every froggin’ table, and you weren’t there, or you’d know that I came alone, I wasn’t keeping company with anyone.”
“Except a woman. Which is why, although I saw you clearly—You tucked the mask over your belt and you bore your knife on the right last night. Is it your habit to rearrange your weapons each day?—I chose not to reveal myself.”
“He’s young yet,” the Torch said, coming unexpectedly to Cauvin’s defense and giving him a chance to scrutinize the stranger again. “And full of himself. Succumbing to the charms of a Unicorn wench is an accident that befalls most young men in this town once or twice.”
“Begging your pardon, Lord Torchholder”—Soldt gave the Torch his title—“but, upon inquiry, I find it is not once or twice, and this wench is not the Unicorn’s common breed.”
“What breed, then?”
Soldt shrugged. His cloak slipped. As he rearranged it Cauvin caught sight of a collar and hood. With that, he recognized the faceless man who’d watched him—and Leorin—the previous evening. That made the stranger a froggin’ spy, which to Cauvin’s mind was worse than a froggin’ liar. He didn’t take a swing at Soldt—armed or not, the stranger had a fighter’s aspect—but he got close enough to smell his breath as he shouted—
“Leorin’s not a froggin’ whore! She works at the Unicorn because there’s good money to be made there … honest money. When we’ve got enough between us, we’ll marry, but until then she’s got nothing to be ashamed of. I won’t listen to you talk about her as if she were a whore, and I won’t stand for being spied on.”
“Trouble doubled, Lord Torchholder,” Soldt said calmly, turning away from a threat he obviously didn’t consider serious. “You can’t lean on a man who’s burdened by love; and the girl herself, my lord, you’d tremble to see her by candlelight.”
“Would I?” the Torch asked, as arrogant with Soldt as he was with Cauvin. “At my age, I’d count it a god’s boon to tremble at the sight of a woman.”
“It’s not her beauty, though that is considerable—”
“Say it straight,” Cauvin snarled, getting in Soldt’s face again, now that he could froggin’ see where this was headed. “I’ve heard it before and so has she—as far back as she can froggin’ remember. Leorin’s the froggin’ image of Sanctuary’s last sheep-shite prince, Kadakithis. She’s got Imperial hair and Imperial eyes. If she showed up on their doorstep, the Enders would have to take her in, and if she approached a madam on the Street of Red Lanterns, she’d be rich in a week. But she stays at the Unicorn because once he’s paid, the Stick sees that she’s left alone.”
The Torch’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this woman?”
“Too young to be legitimate,” Soldt answered before Cauvin. “Too young by half, but the resemblance is uncanny. I can think of a few notables in Ranke who’d claim her in a heartbeat, just to start rumors. One would like to glimpse her parents—”
“One froggin’ sure would!” Cauvin returned Soldt’s words with a snarl. “You aren’t listening—the damned Hand scooped Leorin up and dumped her in the pits, same as me—”
“Impossible,” the Torch insisted. He seized his staff and tried, with no success, to stand up. “Nonsense and impossible. I misplaced your face, pud, but a youth who resembled Prince Kadakithis, girl or boy, that I would have remembered.”
Cauvin would have liked to call the froggin’ old pud a liar, but that would have made him the liar instead. “You never saw her,” he admitted. “They’d pulled Leorin out of the pits before the Irrune got there. A couple winters before. There was one—” he lost his voice as a Hand’s face floated up from memory. Lean, scarred, and the cruelest of the cruel, the Hand he and the other orphans called the Whip had taken an interest in Leorin from the beginning. She seldom spoke of him, but Cauvin was certain that he was the reason her sleep was broken and haunted. “He took her behind the walls, and took her out of Sanctuary, too, just before you arrived with the Irrune.”
The man who couldn’t stand on his own two feet managed to give Cauvin a look that hurt. “‘Behind the walls,’ you say? So this man initiated her into the Bloody Mother’s priesthood?”
The palace orphans had their own way of talking. It wasn’t a separate language—the words were ordinary Wrigglie—but the meanings changed … doubled or even tripled. “Beh
ind the walls” meant inside the palace, but the phrase also described someone who was doing favors for the Hand or who’d become one of them. Cauvin hadn’t expected the froggin’ Torch to know the hidden meanings.
“Don’t gape like a gaffed fish, boy. You were there; you know what I’m talking about.”
“They took favorites,” Cauvin admitted, shamed by the shakiness in his voice. “Women, mostly—girls, but boys, if they were the pretty kind—” He stole a glance at Bec who, thank the froggin’ gods, seemed not to be paying attention.
“Leorin, from what you tell me, was very pretty. You, I imagine, were not. She was taken behind the walls; you weren’t. You were in the pits when the Irrune stormed the palace; she wasn’t. What should that tell me about your ladylove, Cauvin?”
“Nothing!” Cauvin shouted, suddenly on the verge of blind rage … blind panic. “Nothing. It doesn’t mean what you’re saying it means. People went behind the froggin’ walls, people came out—”He tugged at his hair and stared at the sky because he couldn’t hold the Torch’s stare. “Frog all, Torchholder—they took me behind their froggin’ walls, into the room where they kept their froggin’ statue of Her. Gave me a choice, and when I said no, next thing I knew I was bent over backward on the froggin’ altar with a black knife cutting into my chest. I thought—I thought I was done for, but I walked out, Torchholder, same as I walked in. I got the scars to say it was no froggin’ dream—” Cauvin peeled back the neck of his shirt to reveal the bronze slug and a handspan’s length of the knotted, pale lines that crossed his chest. “I kept my heart.”
“I know you did,” the Torch said softly.
Cauvin heard, but wasn’t listening. “I didn’t change, and Leorin didn’t either. We both knew everything they told us was lies. How we’d been chosen to do the Mother’s work. How we wouldn’t need tattoos because the Mother would stain our hands with real blood. How we were going to carry the Mother along the coast to Ranke. The sea would turn red for us, the sky black. Our army would grow until nothing could stop us, and the Mother would come down to remake the world. It was all lies, and even if it wasn’t, it still wasn’t the truth ‘cause we weren’t an army, just sheep-shite and sweat. If we were the vanguard, then either the Mother didn’t plan to win Her wars, or She sure-as-shite didn’t need an army. No matter what they told us, we knew froggin’ better than to believe.”