by Lynn Abbey
“The Torch is still alive? Still alive in an abandoned estate built from red bricks?”
“Well—” Cauvin thought about the storm. It had packed a punch, but the winds had pretty much died down. Sanctuary got worse from afternoon squalls in summer. A few roof tiles might have blown loose, a few shutters unhinged themselves, nothing more. He’d have no trouble getting back to Pyrtanis Street, but outside the walls, in a crumbling ruin of red bricks? “He was alive when I left yesterday. Today’s the first day I didn’t go outside the walls. He’s had me running errands. That first night … it was the Torch who sent me to the Broken Mast after that box.”
“You were fetching for Lord froggin’ High-and-Mighty Torchholder and you didn’t tell me? Just some old pud! All Sanctuary’s buzzing about who killed the froggin’ Torch, who killed the sparker from Land’s End, and you sit right here on my bed keeping secrets?”
Cauvin couldn’t hold Leorin’s glower. He looked at his naked feet. “I didn’t tell anyone. I wanted to. I wanted to go to the palace and get the old pud out of my life, but that’s not what he wanted—and I’m here to tell you, that withered old pud that he is, there’s no winning an argument with Molin Torchholder. He says that his enemies think they killed him there at the end of Pyrtanis Street and that there’s no froggin’ point to letting enemies know when they’re wrong. I didn’t even tell Grabar. He sends me out every morning with the mule, thinking I’m breaking my back smashing bricks and I’m running ragged for Lord Molin Torchholder! You know how Mina would be if she thought she could get her hands on an Imperial lord.” He almost mentioned how Bec had gotten the secret out of him and was calling the Torch “Grandfather” as he wrote down the old pud’s memorial—but he already felt sheep-shite foolish enough.
“So, who does the froggin’ Torch think murdered him?”
Cauvin continued to stare at his toes. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you—I didn’t want to get you frightened, but—according to him—it was the Hand, a red-handed Servant of the Bloody Mother. If he’s right, they’re back in Sanctuary … and all the more reason for us to get out, Leorin. We got out alive; there’s no way we could be lucky a second time.”
He reached out to take Leorin in his arms, but she eluded him. She threw off the blanket, stood up, and said, “Please, Cauvin, have mercy.” Her tone was anything but merciful. “The Hand returned to Sanctuary? Do you think they’re sheep-shite fools? Molin Torchholder broke the Hand into a thousand pieces, then burnt the pieces, and scattered the ashes to the winds. Shite for sure there’s a Mother’s priest somewhere who’d love nothing better than to lay the bastard’s beating heart on the Mother’s altar, if only he’d set foot outside Sanctuary. There’s nothing left of the Hand inside Sanctuary except bad memories and nightmares.”
“They nearly got Bec,” Cauvin informed her, lifting his head. “The boy followed me”—that was a lie, but it would stand—“and wound himself tight with the old pud and decided to do him a froggin’ favor—after I told not to. The froggin’ sprout got jumped coming home. Froggin’ sure it was the grace of the damn gods I got there in time. I dreamt the boy was in trouble—”
Leorin scowled. She said, “You’ve always said you don’t dream,” as though this were the most potent lie Cauvin had ever told.
“I’ve been dreaming a lot since the Torch didn’t die—”
“You should have told me.”
“It’s just dreams, not nightmares or terrors. The important thing is, I dreamt Bec needed rescuing, and I went out after him. I wound up fighting the Hand in an old courtyard off Copper Corner.”
“How do you know it was the Hand?”
“The bastard getting ready to twist Bec’s head around wore red silk over his face.”
“Sweet Mother, Cauvin—that doesn’t prove anything. Why did you wear the red silk in the first place? It was as much to frighten people as to hide your faces. So, what better way to wait in an alley or courtyard than with some red silk wound over your face? Froggin’ gods—you fell for it quick enough.”
“All right—it was more than the silk, it was the way he fought, the way he had his hands around the boy’s head, all set to snap his neck. I know what the Hand taught me, Leorin. I know it when I see it. If that bastard wasn’t consecrated Hand, then he was froggin’ taught by them.”
“Maybe not everybody who walked out of the palace decided to live like a sheep-shite dog smashing stone for stewed meat twice a week.”
“I know every one the Torch set aside, every orphan who walked out of the palace the day after … everybody who’s left.” Cauvin was on his feet. His right hand had become a fist. He didn’t remember either act.
“You didn’t see me walk out, did you, Cauvin? The froggin’ Torch never did anything for me.”
Leorin’s words were fists in Cauvin’s gut. It wasn’t merely that she was right; Leorin usually was. But he’d never considered that Leorin might not be the only orphan who’d survived the Hand’s collapse without the Torch’s help.
“We’ve got to leave Sanctuary,” Cauvin said. His fist fell open to his side. “Anyone who doesn’t want to meet the Hand again has to leave—” Grabar and Mina, Swift, Batty Dol, and everyone else on Pyrtanis Street marched past his mind’s eye. Even rich Lord Mioklas on the Processional and Gorge of the city guard, who wasn’t a bad sort. And Bec. Mostly Bec. “They’ve got to be warned. I’ve got to tell them!”
“You haven’t told anyone what happened? The brat hasn’t?”
Cauvin shook his head. “He came up with his own lies.”
“But you’ve told Grabar and Mina about the Torch?”
Another headshake. “He doesn’t want anyone to know. The old pud’s clever. He’d have my liver if he knew I was telling you.”
“Me, in particular?”
“No, any—” Cauvin’s breath caught on that he.
“What did you tell him about me?” Leorin demanded. “You’re keeping secrets. Gods all damn you, if you’re keeping secrets!”
Secrets! Cauvin was drowning in them, froggin’ secrets and lies. He wanted to tell her everything, just to be free again—“When I came here to the Unicorn, what—two nights ago, three?” Time blurred for Cauvin with Leorin glaring at him. “It was because the Torch sent me to meet someone.” The colder Leorin’s eyes got, the more Cauvin realized there were worse fates than drowning in secrets. “I didn’t see him, but he saw me … and you.”
“And wondered why I was here, not out at Land’s End?”
Suddenly there was a branch within a drowning man’s grasp. Seize it and he’d be safe, with another lie, another secret hanging over him. “That, and other things, too. I told him that we’d known each other a long time—before the pits and in them. You know, he didn’t recognize me. The froggin’ pud didn’t remember locking me in a room after the Irrune took the palace, but he swore he’d have remembered you … if he’d seen you.”
“So?”
“So, you’re right—the Torch didn’t help you get free of the Hand. So he thinks—He thinks you must have had the Hand’s help.”
“I told you!” she snapped. “The Whip dragged me along until I got the drop on him. One slit clean across his froggin’ belly. His guts fell out, and I was alone … days away from Sanctuary.”
“That’s what I said, but he didn’t believe me. The Torch believes you left with the Hand and came back the same way.”
“Sweet froggin’ Mother, Cauvin! You sound as though you believe it, too.”
“Where do you go when you’re not here?”
Leorin seized the water jug with both hands. “So that’s the froggin’ bone!” She raised the jug shoulder high. Water sloshed over her hair and gown. “It’s not the flea-shite Torch and it’s not the Hand—it’s you! Have you forgotten that the froggin’ Stick doesn’t pay us wages? I buy every froggin’ mug I serve, and the froggin’ Stick charges rent for this flea-shite room on top. If it’s been a slow week—and between the damn froggin�
�� Dragon and a froggin’ funeral for a corpse that wasn’t the frog-all Torch, this has been one froggin’ slow week—and I need the rent, or padpols for the Sisters of Eshi or, Sweet Mother forbid, I’ve torn a hole in my shoes, the froggin’ gods know I can’t turn to you. ‘Til this week, you’ve been poorer than dirt, but don’t hear me complaining, do you? I do what I have to do and get what I need from my regulars. It’s what I know how to do, Cauvin. I don’t froggin’ enjoy it, but I do it because I’ve eaten dirt, and it doesn’t froggin’ fill your stomach.”
Ashamed, Cauvin said, “I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant—I froggin’ meant that you were so close to them. You can think like them, and sometimes you’re as froggin’ cold. It’s hard not to wonder, that’s all. The Torch had me take his doubts to a S’danzo—”
Leorin’s arms trembled. It seemed she would heave the jug, but she set it down hard on the dressing table instead. “There’s a froggin’ poor joke. I’d sooner be Hand than S’danzo. Why don’t you jump her broom?”
“Because, frog all, you’re the woman I love, Leorin. I want to get us out before the darkness closes in over both our heads. You couldn’t see yourself during the storm—the look in your eyes, the way you turn cold as death. I don’t want to lose you to the Hand! They’re back, Leorin. What do you think they’ll do if they find out you slit the froggin’ Whip?”
In silence, Leorin wrapped her arms around herself so tight it seemed she’d break. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. Cauvin caught her just as she began to topple.
“I ran once,” she whispered, squeezing his ribs, now, rather than her own. “And no matter how far I went, the dreams were already there, so I came back.” Leorin looked up at Cauvin, her amber eyes shining in the lamplight. “It was better here.”
“Because I hold you when you dream. Think how much better it will be when we’re in Ranke.”
“Ilsig.”
“But?”
“I’ll go wherever you go, Cauvin. Give me a day to get ready, to sell what I can; and one other thing: We’ve got to be married before we leave. No priests, no processions or feasts—just you and me. Tomorrow, at sunset, we’ll make our vows, just to each other. We’ll have one night, together and alone, together in Sanctuary. The day after tomorrow, lead me onto whatever ship, bound for whatever port.”
“We don’t have to wait until tomorrow,” Cauvin whispered in Leorin’s ear. Anger could become lust faster than any mage could cast a spell.
“I want wine, Cauvin—good wine from Caronne, perfumed oil for the lamp … and elsewhere.” With a kiss-moistened fingertip, she drew a swirling shapes down Cauvin’s chest that took his breath away. “I’ll have it all here before sunset tomorrow—” Leorin paused, then grinned. “Today! Froggin’ sure, it’s hours after midnight.”
Cauvin let go slowly. He’d been caught in the undertow once already tonight; twice was almost more than a man could endure without getting drunk on sour wine.
“You find the ship,” Leorin purred. “I’ll get the wine and the oil.”
Cauvin stood beneath a streaming gargoyle on Stink Street. The storm had scoured the roofs. He let the water splash against his face without fear and marveled that he’d walked away from Leorin again. Overhead there were stars shining through high, shredded clouds. The Irrune torches were all soaked and useless, but with every puddle turned into a mirror by the starlight, Cauvin could see his way to the Processional.
He hadn’t planned to go back to the stoneyard, but short of the ruins, there wasn’t anywhere else to go. Cauvin turned left on the Processional, toward the palace, and had the avenue to himself—or he’d thought he did. He’d passed Mioklas’s darkened mansion before he realized he wasn’t hearing the echo of his own footsteps following him.
Cauvin’s shadow raised a lantern, revealing a face—Soldt’s face. They met in the middle of the avenue.
“You’ve been following me?”
“I was at the Vulgar Unicorn waiting for you when you came downstairs. I thought we’d share a pitcher of mulled wine, but I couldn’t catch your eye.”
This was a different Soldt. If Cauvin had joined him at the Unicorn, there wouldn’t have been much wine left in his pitcher. The assassin was short of drunk, but not by much. Cauvin asked himself: Why would the Torch’s man drink himself tipsy?
“He’s dead.” Cauvin answered his own question. “The Torch is dead.”
Soldt shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, though my knowledge stops with the storm. First thing this morning I told him there was a gale-storm coming. I’d found a quiet room inside the walls—”
Cauvin guessed that he knew where.
—“But there’s no moving Lord Torchholder when his mind’s set. I could have forced him, one way or another; no doubt, that would have killed him sure as the gale. I hauled extra blankets for his bed and oilcloths to nail over the cellar way. I’d have stayed with him, damn him, but he’d have none of me. He was worried about you and what sort of trouble you’d gotten yourself into. Said I needed to keep an eye on you. And your imp of a brother.”
“Bec? What’s happened to my brother?”
“He’s home in the stoneyard, asleep in his bed—or plaguing his parents. The little demon showed up while I was collecting supplies …” Soldt laughed—a small heave at the shoulders, marking unshared humor. “At first, I was glad to see him. If anyone could move Lord Torchholder, I thought he might be the one. There’s not many beautiful women who can wheedle half so well as that boy. But Lord Torchholder was adamant, so the imp started in on me! If Lord Torchholder wouldn’t leave, then we should stay with him … telling ghost stories, no doubt. Lord Torchholder wouldn’t hear of that. He gave the boy a good scolding for insolence and said to take him home. I thought we were done, but the imp scampered. He’s got the makings of a spy in him. By the time I dug out his bolt-hole, I thought we’d be caught in the storm. The weather held—Lord Torchholder’s a storm priest. I got Bec to the stoneyard before they closed the gate.” Another shoulder heave. “You’re not truly collecting eggs from talking chickens?”
Cauvin chuckled. “Who knows? They play dumb when I’m around. Too bad Bec couldn’t persuade the Torch to move. He’s going to die alone out there—”
“That’s what he wants. He’s down to pride and fear. I tried to clean that wound—It’s hopeless. His leg’s turned black. Any other man and the flesh would have gone putrid, but Lord Torchholder’s a priest. One morning, soon, he’ll be gone but for his bones; maybe them, too. He’s a believer again, saying his prayers, making the signs. Lord Torchholder knows Vashanka’s waiting for him. I think that frightens him more than death itself. Can’t say as I disagree. If I can’t die quick, then let me die alone. Pride’s stronger than fear.”
The wind behind the gale blew cold. Cauvin shuddered. He thought about the thousandth eye of Father Ils, the eye that saw the deeds of a lifetime and weighed the soul accordingly. He’d survived the Hand by doing what he’d been told. If that didn’t appease Father Ils when it came time, then Cauvin knew exactly how the Torch felt. Cauvin shuddered again—he couldn’t change the past, but, maybe the future … ?
“Did you get a message from me? I went to see that laundress at the Inn of Six Ravens …”
“I can see that,” Soldt agreed, and added, without directly answering Cauvin’s question, “It’s no secret that he and Lord Torchholder walk in different circles, but I’ll take a look at who Lord Mioklas has been talking to lately. I’m not known through the palace, lad. The good there is, no one recognizes me; the bad is that I’ve got few connections there other than Lord Torchholder. None at all near Naimun, and that—I’ll wager—is where I’d need to look.”
With his conscience acting up, Cauvin felt obligated to add, “The Hand killed Mioklas’s father—peeled him right here, in front of his own home.”
“Meaning, he wouldn’t knowingly plot Lord Torchholder’s murder with the
Hand?”
“Something like that. If he knew—If the right person proved it to him, he’d be the first looking for revenge.”
“Nothing better than a rich man’s vengeance!” Soldt laughed. “The poor man knows the gods of fortune aren’t smiling on him, but a rich man takes it personally.”
Rich men took sea gales personally, too, sending their servants out to check for damage. At Mioklas’s mansion, the keeper barked the orders while his master made a noble silhouette in front of the high door.
“Time to move on,” Soldt suggested.
Cauvin agreed. The men walked together toward the palace, which was out of the way for a man returning to the Inn of Six Ravens. Cauvin braced himself for questions and when they hadn’t been asked by the time they turned eastward on Governor’s Walk, he asked them himself.
“Don’t you want to know what happened when I went to visit Elemi? She knew my name, but she wasn’t glad to see me or the Torch’s froggin’ box. It was full of cards, S’danzo cards.”
“Women,” Soldt muttered. “I’d be more interested in knowing why you suddenly felt the need to visit Lord Mioklas on the Processional to collect the stoneyard’s debts.”
“That’s what I do. I smash stone, I build walls, and I make sure we get paid for the work we do. Last spring, Mioklas had us—me—build a wall in his perfume garden. About time he paid for it.”
“With everything else that’s happening, I wouldn’t think you’d be worrying about walls or gardens or unpaid debts. Unless you needed money. Let’s see—new cloak, new shirt—new to you anyway. Got your hair cut—”
“I’m leaving Sanctuary!” Cauvin waited for Soldt’s reaction, which was, predictably, silence. “Frog all,” he exploded. “I’m going to buy ship passage for Leorin and me. I’ve been thinking about it almost since I found the Torch, but I made up my mind today. That S’danzo, she said I was the only light in Leorin’s darkness. If I can get us away from Sanctuary, we’ll be free. Maybe Ranke, maybe the kingdom. We’ll ride that froggin’ galley out to Inception, then buy onto any ship that promises to take us far, far from the Hand.”
