"Bad rain, eh, Duran?"
The woman's voice made Duran wince and turn: it was his neighbor, the seamstress Zeldezia.
"Aye," he said. "Nearly drowned coming back from the docks."
Zeldezia leaned against her doorjamb, shoving a lock of her brown hair back over one shoulder. She was near Duran in age—not ill-favored, but one seldom saw her smile. "We been having more rain than usual, don't you think? Them as says it's witchery—"
"Aye, that we have. Perhaps it will end soon." Duran put on a stubbornly pleasant smile, nodded to her, and turned away. A conversation with Zeldezia was the last thing he wanted on a gloomy afternoon. Damned woman. Enough to curdle a man's appetite.
He stepped over the stream of water flowing down the gutter and made for the "Cat's" doorway. One benefit of the rain, even Old Town smelled better for it, washed and clean, refuse swept away in the gutters—redistributed down the block, generally. But not near the "Cat." Tutadar, the innkeeper, kept his frontage and his alley clean, holding it bad business to have his clients stepping over garbage.
He kept the inside the same—scrubbed. The inn was more crowded than usual for this time of afternoon; doubtless the rain had kept folk indoors who would have otherwise been elsewhere. Duran paused at the doorway steps, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside.
"Greetings, Sor Duran."
He glanced down, just inside the doorway, at the man who had addressed him. The fellow sat on the floor, a walking stick leaning on the wall of the tavern behind him. He was white-haired, clad in clothes patched, but quite clean. The dark eyes that looked up at Duran were full of intelligence and wit.
"Greetings, Old Man," Duran said. "Do we have another story from you tonight?"
The old man shrugged. "Perhaps. If I feel in the mood."
Duran smiled. Old Man was always in the mood. The locals in the tavern had heard all his stories time and again, but no one seemed to grow tired of them. For a few coppers, the old fellow would spin tales that kept his audience enthralled, despite their familiarity with the stories. But Old Man truly shone when the common room was full of travelers who had not heard his tales before. It was then that Duran could swear he was hearing new stories, not those he had listened to for years.
Old Man was Sabirn. But Tutadar had even allowed him inside the inn. Despite a few nervous glances from newcomers, Old Man had become such a fixture of the neighborhood that locals hardly took account of his race.
"So." Duran dug in his belt pouch and came up with a -copper . . . one of the three that Mother Garan had paid him for the willow tea. He placed the coin in Old Man's upheld hand. "For a story, then . . . if you're in the mood this evening."
Old Man's smile was most engaging. "For you, Sor Duran," he said. "I'll tell it for you."
Duran nodded and walked on into the common room—quiet at this hour, due to grow noisier after evening traffic had had a few cups. He saw a few of the tables occupied: Bontido, the potter, for one, who lived on the other side of the seamstress; Ithar, whose smithy neighbored the inn; a few rain-soaked, better-dressed passers-through from the harbor warming themselves . . .
"Your usual, Duran?" the innkeeper called out from across the room.
"Aye." Duran sat down at his accustomed table, shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders, and stretched out his feet. It was then that he got a look at the two well-dressed men who sat at a table a few paces away from his.
Ladirno and Wellhyrn! What, by all the gods, were those two doing in "The Swimming Cat"? Duran considered ignoring the two, thought, actually, of changing his table or coming back later, but that was a coward's choice, not to mention it would draw attention from his neighbors. The pair turned their heads to stare at him: he smiled, tight-lipped, nodded a perfunctory courtesy, intended thereafter to pay his attention elsewhere, deliberately.
But: "Ah, Duran." It was Ladirno who spoke, the older of the two. With silk-lined cloaks, softly woven tunics above supple hose and neatly shod feet, the two were totally out of place among the local trade. "We've heard this is where you spend your time."
Duran nodded again, jaw set.
Ladirno's companion lifted an elegant eyebrow—Wellhyrn, the younger, the more handsome of the pair (and he knew it, Duran thought). His clothes were that much richer, gods, velvet and silk in the somber colors of the Profession, and he bore himself with an easy arrogance. "Duran," Wellhyrn said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by the other customers. "What a surprise—in a seedy place like this—"
"I like it," Duran muttered.
"Really?" Wellhyrn turned to his tablemate. "Shall we be going, Ladir? The wine's sour, the storm's delayed the ship until at least tomorrow. We can certainly do better than this uptown. . . ."
Ladirno shrugged, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood, gathering up his cloak. "And when can we expect to see you at court again, Duran? Or in the guild meetings?"
"Sometime soon," Duran promised, making an effort to sound friendly.
Wellhyrn had risen to his feet. He swept his cloak up from the back of his chair and settled it around his shoulders. "I'm sure we'll all look forward to that day. And the guild fees. But that can't be in your way, can it?—Coming, Ladir?"
Duran watched the two men cross the room and saw the clink of the coins they tossed to the innkeeper. He could have lived on such extravagance for days.
Damn, damn! He knew he should not let them bother him, but by Hladyr the Shining he could not help it. Fellow alchemists. Ha! Ducal favorites, they spent their days at court, amusing the nobles with petty tricks . . . sleights of hand that kept gullible patrons interested in funding. Tricks of the Profession—all honorable, of course: research materials came dear, and one could hardly explain the real secrets. . . .
The hell. Duran took several deep breaths and settled back in his chair. He would not call the present elite of the Profession charlatans, but by his lights they came close. In his father's day—
In his father's laboratory—
Lalada, the cup girl, brought Duran his ale. He took the mug, smiled a silent thanks, and drank. The brew tasted bitter on his tongue, less the fault of the ale, he was sure, than of his mood. There was nothing wrong with what the "Cat" served, damn, there was not.
He took another drink, waiting for his supper—meat pie tonight, an extravagance: every fourth day, Duran allowed himself real meat . . . beef from the herds that grazed to the north of Targheiden—that much a one-time nobleman allowed himself, every fourth day, no oftener.
Tutadar himself brought Duran's supper to him. "Don't let them gilded donkey-butts get to you, Duran," he said, straightening and crossing his arms on his chest. "Bet them black crows never saved any lad like you did Sora Mitti's son. Think on that 'un, Duran. Them folk ain't' got nothin' on you."
"Thanks, Tut," Duran said, cutting open his pie and sniffing the sweet smell of beef. He glanced up, remembering the innkeeper's wife. "Is Anna's hand better tonight?"
"Aye, thanks. She wanted me to tell you that, Sor Duran. She's puttin' that salve on the cut like it'd save her, she is."
"If it flares up again, have her see me." Duran reached for his belt pouch to pay for the pie and ale, but Tutadar nudged his shoulder.
"No, no, this 'un's on Anha and me. For bein' a good neighbor." He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. "And for not bein' snot-nosed like them two. Enjoy your meal."
Duran stared for a moment, then nodded and smiled. He set to his pie, aware now that he had it before him just how hungry he was.
CHAPTER TWO
Well into dark, the warmer for beef pie and ale, Duran finally quit the inn. More of his neighbors had come to the "Cat" for their dinners, and their company had lightened his mood—after-dinner talk had flowed from table to table, warm friendly talk, for it was all Old Town in the tavern this evening: the few uptowners and harbor trade who had come in had returned to their rooms, or gone off uptown and down.
Duran fumbled for his k
eys and felt for the lock: hard to see, though the "Cat" had torches burning by its front door so long as they lasted. The key habitually stuck in the ancient lock. Duran cursed, jiggled the key, shoved the protesting door open.
Dog stood waiting by the door, uncomplaining as usual. He leaned up against Duran's leg, inviting a quick scratch on his head, then trotted off into the deepening night, about his own necessities. Duran lit his lamp, set it down on the counter, and hung his cloak behind the door. Full of meat pie and ale, he sat down on his stool to await Dog's return, so he could lock up his shop for the night.
Then his eyes fastened on a packet that lay on the floor: someone had slipped something under his door. He stared for a moment, got down from his stool, and picked the packet up. It was made of paper—a fine grade of paper, not the coarse stuff one purchased here in Old Town. He took it back to his lamp, leaned close, and opened it.
Two silver donahri slipped out of the folded paper and dropped ringing onto the countertop.
For you, our poorest brother. May this small sum keep your body and soul together. The note was signed, with an artistic flourish: Wellhyrn.
Duran cursed and flung the packet down on the floor. Damn Wellhyrn! Can't he leave me alone? He still goes out of his way to torment me. Why should he bother?
Dog came back and stood in the doorway, his tail wagging. Duran glanced up from the paper, noting that the butcher must have left bones on his doorstep: Dog held one in his mouth.
"Come on, Dog . . . in, in!" Duran shut the door behind Dog, locked it, and then contemplating the two silver coins glittering in the lamplight, thought that if he had more pride, he would have sent those donahri back to Wellhyrn with a terse note suggesting how to apply his charity. But pride had long ago found its proper place in Old Town: these two silver coins could keep him and Dog in food and drink for days upon days. Adding the coins to what he had seen Wellhyrn and Ladirno toss about at the inn, he suspected the Duke had given both men another grant to pursue their research.
I could use that. I could do more good with it.
But I don't play the game. I don't cater to the desires of the nobles at court.
Besides, the nobles dislike me. They remember . . . at least those of them old enough to remember my father.
Duran sighed heavily, swept the two silver coins up into his fist, and dropped them into his pouch. So be it. If the gods chose to gift him with this silver—though the method of that gift was less than palatable—who was he to turn it down?
Duran gave Dog a goodnight pat on the head, and, lamp in hand, walked to the back of his shop, and to the steps that led upstairs.
* * *
It is the nature of all things, Duran read, that they belong to one class or another. There is the prime matter which is the basis for all substances found in the world. It is the interaction of form with matter that gives rise to the elements: earth, air, fire, and water. They, in turn, through various combinations, produce all the objects that surround us. Therefore, if an object has a preponderance of earth, it is solid in form. The presence of water in an object gives us the ability to produce liquids, or to melt what seems solid. Fire allows us to unlock other forms of matter through combustion. And air, the material of ideas, of the very soul, gives us the intelligence to see all these things.
Granting the above as undeniably true, then it is easy to see that changes in the proportion of the elements may result in a change of the form of prime matter. It then follows that, if this is true, any substance may be changed into any other substance if the right conditions can be found. . . .
Duran sighed and set his notes aside. All this was basic, first-year study, but it was one of his dreams to turn the language of alchemy into something any learned person could understand. He longed for a return to the old days, when alchemists labored in their laboratories, dabbling less with mysticism and more with metals he could not, in his present estate, afford. . . .
And he would be damned if he was going to go back, hat in hand, apply to the duke and the guild, pay his fees to strut around court, mouthing nonsense that sounded learned, blithering about the mystical union of all things in the great aether beyond the stars. That he left to the other alchemists, the astrologers . . . them with their ducal grants and their rich patrons, that they kept duly astonished or alarmed by sleights of hand and dire predictions.
Not that he discounted astrology: he believed in the macrocosm, the wonderful world of the sun, stars, and planets reflected in the microcosm, the tiny world where man lived. Man grew and changed, so it was natural to believe that other things did the same. It stood to reason that under the proper astrological influences, certain metals might be changed to others. Even lead might turn to gold . . . Theoretically. Not, the gods knew, that he or anyone else had ever seen.
Time and again, when he was younger, he had gone to his small furnace and "killed" metals, melted them down over and over, trying to stumble across a purer form. Gold, his teachers had taught him, should lie at the end of numerous "killings." If the conditions were right. If the moon was in the proper quarter, the planets in the most advantageous houses, and the wind was blowing just right. If, if, if.
Small chance he would ever find the solution. He had received no grants from the Old Duke, though the present Duke honored his late father's invitation for Duran to attend court. What he needed was access to the great furnaces, the fires hotter than he could produce, the help of assistants nearly as knowledgeable as he. And that, he knew, was held from him because he did not—could not—play the game Ladirno and Wellhyrn played.
And years back, he had given up practicing all but the medical side to alchemy. Maybe one day, if the gods smiled on him, he would take the study up again.
Maybe.
He leaned forward in his chair again and shoved his notes aside. Another pile of papers rested on the desk: his writings also, but not devoted to alchemy—pages full of his small, neat handwriting, back and front, with hardly any margin to them. What he had written here concerned the Sabirn, herbs, and Old Man's stories.
He held to the notion that somewhere in their legends and the stories they told, lurked a kernel of truth . . . the learning that had once made the Sabirn a world power. So, when he took Sabirn helpers with him into the countryside to gather herbs, he always asked them to tell him stories of their people—fanciful tales, gods and heroes; some of the stories he sensed truer than others, but he did not know enough yet to separate fact from fiction. Or to know if there were deeper secrets.
One asked the sweepers of streets, the pickers of garbage, the carriers of slops—one disturbed one's neighbors with such inquiries; and aware of that disturbance, Duran tried to keep such journeys to a minimum, talked lately with Old Man, whom none of the neighbors considered a particular threat: Old Man had lived in the neighborhood so long, had become so ordinary. . . .
But Old Man, the consummate storyteller—his stories were of events that had taken place far in the past . . . great heroes, quests, the intervention of gods whose worshippers had died long ago, fables all, tales for children and the curious. But when Duran questioned him closely about what the Sabirn empire had really been, the old fellow had gone silent on him, shaken his head, refused to answer.
Duran flipped through the pages of his notes. He saw in his mind's eye the way life might have been in the Sabirn empire. Gods. If he could only journey back through time—
He rubbed his eyes. Tonight he was plagued by the "ifs." He could only deal with what he had at hand, instead of what he did not have, or could never possess. And the alchemy he practiced had more to do with the pot bubbling away over the small flame, that filled the air with the stench of sulfur and herbs and lard—hence the window braced slightly open: more of Anha's salve, an improvement, if his notion was right, to keep a wound supple and yet healing—
Dog barked downstairs, and barked again. Duran sat up straighter: he recognized that bark, a noise Dog made only when strangers came near.
"Damn!" Duran stood, and took up his lamp, blew out the fire beneath the lard—the front door was locked, he was sure he had locked it. He heard the sudden hammering of a fist, Dog's deep barking. "Who in Dandro's hells could be after physic at this hour?"
But children got sick, old folk took spells: an apothecary did have night calls, and they were generally the bad ones.
* * *
Duran opened the peephole, discovered two cloaked men on his doorstep, hoods drawn up so he could not see their faces in the lamplight. "What's the matter?" he called out. "Who is it?"
"Business," one said. The accent was uptown. "Discreet business, dammit, open."
One made the best judgment one could of such visitors. Duran carefully unlocked the door, pulled it open. Dog stood to one side, fur raised along his spine, growling deep in his throat.
"Call off your cur," one of the men said: the voice was young, cultured, and arrogant. The other said: "We won't hurt you."
Duran lifted the lamp higher, but the hoods still shadowed the faces. "Dog, . . . back off, that's a good fellow. Go on now. Go lie down."
Dog growled again, retreated to the center of the shop. Duran stepped back and gestured the two men inside. "How may I help you?" he asked, setting the lamp down on the counter.
"We hear you have the cure for the pox."
So, Duran thought, two highborn, most likely. Highborn with highborn liaisons. No wonder they had come to his shop in the dark of night, cloaked to protect their anonymity.
"Aye," he said, closing the door. "I have the cure. Which of you has the pox?"
A pause. Then the taller of the two tapped his chest.
"So," Duran said. "Please bear with me. I must ask you certain questions, and I'm afraid they'll be rather personal. Be assured, Sor . . . I mean no disrespect."
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