by Lynn Abbey
“I’m not a knife fighter,” he admitted, releasing the hilt. “I fight with my fists. I’m good with my fists.”
“If you say so. Come at me with your fists.”
Never mind that pounding bruises into Soldt’s face had been foremost in Cauvin’s sheep-shite mind a moment earlier, he couldn’t simply lay into a man, any man. “It wouldn’t be right,” he explained. “The Torch—I don’t know what he told you, but I was in the palace when he led the Irrune against it. The Bloody Hand, they taught me; I was one of their warriors. If I fight you, I’ll hurt you. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Don’t insult me, Cauvin. If the Bloody Hand taught you to fight with your fists, then you were a thug, Cauvin, not a warrior, not even Dyareela’s. You went out at night, marching behind a red-handed priest, and when he told you to hurt someone, you did—exactly the way you’d been taught. You’d kill, if that’s what you’d been told to do, and not just in Sanctuary’s dark streets. You’d killed in the pits, too—when they told you to make an example of someone. You weren’t even a thug, just a big dog, trained to obey its masters’ commands.”
Cauvin swallowed hard. The Torch’s spy had described the essence of his life in the Hand’s fist, except for one important detail. “Not the pits. I looked out for the little ones. Protected—”
Soldt cut him off with a sneer. “Better be damned for killer than a liar, Cauvin. If the Hand taught you anything, it was because they trusted you wherever, whenever, and against whomever they chose. What did you do to earn their trust?”
Sweat seeped on Cauvin’s forehead. He wiped it off on his sleeve, then ran his hand across the back of his neck, slipping the knot and drawing the bronze slug into his palm. Those memories were buried; he wouldn’t dig them up. “Not the pits,” he repeated.
Soldt wouldn’t back down. “How many did you kill?” he taunted. “How many others exactly like yourself before the Hand taught you?”
“None!” Cauvin shouted. He’d never beaten another orphan to death—except … except … But those times didn’t froggin’ count. Those froggin’ times had been froggin’ kill or be killed. He’d done what he’d had to do to stay alive, and if the Hand had watched—If the Hand had liked what it froggin’ saw—
“Don’t lie to me, Cauvin. Were they bigger than you? Older? Or did you take the easy way and brain the little ones while they slept?”
For his answer to that accusation, Cauvin vaulted the wall, using his unweighted hand for balance. He closed fast, getting inside Soldt’s reach before the spy knew what was coming. He chose his target—the point under the man’s chin where his tongue was rooted. A solid blow there could kill a big man … a bigger orphan.
After ten years of smashing stone and regular meals, Cauvin figured he was a bit heavier, a shade slower, and a froggin’ lot stronger than he’d been in the pits. When he surged in close and unwound a punch at Soldt’s jaw, he expected the man to froggin’ drop like a poleaxed pig and—maybe—not get up again. He figured, too, that he could live with his guilt. Froggin’ sure, he’d had lots of practice.
Cauvin missed. Everything had gone the way he’d expected it to, but suddenly there was his froggin’ fist clean to the right of Soldt’s smirking face. He pulled his fist back and unloaded it a second time in less than a heartbeat. No way could Cauvin miss a second time but, gods all be froggin’ damned, Soldt twitched left and Cauvin’s punch didn’t so much as ruffle the man’s sheep-shite hair.
Shame, embarrassment, frustration—each was more than Cauvin could froggin’ bear. He attacked without thought or plan and found himself facedown in the mud before he’d known he was falling.
“That was your best?”
froggin’ sure, it had been, but Cauvin tried again. If there’d been a froggin’ tree to pin Soldt against, Cauvin knew he could have bloodied the man’s face for fair, or if the stone wall had been more than waist high in the corners … If, if, and froggin’ more ifs. There wasn’t a froggin’ tree, the wall was only waist high, and Soldt dodged each of Cauvin’s punches, all the while tapping Cauvin on his chest and shoulders, even his sheep-shite chin. Taunting taps that said if I’d wanted, I could hurt you here and here and HERE.
Rage made Cauvin reckless, careless. After he’d landed in the muddy grass a third time, he growled and leapt at Soldt like a froggin’ mad dog. He saw the moves that dropped him—sweeping arms and countersweeping legs—but had no defense against them. The way the Hand taught fighting—The puds he’d fought against, there’d never been much need for froggin’ defense.
He got up, eyeing Soldt’s legs. Maybe he could kick out the man’s froggin’ knee …
Or not. It froggin’ sure seemed that as soon as Cauvin was upright and thinking about kicking, he was on his back again, hurting this time because he’d landed wrong. His knee buckled when he tested it, but he managed to stand with most of his weight on the other leg. Cauvin had the strength and wind for another go, what he lacked—suddenly, unexpectedly—was the will.
“I’m beat,” he conceded. “Compared to you, I’m no froggin’ fighter.”
“Compared to me, I wouldn’t expect you to be. You like to fight, Cauvin; I like to win. Center yourself. Stand so your weight can go down either leg in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. You’ll find it easier to keep your balance.”
Cauvin had had enough of playing Soldt’s sheep-shite fool. He said, “Swallow your froggin’ suggestions and froggin’ choke on them. It’s over, I’m beat,” adding a suggestion that Soldt lie with his mother and a few yard animals.
Soldt responded with a sigh. “That won’t work, Cauvin. You can’t goad me the way I’ve been goading you all day. Lord Torchholder’s chosen you and chosen me to ready you.”
Captain Sinjon had spoken similar words three nights past. Cauvin hadn’t liked hearing them in the krrf-scented Broken Mast and liked them no better in the cold, wet grass. “Hear me on this: The froggin’ Torch didn’t choose anything. He was getting the snot beat out when I found him in the froggin’ old Temple of Ils. If there was any choosing done, it was me choosing to save his sheep-shite life … and, froggin’ sure, I wish I hadn’t.”
The black cloak rippled with another shrug. “You know, he might agree with you. Lord Torchholder didn’t say that he’d chosen you, only that you had been chosen. He blames you on the gods, on Sanctuary itself, claiming vengeance against him. But, you and I, we’re not priests, are we? We don’t believe in gods or cities with a conscience. We’re just men doing our jobs.
“Listen, Cauvin—Whatever you did while you were in the palace, I don’t know anything about it and I don’t want to. What I just said—I was making it up, one word to the next, by watching the guilt cross your face. You got out alive; that’s what matters. All that matters. Don’t let memories get you killed.”
The sudden change in Soldt’s tone rattled Cauvin. He wracked his imagination for understanding and cursed himself for finding none. “How … ?” he began, but he couldn’t ask all his questions at once. He chose one, not the hottest in his mind. “Were you spying on me when I found the Torch—Lord Torchholder—in the temple?”
Soldt shook his head. “Not even in Sanctuary. The Irrune women were wrapping his body by the time I got to the palace. At the start, I wasn’t looking for Lord Torchholder. I was looking for his murderers and for vengeance. First place I looked was the Broken Mast, not that I thought I’d find a murderer there, but Sinjon keeps his eyes open—” Soldt smiled briefly. “You’d met Sinjon by then; he told me about your visit. That’s when I knew I wasn’t looking for vengeance but for Lord Torchholder alive but not well … and for you. For all I knew, you were the one who’d attacked him. Sinjon had you marked as a journeyman laborer who’d just happened by. I started at the crossing where the guards found the bodies. You know how close that is to your stoneyard. Once I’d found you, I followed you … You truly have no notion when you’re being watched, Cauvin—that’s got to be corrected. Day before yes
terday, you led me to the old estate. I waited until you’d left.”
Soldt clapped unseen dust and dirt from his gloves.
“Enough of that. What do you say? Can you balance on both feet, or is your knee shot? We don’t have time, Cauvin. Lord Torchholder is dying—He’s been saying that for years, but this time the shadow’s fallen. You’ll inherit his enemies—”
“I’m not the Torch’s froggin’ heir—” Cauvin complained until he recalled Bec risking death in a Copper Corner alley. It didn’t matter what he thought; if the Torch’s enemies thought he was their man, then everyone he knew—Bec, Grabar, Mina … Leorin!—was in danger.
“Sweet Shipri,” Cauvin whispered as the realization sank through his mind. He stared into Soldt’s eyes. He meant to ask: Can you teach me to fight well enough to protect my brother? but the honest question, “Can I trust you?” slipped out instead.
“That’s a question you must answer for yourself, Cauvin. I can tell you that Lord Torchholder trusts me. He wants me to prepare you for the battles he won’t be here to fight, and I will, but I’ll give you choices, if I can, choices he might not. Are you ready for a lesson?”
Cauvin eyed the ground where he’d landed too many times already. “Who are you? What are you?”
“A bit of a stranger, not born here or any other nation, for that matter.”
“Froggin’ riddles.”
“No—I was found newborn on a ship two days out of Caronne. I’d seen the world before I turned ten. Your weight’s on your right foot. Stand between your legs, or you’ll wind up on the ground again.”
It didn’t matter where or how Cauvin stood, he wound up in the mud. But a heartbeat before his fifth fall, he’d felt a moment of perfect balance. Somewhere around the twelfth attempt to stay on his feet, Cauvin moved with the other man, resisting, retreating, and returning like grass in the wind until he made the sheep-shite mistake of thinking he knew what he was doing.
Cauvin skidded across the froggin’ grass an instant later.
Soldt extended a hand. “I’d go slower, if we had the time, but he’s dying, hour by hour.”
They clasped wrists. Cauvin groaned as Soldt jerked him upright. Shite for sure, he’d be aching all over come tomorrow morning.
“The Torch—he’s a froggin’ old man, right?”
“Eighty, at least.”
“Then he couldn’t have been much of a fighter before he got that wound.”
Soldt shrugged. “He killed whoever attacked him.”
“Frog all. I rescued him, remember? The Torch was game, but that made no difference to the Hiller pounding him.”
“There were two bodies in the crossing. No question one was a Land’s End sparker. But who was the other, the one they burnt, and who killed him? The sparker? He went down running with a knife in his back.”
Cauvin hadn’t known that, hadn’t thought much about the second corpse, except he knew it couldn’t have been the Torch. “Must’ve been another old pud, if the Torch managed to kill him and get mistaken for him. Wouldn’t take a lot, really, to kill an old pud.”
“Maybe not, but the corpse they burnt had been beaten to death. Its leg was broke and its nose had been hammered so far into its skull that its brains had leaked onto what was left of its chin. That’s a lot of work for an old pud, as you say. My guess is that Lord Torchholder transformed whoever attacked him.”
“Transformed? Froggin’ shite. The old pud could do that?”
“The old pud’s Lord Molin Torchholder, Archpriest and Architect of Vashanka. With the right prayer, he could do anything his god could do.”
Cauvin didn’t have time to think about that as Soldt came after him again, without warning.
They balanced, forearm to forearm. Someone sitting on the wall—if there’d been someone sitting on the wall—would have seen two men standing still, scarcely touching. But inside his skin, Cauvin felt constantly changing pressure and adapted to it. Moments passed. Cauvin kept his balance through several breaths and might have kept it longer, except he got bold and tried to do to Soldt what Soldt was doing to him. Staggering toward the wall, Cauvin imagined the pain he’d feel when he landed and, desperate to avoid it, managed to get his feet under him again before he fell.
“Better! Much better. You’re quick.”
Cauvin disagreed with a snort. He swiped sweat off his forehead. “The Torch—why pray for Vashanka to transform a froggin’ corpse? Why not pray for a bolt of lightning before he had a hole in his hip?”
“Ask him, if you dare. Something went wrong, he won’t say more than that. You’re what’s left: his heir. He says Vashanka and all the other gods are laughing. Gods.” Soldt spat the word.
Cauvin remembered soaring above Sanctuary with a god’s laughter ringing in his ears.
No froggin’ surprise—he wasn’t paying attention when Soldt closed against him. He never saw the move that flipped him ass over heels into the froggin’ grass. But that was the last time Soldt caught him unprepared, and while Cauvin couldn’t flatten the spy, he did knock him to his knees … once. After that, Soldt changed the exercise. He wanted to tie a strip of cloth over Cauvin’s eyes.
There wasn’t enough trust within the low, stone walls for Cauvin to agree to that Bloody Hand trick. He expected trouble when he said no. Soldt surprised him.
“We’ve done enough for one day, then, and whoever was watching, lost interest or nerve—or is too smart to leave cover. It’s past time to rescue Lord Torchholder from your young brother.”
“The S’danzo?” Cauvin gestured toward the box and the town, which were both in the same direction.
“Not today. You stink of swill and sweat, Cauvin—no way to visit a lady, even if she is S’danzo. Have you got enough money to get those boots dipped in sweet oil? Do you own a shirt that isn’t frayed, or breeches that aren’t patched on their patches?”
“My clothes are good enough for an honest man,” Cauvin snarled. “They were froggin’ clean when I left the stoneyard this morning. I’ll rinse ’em off in the trough and they’ll be clean again tomorrow.”
“You need better than that. There’s a laundress at the Inn of Six Ravens—you know the place?”
Cauvin swallowed and nodded. He and Grabar had once delivered stone there, but other men had done the wall-building. It was that kind of inn, maybe the only Sanctuary inn where a husband needn’t worry about his wife’s virtue if she stayed there alone.
“Her name’s Galya—she’ll stitch you up a white-linen shirt for a soldat—maybe less, if she likes your smile.”
Cauvin grimaced.
“You must have a spare soldat? I paid the blacksmith.”
“Not to spare. What am I going to do with a froggin’ white-linen shirt?”
“Tuck it into a pair of woolen breeches.”
Soldt did a one-handed vault over the wall. In the whirl of cloak and cloth Cauvin caught sight of a dark pole hung straight along Soldt’s spine and what looked to be a froggin’ sword hilt hanging out the bottom end.
Come winter, when the nights were long and even Mina’s kitchen was too cold for working, Grabar would lead the whole household to the Lucky Well. Neighbors who didn’t speak the rest of the year would crowd the common room until it was toasty warm. While the innkeeper’s idiot son stirred a simmering kettle of watered wine—a dip for a padpol—Bilibot and Eprazian took turns telling tales. A night didn’t go by without a tale about a man who wore his sword upside down along his spine. Not quite a villain, but never a hero, such a man showed up to do what no one else could do. Sometimes he carried a message across enemy lines, or rescued a prince and averted a war. More often, though, he stepped out of the shadows, sword in hand, for a fight to the death that wasn’t his. If he was on the hero’s side, he was called a duelist. When he was paid by the villain, Bilibot and Eprazian called him assassin.
It made sense—perfect sense—that the Torch was on close terms with a duelist … an assassin. But for Cauvin … ? Could a sheep-
shite stone-smasher have been more foolish than to confront such a man with a lump of bronze in his fist? Cauvin wanted to run and hide for a month—it would be that long before his cheeks ceased burning; but he retrieved the wooden box instead and followed Soldt wherever he led.
Chapter Thirteen
“Cauvin, do you know what Inception Island used to be called?” Bec asked from atop Flower’s back.
They were headed back to the stoneyard well ahead of the sunset.
Cauvin would have preferred to linger at the ruins. Well, not exactly linger. froggin’ sure, there hadn’t been a reason to linger. The Torch and his assassin had made it clear that they wanted to be alone. No matter what Cauvin or Bec suggested, the Torch froggin’ twisted it into a reason for them to leave the ruins. He even let himself be stowed in the cellar again, just so Cauvin could get Bec home “before the boy’s mother begins worrying about him.” Frog all, the Torch didn’t worry about anyone except his sheep-shite self.
Cauvin found it impossible to ignore the old pud’s direct orders, but he would have dearly loved to creep up close to the two men and eavesdrop on their conversation which, shite for sure, be all about him. He could sneak back to the ruins after supper. Cauvin knew where there were gaps in the city walls, and he wasn’t afraid to go outside them after dark—though he rarely did. But they knew languages he didn’t froggin’ recognize, much less understand, and were canny enough to use them whether they were alone or not.
Besides, he was aching from more froggin’ bruises than he cared to count and—despite his best efforts with sand and water—his swill-doused boot had ripened to a fine stench. There’d be no sneaking up on anyone until he soaked the leather in sweet oil.
So he’d loaded the wooden box and his Ilbarsi knife into the back of the otherwise empty cart, plopped Bec on Flower’s back—the boy was a gentle rider and light enough that the mule didn’t mind carrying him when the cart was empty. They’d taken the roundabout, easy route home along the Eastern Ridge Road.
