"He's not going to be using that ankle for the next few days. He's not going to be living on the street."
Old Man shrugged.
Duran stared.
"I'm all right," Kekoja said from his place on the bed. "I can walk."
"Be still," Old Man muttered. "Pay your debts."
The boy set his jaw. "But, I—"
"You know I can't let you stay with me. Don't argue."
The lad's face turned red, and he angrily launched into a rapid stream of Sabirn. Old Man replied in the same language, making a few cutting motions with his hands. Duran watched the exchange, wondering what in the hells he had managed to get himself mixed up in.
"My grandson," Old Man said at last, turning away from Kekoja, "has a mind of his own . . . and a sharp tongue to go with it. I'm sorry, Sor Duran, but he must stay with you. He has no choice."
"Grandfather—"
"No choice, Kekoja!"
The boy frowned, his shoulders still stiffened in anger.
"Since he's staying here," Old Man said, "I insist that you let me pay you something . . . at least for the food he eats."
Duran drew a long breath. With what? he wondered. Aloud he said: "Can't either of you understand that I'm trying to help? That I don't expect anything in return?"
Old Man lifted his chin.
"All right," Duran sighed. "Pay for his food, if that's what bothers you."
"You're a very strange one for an Ancar," Old Man said, leaning on his walking stick. "You always have been, as long as I've known you." He looked Duran directly in the face—which no Sabirn did. "You've given more than you understand, Sor Duran. You don't know our customs, but let me say that what I'll give you in return means much to us." He spread a hand over his heart and bowed. "My name is Dajhi."
Duran reckoned suddenly—he knew fewer Sabirn names than he did Sabirn words. "Dajhi," he repeated, and then, making a blind leap of logic: "Your name is safe with me. So is your grandson. Whatever his real name."
Old Man's eyes softened. "You are a strange one," he said. He turned to Kekoja. "You've heard. Trust this one. Do what he says. Behave yourself, tehiji."
The boy looked sullenly at his grandfather. "Aye."
"You have your shop to run, Sor Duran," Old Man said. "I've taken enough of your time. Take me downstairs and I'll leave you."
Duran nodded and led the way down the steps, stood by the doorway as Old Man left, thinking.
He dragged his mind back to his business. Hladyr sent him a few more customers today. The silver Wellhyrn had given him would only last so long.
* * *
The gods—even the Shining One—seemed to have better things to do than listen to one man's prayers. All morning long Duran sat behind his counter, waiting for customers who never materialized. Mother Garan, alone, returned for another dose of willow tea, saying her head felt better. Duran charged her the usual three coppers, and sent her off with strict instructions. One worried. Like many others in Old Town, she could not afford a doctor of the kind that practiced uptown. Duran was the next best thing . . . affordable. Knowledgeable enough to worry about the old lady—to ease the pain as he could. To do as much as he could and refrain at least from doing harm.
Duran thought of Kekoja upstairs, and wondered what the Sabirn boy was doing to pass the time. He had not heard the lad leave the bed; his floor had several singing boards, and someone not knowing them would alert a listener downstairs.
"Duran," Ithar said, entering the shop. "Got me a cut that don't seem to heal."
Duran got down from his stool. "Where?"
Ithar extended one burly arm. "There. Got cut t'other day . . . well, three, four days back, and it ain't healed up like it should. Thought you might have somethin' to help me."
"I might." Duran looked at the sore: it was red and swollen. "Did you wash it good after you got burned?"
"Hells, I didn't have time. Had a man comin' to pick up his goods and I was runnin' late. I just smeared some mud on it."
"Washing's better." Duran turned around and consulted the shelves of neatly labeled jars. He pulled one out and pushed it across the counter toward Ithar. "This ought to help."
The smith eyed the jar. "How much d'you think I need?"
"Not the whole thing." Duran looked at the cut again. "Maybe a quarter jar will do."
"Just rub it on?"
"Aye. And when you're working,—keep the cut covered with a clean cloth. Does it hurt?"
"Sommat. Not as bad as when I did it . . . but it don't seem to hurt any less lately."
"Huh." Duran stooped, reached under his counter, and pulled out a small earthen bowl and its lid. He carefully poured some of the oil from the larger jar into the bowl and set the lid in place—the tangy smell of cinnamon filled the air. "When you get back to your shop, heat some water hot as you can stand it. Soak the arm till the water cools. Then get a clean—clean! stick, drop some of this on."
"Aye. Clean stick." Ithar took the bowl. "What do I owe you, Duran?"
Duran calculated. "Five coppers should do. If you should have some oil left when you're healed, keep it clean and sealed with wax, and it should keep."
Ithar nodded, dug in his belt pouch one-handed, and set the copper coins on Duran's counter. "You ain't gettin' rich doin' this, Duran. I charge twice that to fix a broken anchor chain, and that don't take no mixing with foreign stuffs."
"Your customers can afford it," Duran said, pocketing the coppers. "So."
Ithar stared at Duran a moment, then grinned. "Hladyr bless," he said, then turned and left the shop.
Duran sat down on his stool and looked down at Dog. "Eight coppers so far today. We might not do badly."
Dog merely wagged his tail, turned around several times, and stretched out at the end of the counter.
Eight coppers. Duran remembered when he and other noble children spent more than that on sweetmeats at the market. He now lived on less than he could have ever conceived, and not all that badly, either—as poor went.
He caught movement out of the corner of one eye: Zeldezia stood in the doorway, holding her apron in hand.
"Better business today than yesterday," she said, coming inside. "Rain scared off all but the determined, or the desperate."
Duran's contentment vanished. "That's true. You're doing well today?"
"I should be," the seamstress said, lifting one eyebrow. "After all, I am the best in this area."
Duran nodded. Obnoxious as Zeldezia could be, she was justified in her pride: she was by far the most talented seamstress in this section of Old Town: people came to her from better sections of the city, knowing they could get a bargain; and went away happy, too.
But Zeldezia never was.
If she didn't spend so damned much time telling everyone how good she is, Duran thought, someone might find a chance to tell her.
"You still got that boy in there?" Zeldezia asked bluntly.
Duran started. Damned if the woman had not seen him take the Sabirn lad upstairs last night. But he should have known . . . not much went on in the neighborhood that Zeldezia could not ferret out.
"Aye."
"Got beat up bad, did he?"
Duran shrugged. "Bad enough."
Zeldezia cocked her head and looked up at Duran. "Not very talkative today, are you? Who beat him up? You recognize 'em?"
"No. Three boys. Tut calls them 'punk kids.'"
"Well, we don't need them sort here in this neighborhood. If they move in, we'll be no better than the Slough."
The Slough . . . the roughest part of Old Town; lair of thieves, whores, and bullies. It lay to the west, by the marshy side of the river, a breeding place for vermin—human and otherwise.
"Hladyr forbid they move in," Duran said, for once in total agreement with his neighbor.
"That boy is Sabirn, ain't he?" Zeldezia asked, eyeing Duran closely. "That why you brung Old Man up?"
Duran nodded, knowing he could not deny what she had seen.
&n
bsp; "Gods, Duran! Them folk ain't no good. An' you've got one in your house? In your bed? On your sheets?" Zeldezia's lips thinned into a frown. "Lady bless, Duran! He'll steal you blind. He'll have all his friends comin' in. You think about your neighbors? We don't want no Sabirn hangin' 'round here."
"Old Man doesn't steal," Duran pointed out, trying to keep his temper.
"Old Man's different. He don't bother no one. Besides, he's a cripple and he wouldn't be able to steal nothin' without someone noticin'."
"If it makes you feel any better," Duran said, "the boy's Old Man's grandson."
Zeldezia lifted both eyebrows at this news. A tidbit always excited her. He instantly regretted saying that. Especially as her face settled back into its angry expression. "They're devils, them Sabirn. Necromancers. Demon worshippers. Ain't no good come of 'em. I tell you, you're a gods-fearin' man, Duran, but you come close to damnin' your soul, havin' anything to do with 'em."
"Now, Zeldezia . . ."
"You got to think! Think what could happen to your business . . . to my business if folk found out you're hangin' around with Sabirn, that you got one of 'em in your house, fer Hladyr's sake! Think o' my uptown clients! What'd they think? We hobnob around with them dirty Sabs? We could lose all our customers!"
"Well, we don't have to worry, do we?" Duran interposed smoothly. "If you don't tell anyone, and I don't tell anyone, no one will know, will they?"
Zeldezia frowned the darker. "I'm tellin' you, Duran, you're makin' a mistake. You can't trust 'em. Nowhere. Nohow. They'll get you so's you like 'em, an' then they'll run off with everythin' you own. Gods, drinkin' out o' your cups and eatin' off your dishes—"
Duran got down from his stool and walked to the corner of the counter so he faced Zeldezia. "I've dealt with Sabirn for years now," he said, "and not one of them has ever been anything but polite.—Why do you hate them, Zeldezia? What have they ever done to you?"
"They're wizard-spawn!"
"There's nothing they do that the Temple wizards or the Duke's wizards don't do."
"Oh, that's what they want you to think! Them Sabirn wizards practice the dark arts." She lowered her voice. "Priest says anyone who has anything to do with 'em is in peril of his soul!"
"Horseshit!" Duran exclaimed, hoping the vulgarity would chase Zeldezia off. As usual, it had no effect. Vadami. Damned snot-nosed district priest. Always spreading his version of the Eternal Scheme of Things . . .
"Well, if you end up knifed in your bed one night, I won't be surprised," Zeldezia said. "An' let me tell you, Duran . . . if you know what's good for you, you'll get rid of that boy 'fore folks find out he's up there."
"Not until he's healed," Duran countered, drawing himself up to his full height. "If anyone finds out, I'll know who told them. And it won't have been me!"
Zeldezia threw back her head so she could look Duran in the eyes, set fists on ample hips. "I can see I ain't going to change your mind. Just think on what I said, Duran. Your business an' mine could suffer for your stupidity! Folks ain't going to take medicine you mix with no Sab kid slinking 'round this shop!"
Duran clamped his jaws together, afraid of what he would say if he spoke.
"So." Zeldezia shifted her apron to her other hand, and straightened her dress. "I'm going to the Temple. The Duke's going to be there, him an' his family. It's the Heir's name-day."
Duran's heart went thump. The duke's heir, resplendent at the ceremony—
Due, soon, for his next treatment for the pox.
Zeldezia turned to go, then looked back over her shoulder. "An' while I'm at the Temple, I'll pray Hladyr that he give you some good sense!"
With that, she swept out of the shop. Duran let loose his pent-up breath and stared after her. Gods! He had told Tut about Kekoja, knowing the innkeeper would keep his mouth shut. How in hell had Zeldezia . . .
Duran glanced upstairs, hoping with any kind of luck, Kekoja had heard nothing. Damned woman. But she could be right.
Dammit all anyway. He had never flaunted his dealing with the Sabirn—the way Tut had said, one hired them—there were few people besides them he could afford to hire. Besides the stories—about which no one knew. He started pacing up and down in front of his counter. He would have to be less obvious in dealing with the Sabirn, possibly cease talking with them at all till this blew over. All of them except Old Man. Old Man was safe. . . .
People knew Old Man. They would surely take it better, if they knew the boy was Old Man's grandson.
CHAPTER FOUR
Storm bore down on Targheiden: Duran heard the rumble of thunder out on the sea; the sunlight faded as clouds moved over the city. He thought of the ceremony taking place in the Temple, and of how this storm would not be viewed as a particularly good omen. . . .
As for the main participant in the ceremony, the Duke's son had promised to return for another treatment this very night—punctually: Duran had stressed that. He was sure Brovor had understood. But the dates added up to today, to name-day—not easy, he feared, for Brovor to slip away from the feast held in his honor, but the young man was terrified enough of his disease that Duran hoped escape for the short time it would take to come to Old Town—
Hoped the secrecy would hold up. And that Brovor would ask no questions—nor come to any sudden recognitions. And the Sabirn boy upstairs—
Duran looked out his open door, gnawing his lip. In one uncalculated act, his life had become more complicated than he could have ever imagined. The Duke's son, then the Sabirn lad. Gods! If his neighbors only knew half of what was going on in his shop, if Zeldezia—gods!—if that rattle-tongue looked out her shutters tonight—
The thunder grew louder. Duran looked up at what sky he could see. Dark, menacing clouds rolled in over the rooftops; a stiff wind had begun to blow, rattling the apothecary's sign over his door, setting signs to swinging on their chains all up and down the street, a worn-out basket blowing and tumbling down a street rapidly emptying of traffic.
Evil weather . . . aye, the summer had been plagued by it, folk talked in the streets and taverns about it. What was bad for trade was bad for Targheiden, merchants worried, tempers flared over insignificant things; small fortunes vanished each time a ship went down. There was only one benefit of the rain: cooler weather this summer kept disease from running rampant through the poorer sections of town.
It also kept customers from his door.
He sniffed the wind. Rain would fall very soon now, rain which—
CRASH!
Duran spun around in the doorway; Dog had risen to his feet and stood growling, glaring at the stairs.
"Oh, Hladyr bless!" Duran ran to the steps, hurried upstairs, and stopped in the doorway. Kekoja lay on the floor by one of the side windows, his eyes closed, an upturned table and the shattered remains of a porcelain washbowl scattered around him.
"By all the gods!" he cried, "what in Dandro's hells are you doing?" He rushed to Kekoja's side and knelt to touch his face. "Are you all right?"
The Sabirn looked up at Duran with an unsteady gaze. He tried to sit up, but fell back into Duran's arms.
"Dizzy," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. "Damned dizzy."
Duran sighed, glanced at what remained of his late wife's washbasin, and helped the boy to his feet.
"What were you trying to do? Climb out the window? I told you to stay in bed! Why did you disobey?"
The boy kept silent as Duran set him down on the bed; he rubbed his forehead and groaned softly.
"You don't want me here," Kekoja said at last, leaning back so he lay stretched out on the bed. "Thought I'd leave."
"By the window? Gods, boy! That lump on your head addled your brains. You could have killed yourself trying to go out the window. And who told you I—"
God. Zeldezia. Shrill voices carried.
"Nobody need to've told me. I know. I'm Sabirn. Nobody wants me." His eyes shimmered with tears; he angrily blinked them away. "Not even my grandfather!"
So there lay t
he crux of it. Duran propped the boy's head up on the pillows. "Don't talk like that. I'm sure your grandfather has a good reason for what he's doing. Does he, or is he not as kindhearted as I think he is? And I never said I didn't want you here." I'd much rather you'd gone with your grandfather, though. It would have made my life a damn sight easier. "Take a couple of deep breaths. You'll be all right."
Kekoja did as Duran instructed; after a few moments, he seemed calmer.
"Now listen to me. I don't want you out of this bed except to use the chamber pot, you hear? And until you're steadier on your feet, I want you to call me when you have to go."
"Aye."
"And stay away from the windows." Duran straightened the boy's hair gently. "Hear?"
The boy said nothing. Duran went to shut the window, pick up the pieces.
Perhaps if he found them all, he could barter Bontido the potter into fixing the basin.
No. The glaze had splintered. No hope that the basin could be reconstructed. The shards were too small.
He let the pieces fall. Another tie with the past . . . gone . . . shattered like his youth. . . .
"Can you fix it?" Kekoja asked.
Duran rose, looked down at the jagged pieces of the basin. "No. It's beyond repair."
The Sabirn lad bit his lower lip. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I know. It's just that . . ." Duran waved a hand full of broken porcelain. "It was my wife's, and she's been dead for . . ." His voice trailed off. He met Kekoja's dark eyes, "You stay in that bed, hear?"
"Aye," Kekoja said faintly.
Raindrops spattered against the roof, sudden gust of storm.
"I'm going back downstairs. You need anything, you call."
"I will." Kekoja stirred on the bed. "Sor Duran?—I won't break anything else. I promise."
Duran forced a smile to his lips. "See that you don't," he said, and turned toward the stairs.
* * *
The rain had slacked off to a drizzle. Duran sat on his stool, gazing out the opened door at passersby hurrying to drier destinations before the next spate. A ship must recently have made port: he had seen travelers entering "The Swimming Cat." One wondered . . . one dreamed . . . where those folk were from, what their business in Targheiden was, and where they were going.
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