Sanctuary

by Lynn Abbey

  There was a limit to the guilt Cauvin could bear while standing still. With one parting word, “No,” Cauvin burst out of the root cellar. He ran to the horse, saddled and bridled and already tossing its head as Cauvin approached.

  Grabar had always kept a mule to do the stoneyard’s hauling; Cauvin had ridden both Flower and her predecessor, but never with a saddle or the determination to return to Sanctuary as fast as a horse could carry him. Cauvin had seen the Irrune run to their horses and vault cleanly onto the animals’ backs without missing a stride; and he’d watched lesser horsemen make sheep-shite fools of themselves trying to match the feat. Caution advised leading the horse to a wall and easing himself into the unfamiliar saddle from there. If Cauvin were cautious, Bec wouldn’t be missing, and he wouldn’t desperately need to find Leorin. He gauged the vault blindly and wound up with his belly on the saddle, his arms and legs flailing air.

  But Cauvin held on. He righted himself and instantly understood why the Irrune prized their high-backed saddles almost as much as their horses. Seizing the reins, he pounded the gelding’s flanks and was nearly left behind when it bolted—thanks to the damned gods—toward the city rather than away from it. With a bit of luck and a strong right arm, Cauvin got the animal pointed down a narrow path to one of the Hillside breaches.

  A galloping horse attracted attention. There were a handful of men studying Cauvin as the gelding picked its way through the breach rubble. Any one of them looked criminal enough to steal the horse out from under Cauvin. For a moment, he seriously considered just letting them have it, but a mounted man—even an awkwardly mounted man—commanded respect. The Hillers kept their greed to themselves.

  Cauvin rode until the street traffic was more than he could handle, then he dismounted. If he’d led the horse to the Unicorn, froggin’ sure it would get stolen moments after he dismounted, so he took it the stoneyard, instead. Mina came racing out of the kitchen, Batty Dol a half stride behind her, when she heard the gate scraping. Both women stopped short: Cauvin and a sweated-up horse weren’t what they’d been praying for. Cauvin didn’t have anything to say to his foster mother. He let go of the horse’s reins, trusting that Mina’s deep understanding of value would compel her to take care of it rather than follow him across Sanctuary.

  Cauvin took the Unicorn stairs two at a time, no matter that he heard Mimise calling, “She’s not up there.”

  Leorin’s door was latched. Cauvin knocked once, then put his fist to the planks while shouting her name. The walls shook and three other doors opened, but not Leorin’s.

  “She’s not there!”

  Stopped by the sound of a man’s stern voice, Cauvin turned and saw the Stick standing at the top of the stairway, an ax handle in his hand.

  “Where’s Leorin?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Don’t know that, either. Do know you’re leaving now and not coming back.” The Unicorn’s barkeep thumped the handle against his open palm. “You don’t want trouble, now—do you?”

  In the right hands, a length of hardwood, cut on the grain and baked in a kiln, was as deadly as the sharpest sword and, by everything Cauvin had heard, the Stick had the right hands.

  “I’ve got to find her.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re looking for her when she gets back … right after I tell her to clear out.”

  The Stick stood aside, motioning Cauvin toward the stairs. Reluctant, but without another choice, Cauvin eased past the barkeep. Downstairs, he would have struck up a conversation with Mimise—she might have some idea where Leorin went when she left the Unicorn. froggin’ sure, Cauvin didn’t; other than that first time, two years ago, when he’d spotted her on the Wideway, Cauvin hadn’t seen Leorin except at the Unicorn. With the Stick in a froggin’ foul mood, Mimise wasn’t about to follow Cauvin onto the street for small talk.

  The alleys near the Vulgar Unicorn were no place to wait for his betraying beloved. In the Maze, an unlucky man could die of boredom, and with Bec caught up by the Hand, Cauvin wasn’t feeling lucky—until Soldt’s name crossed his mind. He set off for the Inn of Six Ravens.

  The same guard as before sat on the bench inside the inn’s gate. He recognized Cauvin and let him in. Cauvin found the inner courtyard deserted and the door and windows of Galya’s quarters still battened down from the storm. He pounded on the door and called the laundress’s name until he heard the bar scraping in its brackets.

  “I need your help Galya,” Cauvin said as the door cracked open. “I’ve got to get word to Soldt—”

  Rather than invite Cauvin in, Galya came out into sunlit courtyard, pulling the door shut behind her.

  “The Torch was attacked last night at Red Walls right after the storm. My sheep-shite brother was with him. He’s been kidnapped by the Bloody Hand of Dyareela—”

  Words poured out of Cauvin’s mouth and would have kept coming if Galya hadn’t held up her hand.

  “Slow down, Cauvin. What happened last night?”

  “The Torch was attacked—Lord Molin Torchholder—” This time Cauvin paused, waiting for her to say that the Torch was dead, but Galya simply nodded. “He killed four of them—four of the Bloody Hand—before he collapsed. But four wasn’t enough, and the ones the Torch didn’t kill, they left him for dead. He’s not, not yet, not when I left him a little bit ago, but the Hand just left him lying there in the root cellar. They took my brother instead. He’s only a boy. I’ve got to find my brother, Galya. I’ve got to find Soldt because I—he—” Cauvin couldn’t finish. He didn’t want to admit the roles he or the assassin had played in the catastrophe.

  Galya led Cauvin to an overturned tub.

  “Soldt will understand,” Cauvin explained, watching the laundry door and refusing to sit down.

  “What will he understand?”

  “He’ll understand that Bec’s got to be rescued, even if it’s mostly my fault that the Hand’s got him. And the Torch, too—somebody’s got to protect the Torch, in case the Hand realizes they don’t have what they think they have.”

  “And what does the Bloody Hand of Dyareela think it has?”

  The voice asking that question was Soldt’s voice, and it came from behind. Cauvin spun around to see Soldt in plain clothes, no cloak, no weapons. He had a brindle dog beside him and, wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t made a sound getting to within striking distance of Cauvin’s back. The dog was massive across the chest. If it had stood on its hind legs, it could have straddled Cauvin’s shoulders with its forepaws. But with its huge, droopy eyes, droopy ears, and jowls that hung well below its jaw, it clearly wasn’t a fighting dog, even though it wore a wide, spiked collar around its neck. It wasn’t any kind of dog Cauvin had met before, and when it stretched forward—nostrils flared, jowls quivering—he retreated without a moment’s thought.

  “He’s just getting your scent,” Soldt explained, then added a sound, maybe a word from some other language, and the dog sat. “So, tell me, what happened in the ruins?”

  Cauvin went through his story again, including his failed attempt to confront Leorin at the Vulgar Unicorn. “The Stick said he didn’t know when she’d left. Shite for sure, she must’ve gone looking for the Hand last night while you and I talked. You and the Torch were right all along—”

  “Cold comfort in that. I thought—Lord Torchholder thought, too—that your loyalties might be tried, that’s all. I didn’t see her sending the Hand out after Lord Torchholder. What exactly did he say about the boy being his heir?”

  “Frog all—Bee’s not the Torch’s heir. That’s me … supposed to be me. Damn it.”

  “But the Hand would think otherwise?”

  Cauvin gave a halfhearted nod. “The Hand would’ve chosen Bec, ’cause of his age. It doesn’t matter who inherits the Torch’s gold. We’ve talked too much when we should be looking for Bec.”

  “No, it’s not just talk. As I understand it, when a sorcerer—and damn me for saying this, b
ut Lord Torchholder’s more sorcerer than pure priest—chooses an heir, it means he’s found someone who’ll carry his memories—a foothold in the future. If the Hand thinks they’ve got Lord Torchholder’s heir then, trouble doubled, they think they’ve got Lord Torchholder himself. They’ll treat him accordingly.”

  Cauvin shuddered. “Frog all,” he swore more sincerely than usual. “We’ve got to find Bec before they kill him.”

  “Killing Bec is the last thing the Hand wants to do,” Soldt said grimly.

  “We’ve—We’ve got to start looking!” Cauvin started toward the tunnel to the inn’s main courtyard and the city streets beyond it.

  “Not so fast. It’s not as if the Bloody Mother’s got a Hand-filled fane sitting outside the walls. Maybe your ladylove could tell us where they hide, but even if we could persuade her to help us, she’s gone missing.”

  “Copper Corner,” Cauvin said. “We could start there. It’s close by, and that’s where the Hand tried to grab Bec the first time—”

  Soldt interrupted his good idea, “What first time?”

  Cauvin explained and Soldt shook his head. “The next time something like that happens—assuming we live to see a next time—tell someone! It’s too late to find anything there now; last night’s storm will have washed away whatever scent was left. My thought is to take Vex out to the ruins, see what his nose can turn up around the bodies, and see to Lord Torchholder while I’m there. He’s got to come in now.”

  By the way the dog raised its head when Soldt said “Vex,” that was its name; and by the way Galya walked away after Soldt said “he’s got to come in,” Soldt’s plan to stash the old pud amid her laundry was going to meet strong opposition.

  “Shite for sure, he’s in already. Grabar wouldn’t stay out there, not once he’d convinced himself that Bec was gone, but he wouldn’t leave the Torch alone and, froggin’ sure, the old pud wouldn’t get anywhere arguing with Grabar.”

  “We’ll start at the stoneyard.”

  “Not me. I’m staying away from Mina, from my foster mother. She’s blaming me for what happened to Bec. Soon as Grabar convinces her that the old pud really is the gods-all-be-damned Torch, she’s going to blame me for what’s happened to him, too.”

  Galya emerged from the laundry with a huge, linen-covered basket slung over one arm. “Sounds to me like she’s got a right to blame all of you for what’s happened to her son. Men! When will you learn? Life is not a game! Bet here, throw the dice there, turn the cards and see what happens … That woman needs someone to stand beside her. Let’s go.”

  “She’s got Batty Dol sitting with her—That’s another froggin’ good reason not to climb up to Pyrtanis Street,” Cauvin protested, and looked to Soldt for support.

  The assassin shook his head. “If you think Lord Torchholder’s there,” he said and, with a shrug, disappeared into the laundry, emerging moments later in his black cloak.

  Soldt and Vex followed Galya out of the inn. Cauvin seriously considered returning to the Maze but followed the dog instead.

  The stoneyard gate was closed but not bolted. Cauvin shouldered it open. He saw the brown horse tied by the water trough and Flower, still harnessed, standing in front of the work shed before Batty Dol came out of the kitchen with her skinny arms wrapped around a too-heavy jug. Batty screamed, and all ten of Hecath’s hells erupted as the yard dog—that no one had remembered to chain up for the day—took exception to Vex and Soldt and maybe even Galya.

  Batty had dropped the jug while dodging the yard dog, breaking it beyond repair. The brown horse panicked. It broke free and charged through Mina’s herb garden and knocked the chicken coop off its stone piers. Not to be outdone by sheep-shite lunatics, women or horses, Flower—froggin’ sensible Flower—kicked until she was half out her harness and had tipped the cart over. And all the while, the two dogs went at each other. Cauvin’s clothes were torn and his arm was bloody before he got the yard dog chained. Vex, the assassin’s dog, trotted back to its master, wagging its ratty tail as though nothing had happened.

  The mule didn’t appear to have hurt herself, but she would if someone didn’t get her untangled quickly. Batty had vanished, along with Galya. Soldt went after the horse, which left Cauvin to deal with Flower, since neither Grabar nor Mina—not to mention the Torch—had made an appearance.

  He was grappling with leather straps and buckles when Soldt showed up to help. Together they righted the cart, which made unharnessing the mule simpler but which had been more than Cauvin could do by himself. Soldt noticed the Torch’s blackwood staff on the ground when they finished.

  “We’ve got a bigger problem than we thought,” he said, picking up the staff.

  Cauvin looked up at the sky. “How much bigger? Is it going to rain fish?”

  “Seriously, that’s an Irrune horse wearing an Irrune saddle and bridle.”

  “froggin’ shite. The Irrune and the Hand. I’d’ve sworn that’s the one direction we didn’t have to worry about. Twice froggin’ shite.”

  “We can’t conclude that the Hand’s got allies among the Irrune, just that at least one of those who went out to the ruins at dawn went there on a horse from the palace stable.”

  “Say what?” Grabar interrupted on his way through the gate. He was panting and carrying a steamy pot that smelled of meat and leeks and plenty of garlic—soup fit for an Imperial Lord. “You’re Soldt, aren’t you? What’s this about the Irrune and the palace?”

  Soldt repeated himself, adding, “Where’s Lord Torchholder?”

  Grabar hooked his thumb backward at the work shed. “In the loft. Damned bad idea, if you ask me—but no one did. I was for putting him inside—in my own bed, mind you. And the wife was for it, too, until him and her started jabbering away in Imperial. Next thing I know, it’s ‘rig a sling, husband, and haul him up where he wants to be.’ Damned near killed him getting him up here. He passed out once. I thought he was dead, then those wild eyes sprang open and he was telling me to pull harder. Then him and the wife send me down the Stairs for a bucket of green soup—nothing in our larder, nothing on the whole street to tempt an Imperial appetite. That’s one troublesome old man,” Grabar concluded, catching Cauvin’s eye with a hint of understanding. “No wonder he’s lived so long. The gods don’t want him telling them how to run paradise—or Hecath’s hells, either. You’re sure that’s Irrune gear?”

  “Irrune gear on an Irrune horse. Could’ve been stolen, but there’s a hundred men no more Irrune than you or me who walk into those stables every day. Half of them could walk out with a saddled horse, no questions asked.”

  “I know a guard, Gorge—you know him, too, Grabar—” When it came to the Hand, Cauvin trusted that he and Gorge would be on the same side.

  “Not yet,” Soldt cautioned. “Not until I’ve taken a look at the corpses. You didn’t move them, did you?”

  Grabar said, “No, just left ’em there. If we can’t trust the palace, then what about the priests of Ils … Savankala, too. Somebody’s got to be told, somebody with power to do something. They’ve got my boy, Soldt.” He closed his eyes and shrank a little, as if a great pain had just returned to haunt him. “The Hand’s got my boy. I’ve got to do something more than fetch soup.”

  The pain returned to haunt Cauvin as well. He put his arms around Grabar. “It’s not too late.”

  “How would you know?” a shrill, familiar voice demanded. “Look what you’ve done, Cauvin. Look what you’ve done to us. To Bec. To Lord Molin Torchholder, himself—”

  “Lord Torchholder would blame himself for what’s happened.” Soldt tried to defend Cauvin; Cauvin could have told him not to bother.

  Mina turned on Soldt, snarling, “And who are you to be knowing that? Another one of Cauvin’s whoreson friends?”

  Grabar freed himself from Cauvin’s comfort. Without exchanging a word, Cauvin knew Grabar was as guiltily relieved as he was not to be the target of Mina’s desperate temper.

  Soldt, though, took Min
a seriously. “I’m the man Lord Torchholder charged with protecting his heir, your foster son—so a word against Cauvin is very much a word against Lord Torchholder’s judgment—and I’m very confident, mistress, that you would not want to question Lord Torchholder’s judgment.”

  Soldt had Mina there.

  “Our boy?” Grabar whispered. “What can we do to save our boy? I can’t stay here in the yard, not when I don’t know what’s happening to him.”

  Cauvin could have said it wasn’t any easier, knowing what the Hand could do, but said, “I’m going to the palace. I’m going to find an Irrune who’ll listen. I’ll drag froggin’ Arizak over here to see the froggin’ Torch.”

  “Not yet,” Soldt insisted. “Lord Torchholder’s risked everything to keep them out of this. If you need to do something, Grabar, take Cauvin’s advice—go to this guard, Gorge. Take him out to the ruins. Vex and I won’t need much time out there.”

  Cauvin disagreed. “I’m going to talk to Gorge. He knows me well enough—”

  “I want you with me. You know the way it was. You’ll know if anything’s changed.”

  Never mind that Cauvin had left the ruins before Grabar, Soldt was a man who could give orders when he had to. Grabar straightened his work clothes and headed off for the guard post beside the palace gate. Galya took the soup bucket from Grabar and herded Mina into the kitchen, where, she said, there was solace tea steeping on the hearth. She returned a few moments later with a strip of bleached linen.

  “I imagine you’ll be wanting this. I got it off the boy’s bed,” she said, offering the cloth to Soldt. It vanished within his cloak. “Be careful,” the laundress advised before returning to the kitchen.

  “I guess I’m ready,” Cauvin said, when he and Soldt were left alone in the yard.

  “Not dressed in yesterday’s shirt. Clean yourself up. Any of those cuts deep enough to worry about?”

  Cauvin shook his head. “I’ve only got two froggin’ shirts and this is the froggin’ best between them. Galva gave it to me just yesterday.” He examined his cuffs and saw a few stains, from blood and grime, but not enough to demand washing. “It’s still clean,” he insisted.