by Lynn Abbey
Soldt wrinkled his nose. “You’re not. Wash yourself off, at least.”
Little as Cauvin wanted to waste time at the trough, a glance at Soldt’s face convinced him that he’d waste more time arguing. His wounds stung when he dipped his arm in the trough. They bled freely, but not too freely. He intended to ignore them and had the shirt stretched over his head when Soldt ordered him to stop.
Cauvin froze more from surprise than obedience. Soldt dug into the basket Galya had left on a pile of unfinished stone and hauled out a length of snowy linen. He tore it into strips.
“Keeps the swelling down,” he explained as he wound the cloth over Cauvin’s forearm. “And keeps your shirt clean, if they open up again.”
Cauvin flexed his fingers. Shite for sure, he couldn’t remember how many times he’d been bloodied, but bandages weren’t a usual—or comfortable—part of his healing. They’d protect his linen shirt, though.
“How come you’re not wearing bleached linen?” he asked, carrying the blackwood staff to the ladder.
“I don’t need to. Stop dawdling.”
The loft was never brighter than twilight. Cauvin’s eyes needed a moment to adjust. Mina and Grabar had made a wreck of his quarters. They’d dragged the pallet into the center of the loft—where, if it started raining again, the Torch would be driven mad by roof drips. Unless the geezer was already dead. The dark lump nested in Cauvin’s blankets wasn’t moving until Cauvin got within an arm’s length. Even then, he couldn’t truly see his chest rising, only hear the raspy, shallow rhythm of his breath.
“It’s your fault, pud,” he whispered. “Galya was right—it’s all games to you, and you thought you could win one last round. Damn you to Hecath’s coldest, darkest hell.”
Cauvin supposed he couldn’t blame his foster parents for mistaking his new breeches for bedding. He laid the staff beside the Torch’s shoulder and took the cloth with both hands to yank it free. The Torch’s eyes opened—maybe from the sudden movement, maybe from the staff. He said something, but not anything that Cauvin understood, then those eerie moonlight-and-fire eyes closed again.
“If anything’s happened to Bec, you’d best be dead the next time I see you.”
He switched breeches and pulled on the linen shirt.
“Do you own a comb?” Soldt asked when they were face-to-face again.
Cauvin didn’t answer, but slicked his hair down with water on his way past the trough.
Chapter Seventeen
Cauvin and Soldt took the high road to the ruins. They had a clear view of the city, its harbor, and the tide coming in over the sea flats on either side of the harbor. The Ilsigi galley rode high beside the wharf. She’d dumped her ballast, but her crew didn’t have her laded yet. She’d miss today’s tide and depart tomorrow … without Cauvin … without Leorin.
He didn’t mourn people. He’d seen many of them die. Dreams were rarer in his life, especially pleasant dreams. When one died, as Cauvin’s love for Leorin was dying, he felt the loss with his entire heart. Had they been going to Land’s End, where the road hugged a cliff to the sea, he might have run to the brink. But they were simply on the high road, far from danger, and headed for the ruins. Despair nailed Cauvin to the ground.
Soldt clapped Cauvin on the shoulder. “Time to move.”
Cauvin shrugged free. “I understand it now,” he whispered, as much to himself as the assassin. “Why the Torch chose me, a sheep-shite stone-smasher. This froggin’ heir nonsense—I thought he was giving me things—coins, weapons, even words written on parchment. But it’s not that at all. It’s more like smashing bricks out of the ruins and rebuilding a house for Tobus. He’s rebuilding me with froggin’ sorcery. When he finally stops breathing, he’s not really going to die, he’s going to move into me. I’m the sheep-shite fool who’s going to find himself dead—No, not dead, just gone.”
“I don’t think the sorcery goes that far.” Soldt clapped Cauvin and, this time, gave him a tug toward the ruins.
“You don’t know.”
“I know that for years, when Lord Torchholder’s spoken of death, it was a threat; secretly, he didn’t expect it to happen, not to him. Since I got back and found him dying, he speaks only of preserving what he’s nurtured and passing on what he can. Not a word about a second chance in a young man’s body. And—trust me on this, Cauvin—if Lord Torchholder planned to replace you within your flesh, he’d have said something to me.”
Cauvin tried to be reassured, but the effort failed.
They approached the ruins in silence. Soldt knotted a long leather lead to Vex’s collar, the first restraint he’d placed on the brindle dog; and just in time. They hadn’t gone a hundred paces when Vex lowered his nose to the ground. The leash snapped taut and Soldt’s shoulder got a workout keeping the dog in line.
“He’s gotten a blood scent, a man’s blood,” Soldt explained. “Vex can find a corpse that’s been buried ten feet deep or weighted with stones and dropped in a river.”
“Tell him to look for Bec. I can show you the corpses.”
But Cauvin couldn’t show Soldt anything. The four fire-blasted bodies were gone. The ground where they’d lain had been carefully scoured. When Grabar led Gorge up from the city, they’d see that the ground had been disturbed, but they wouldn’t see traces of blood or gore, and the only footprints would be Cauvin’s, Soldt’s, and the dog’s.
They left the cellar for the ruined bedroom with its view of Sanctuary.
“You think I’m a froggin’ liar,” Cauvin said before Soldt leveled the accusation.
“Not at all. One ruin may look like another, but Vex scented blood. They can fool our eyes, but not his nose. In a way, they’ve made our job easier. The fainter the trail, the easier it is for him to follow. When there’s too much blood, too much scent, he gets confused … Don’t you, Vex?”
The dog looked up at Soldt. It shook its head, almost as if it had understood the words and disagreed with them. Only for a moment. They all heard a sound back near the cellar. Vex strained on the leash and Soldt let the dog pull him into the brush beyond the cellar. The dog seemed to have a scent, but when they got to the next hilltop there was nothing except a deer grazing in one of the Land’s End fields. It was too far away to have made the noise they’d heard. Soldt commanded the dog to sit and, with a protest whine, it did.
“Next time I’m bringing a bow. Nothing like fresh venison on the spit.” Soldt gave Vex another foreign-word command, and it followed him toward the ruins.
“Venison!” Cauvin exploded, catching up with them. “You’re thinking about venison? The Hand’s got Bec. They’ve covered their tracks. Turn that dog of yours loose. Tell him to find my brother.”
“In time. First we wait for your foster father.”
“What for? There’s nothing here!”
“All the more reason to wait. You don’t want him looking like a sheep-shite idiot in front of the watch, do you? We may still need their help. Besides, the muddle’s different now. The Hand’s come back; they know they’ve made a mistake. They know someone’s moved Lord Torchholder. Do they think he’s alive? Did Bec tell them Lord Torchholder’s still alive? Have they guessed that your brother isn’t Lord Torchholder’s heir?”
“You think Bec’s answered their questions?” Knowing how the Hand asked its questions added weight to Cauvin’s heart.
“Doesn’t really matter. Bec’s a clever boy, but he’s no sorcerer.”
“Froggin’ sure, I’m no sorcerer either—”
Soldt froze Cauvin with a glance. “Just pray the Hand realized their mistake sooner, rather than later.”
“And that they’ll be looking to swap Bec for someone else?”
“That’s one possibility.” Soldt jumped up on the windowsill. Staring down at the city, he shielded his eyes and cursed. “There he is, your foster father, coming up the General’s Road … by himself. No need to wait now. We can meet him halfway and get back to the stoneyard. With luck, the Hand will
come looking for us.”
Cauvin led the way and caught Grabar’s temper while it was still fresh.
“—If we had a daughter who’d gone missing. Or if we were rich. Oh, then they’d bestir themselves. But for the son of an honest man living on Pyrtanis Street? The sons of Pyrtanis Street run away all the time. The guards have better things to do than look for my son—unless I’ve got twenty shaboozh to bond their efforts. If they find him dead or enslaved, they give me my shaboozh back, but if he’s just ‘wandered’—that was Gorge’s word—well, they’ll keep the shaboozh for their effort! Damn their eyes!” Grabar thrust his fist in the air, then lowered it. “I ought to have dragged them up to the ruins—”
“Better you didn’t,” Cauvin said. “There’s nothing up there. Someone—The Hand’s been through. Gathered up the bodies, cleaned up the blood.”
Color drained from Grabar’s face. Cauvin reached out to steady him. “We’re going back to the stoneyard. Soldt thinks the Hand knows they’ve made a mistake grabbing Bec. He thinks they’ll come looking for us.”
Grabar went paler still. “Mina!” he gasped. “Mina, she’s alone!”
She wasn’t—Galya had probably stayed with her, Batty Dol, too; and there was the Torch himself tucked up in the loft. But Grabar’s point was well taken. The three men strode along a dry creek bed that got them to the Hillside breaches and into the city.
The gate was shut and the stoneyard quiet, until Vex and the yard dog laid eyes on each other again. Mina came out to scream at the dog and fairly flew into Grabar’s arms when she saw him. Ten years living at the stoneyard and Cauvin couldn’t remember another time when his foster parents had embraced each other. Even now, it wasn’t affection or relief that held them together. Mina was wild with fear. Once they were inside the yard, the men found Galya and Batty Dol guarding the kitchen with a pitchfork and a mallet between them.
Galya explained: “We had a visitor while you were gone. You’d better come look.”
A boy Cauvin didn’t recognize—a boy about Bec’s age—sat by the hearth, looking as frightened as Mina. The first thing he did when he saw the men was leap to his feet.
“I don’t know who it was,” he proclaimed. “I never seen his face before. He asked me if I knew the way to Pyrtanis Street, and when I said I did, he said he’d give me ten padpols to carry a package to the stoneyard. Five padpols straightaway when I said yes, and another five when I came back. That’s all I know, all I did: I brought a package to the stoneyard. Follow me, if you’ve got to; I’m supposed to meet the man at Othat’s. But let me go. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to get my five padpols; I earned them. I earned them honest.”
“We weren’t about to follow him ourselves, so we’ve kept him here, waiting for you to get back.” Galya finished her explanation.
“What was in the package?” Soldt asked, faster than Cauvin or Grabar could get the question off their tongues.
Galya shook out a wad of folded cloth which Cauvin immediately recognized as Bec’s shirt. One sleeve hung loose and a dark, hard-edged stain stiffened the collar. Mina wailed and would have fallen had Grabar not kept his arms around her. Batty Dol’s cries were softer, but there was no one to comfort her.
“Nothing else?” Soldt asked. “No message?”
“None,” Galya replied. “Other than the boy’s insistence that he’s owed another five padpols when he returns to Othat’s, wherever that is.”
“He sells oil in the Crook.” The boy volunteered the name of the notorious Hill-side market where, some said, slaves were still bought and sold in midnight transactions.
“How long has he been here?” Soldt asked Galya, then turned to the boy, “Did you come here straightaway?”
“Not long,” Galya answered quickly, but the boy hesitated before admitting that he’d gotten himself breakfast, then stashed what was left of his five padpols in an alley bolt-hole before making his way to Pyrtanis Street.
The boy’s voice faded as he realized his mistake. He was whispering when he said, “Maybe he’s still there? He never said I should come running. Maybe Othat seen him. Othat sees most everything in the Crook—for silver.”
No one in the kitchen answered the boy. They looked to Soldt, and Soldt just shook his head. The assassin was in favor of forgetting about Othat and either letting the boy go or locking him in the chicken coop.
“We know what they wanted us to know: They’ve got Bec, but they’re not ready to negotiate. When they are, they’ll send another message, with a reliable messenger.”
The Hiller boy had heard enough. He broke for the door, shoving Batty Dol hard against Soldt, scattering stools, and overturning anything he could reach. The boy was quick and, froggin’ sure, he’d had practice running away, but Cauvin had mastered the same lessons. Leaping and shoving himself, Cauvin reached the kitchen door a few strides behind the Hiller. His longer legs would give him the advantage across the stoneyard to the gate.
The boy was just beyond Cauvin’s grasp when someone—Soldt—grabbed his shirt.
“Let him go. We don’t need him.”
“Frog all—” Cauvin protested.
He writhed within his shirt. His old shirts would have torn from the strain, but Galya’s linen was strong, her seams, stronger. The Hiller hit the closed gate like a panicked cat, scrambled over the top, and disappeared.
“You want to follow that boy into the trouble that’s waiting for him on the Hill? Do you want to save his life or your brother’s?”
Cauvin swallowed hard and ceased struggling. “We can’t just wait around here. We’re not saving Bec this way.”
The others had filed out of the kitchen wearing the wary looks of sheep-shite folk who didn’t trust their leaders but weren’t ready to challenge them.
“Is Lord Torchholder still alive?” Soldt asked.
“He was, last time we looked,” Mina replied. “Before that boy came.”
Soldt led them into the work shed; Cauvin led them up the ladder.
“He’d better be dead,” he muttered.
No luck there. The Torch’s weird eyes were open, watching Cauvin as his head cleared the floor.
“What was all that noise?” the old man demanded. “Did you find anything out at the ruins; or had the Hand scoured everything? I heard a boy—not the missing one. What did he want? Was that him going over the gate?”
The Torch had made a miraculous—or more likely sorcerous—recovery. He still resembled a skeleton wrapped in rotting skin and crowned with wild, silver-gray hair, but there could be no doubt that his mind had cleared.
Soldt gave Cauvin a prod, and he swung up into the loft before answering the Torch’s questions. “Some sprout from the Hill. He brought Bec’s shirt, torn and bloody. Soldt said he was going to lock him up, then let him go instead.”
“He had the shirt, Lord Torchholder, nothing else. He was a pawn. If he’s lucky, he’ll be dead by sundown,” Soldt added, as if that settled everything; and it did, for the Torch.
“Does the Hand know I’m here?” the Torch asked.
“They know you’re not in the cellar. The place had been scoured. Hard to tell, though, whether they knew that when they sent the Hiller; he took time for breakfast and to hide the padpols they’d given him.”
The Torch repeated Soldt’s verdict, “Pawn,” then targeted Grabar, who’d just heaved himself off the ladder. “They’ve told you they’ve got your boy. Now they’re giving you time to think about how much you want him—”
“I don’t need time—”
“Will you surrender me?” Grabar gaped at the question; the Torch pressed on. “I would. It would be a good bargain—if the Hand would offer it. If they don’t realize I’m more dead than alive and won’t last long enough to satisfy them or their deity. More likely, they’ve realized the stoneyard son they want is Cauvin. He’s not quite your son, is he? Would you give them Cauvin to get Bec?”
Grabar didn’t twitch, and Cauvin’s heart stopped beating while
Mina called up from below, “If it’s him or my boy, he goes.”
The fiery white eyes turned to Cauvin. “There you have it, lad. We’re down to our last chances, Cauvin. I’d hoped for more. Damn Vashanka—I’d hoped it would never come to this. Are you ready to turn the key in the lock? I have a plan to keep you alive.”
Cauvin glanced across the loft. Mina wouldn’t meet his eyes; Grabar was pleading silently. “Me or you?” he asked, and immediately thought of the S’danzo, Elemi. “Do I have a choice?”
“There is always a choice. You could choose to run, like that boy just did. Who’s to say, you might find a hole deep enough to hide you for the rest of your life.”
Cauvin thought, I should have died in the pits. I should have begged this man to send me back there, but he hadn’t done either, and the habit of living was too hard to break between one breath and the next. “All right. What’s your froggin’ plan?”
“Here.” The Torch sat up, steadying himself with his blackwood staff—drawing strength from it. He held out a closed hand.
Two steps separated Cauvin from the dying priest. Right foot forward, then left. Cauvin didn’t feel either one. Shite for sure, he felt the Torch’s cold, dry flesh when their hands touched, and it took all his strength not to run, screaming, from the loft. Something colder still, hard, and not at all key-shaped landed in his palm.
“Put it on the third finger of your right hand.”
The Torch’s gift was a ring. In the loft’s twilight, Cauvin couldn’t be certain, but he’d wager it was the black-onyx ring that he’d retrieved from the rubble in the froggin’ temple of froggin’ Ils.
“See if it fits.”
Cauvin thrust the golden hoop down his finger. It passed the first knuckle easily, but jammed on the second. Should he pray? To whom? To Ils? What had any of Father Ils’s eyes done for Cauvin? To Vashanka? When the Torch himself was cursing that god’s name? The metal cooled. It slid easily to the base of the third finger of Cauvin’s right hand.