Birds and dogs shall strip his bones,
And his name shall be taken away."
Duran rubbed his eyes wearily. "I received an excellent education in my father's house. I know the words of the Book, too, like:
"Turn not away the man from your door
Though he be ragged like a thief,
It might be one of the god's come to test
The love of the Shining One's children."
Vadami frowned deeply; from the expression in his eyes, he hardly expected to be met verse with verse.
"You twist things. You twist them into that you want to believe. Beware arrogance. Most of all beware arrogance. The holy words don't apply here."
Duran worked sweating hands, searched for persuasive argument. "I'd not quarrel, Father. I assure you—I'll be in Temple."
"I fear for your soul, Duran. I truly do. You're better educated than folk hereabout: and because of that you can use the holy words—but don't misuse them. I urge you, urge you most strongly, don't let the Sabirn fool you. They're minions of darkness. I'm afraid for your soul, Duran, I'm afraid for all those around you."
"I'll be careful, Father."
"Surely, with all your learning, you've heard stories of their wizards? There was one named Siyuh—feared in all the northlands. They say that Siyuh and his followers could make fire leap from their hands—a pact with the Dark—"
"A thousand years ago."
"Will you wager our soul on it?" The priest shook his robes free, stepped off to the walk, and looked back at Duran. "Please, Duran . . . as you hope for Hladyr's heaven . . . have nothing more to do with the Sabirn. Don't think I'm persecuting you. I'll be offering up daily prayers for you."
"Thank you, Father."
"Hladyr save. Good evening."
The priest turned and walked away down the darkened street.
Duran stood, numb a moment. Dog came ambling out of the shadows, sat down, and nuzzled at his hand.
O Lord Hladyr, Duran thought, Shining One, maker of all things. If you are Lord of everything . . . are you also Lord of hate?
Behind him—muffled by the shut door, he heard a footstep.
Gods! Brovor!
Duran opened the door without letting Dog in, slipped hastily inside—
"Took your own damn time, didn't you?" Brovor walked out of the shadows. "What was that?"
"I'm sorry. It was the local priest. He's the last one I'd think you'd want to know you're here."
"Damn!"
"He's gone," Brovor's companion said. "Lord, let's be out of here."
"I needn't remind you," Brovor said, "of discretion."
"I am," Duran said, "discreet."
Brovor dug in his purse. Laid down a gold piece. A second.
"One," Duran said. "One is enough, lord. Discretion is part of the charge."
A moment the blue eyes stared at him above the muffling cloak—straight at him. Sweat ran on Duran's ribs.
"Who's upstairs?"
"A sick old man, lord. Quite deaf."
Brovor stared, fingering his sword-hilt. At last, he nodded briefly, motioned to his comrade, left.
* * *
Duran stared at the closed door, long after the two young lords had gone. Gods! Vadami on his doorstep, the Duke's heir hiding in his shop, the Sabirn boy upstairs! His knees were shaking, now that he was alone. Dog settled down by the counter, another one of the butcher's bones between his paws, his tail wagging slowly back and forth. Duran smiled bleakly.
"Dog, you have the answer to an easy life, don't you? When things start getting bad, go off into some corner, curl up with a good bone, and watch the world go by."
Dog wagged his tail again and gnawed at his dinner. Duran shook his head. One moment's thought, one moment's recollection on Brovor's part, and Brovor might remember him—Brovor might think he had motives—
Brovor seeking a state marriage, on which peace or war might depend—
And a Sabirn boy in the question—he wondered if Zeldezia had any idea what she might have done by telling about the Sabirn boy. He doubted it. Zeldezia more than likely never thought beyond the moment she spoke.
But who might Vadami tell—and where might it go? Duran rubbed his bearded chin. Again, he did not think he was dealing with a malicious soul; Vadami was merely . . . pious.
And if Vadami told one of his superiors, he might find himself in the temple answering questions. On the other hand, if Vadami told some of his secular friends, they might—
Duran squared his shoulders. No use trying to foretell the future. For his entire adult life he had walked a fine line between respectability and notoriety: an alchemist without Guild connections could hope for little else.
Best, he thought, best try to put the best face on things—do things in the open, where it regarded the boy—
Daylight on a sore—worked some cure. So might public exposure of a situation—the boy in some ordinary, harmless context—stop the speculations.
He stooped, patted dog on the head, took the lamp, and walked back to the stairs, up the steps—
To the door where Kekoja sat up in the bed and set aside a—Duran stared. A book? Gods!
The boy—reading?
He set his lamp down on his desk and faced Kekoja. The Sabirn lad stared back, his eyes dark pools in the lamplight.
"Sorry," Duran said. "That took me longer than I thought. What were you reading?"
Kekoja's eyes wavered. "Just looking at the pictures."
Duran walked over to the bedside and picked up the book. It was one of his philosophy books, a rather dry treatise by a fellow named Artoni who had written several centuries in the past. Duran lifted an eyebrow and ruffled the pages.
"There aren't any pictures in this book, Kekoja."
"Now you tell me."
Duran smiled. "Don't lie to me," he said mildly. "I don't like that. You can read, can't you?"
Kekoja flinched, then grimaced. "Aye. Some."
"That surprises me."
"S'pose so."
"Who taught you?" He thought of a lasting puzzle: the storyteller, the foreigner whose Ancari was sometimes—astonishing good. "Your grandfather?"
"Aye." The Sabirn boy shifted uneasily in bed, then looked up at Duran. "But I don't read too good, and I can't read fast. I can speak Ancari better'n I can read it."
"I think you're not telling me the whole truth, Kekoja." He took the book back to the desk and laid it down. "I think you're a damned lot smarter than you want to show."
Kekoja lifted his chin. "An' what difference'd that make, that I can read, or that I'm smart? Who'd care one way or the other?"
"Your grandfather obviously cares, or he wouldn't have taught you. Knowledge is never anything to be ashamed of."
"You ain't Sabirn."
Duran drew a long breath. "No, I'm not. But I think I understand what you're saying."
Kekoja's wary expression persisted. "Grandfather says you're a fair man. Even when it gets your neighbors mad."
"I guess that sums it up."
"Why?"
Why? The question Duran had asked himself over and over. Why are you doing this? Why are you courting disaster? Why, why, why?
"I'm not sure," he said, falling back on utter honesty before this boy, this street urchin he had rescued from a beating at the hands of other ragtags who looked and lived much the same. "I suppose I don't like to see injustice. I don't like to see things misunderstood." He waved a hand at the books, the shelves. "That's why I'm an alchemist; that's why I operate my shop. Because I want to know what things really are. . . . I want to understand them. And I can't believe something's bad simply because I don't understand it."
"That could get you in trouble," Kekoja said seriously. "Understanding things."
Duran laughed quietly, folded his arms, lighter-hearted, he had no notion why. "You're damned right it could, lad. It has. But I haven't given up trying to understand things."
"You aren't afraid of us Sabirn?"
"Oh, yes
, as much afraid of you as I am of my own kind. There's good and bad in all of us, whether we be Sabirn, Torhyn, or Ancar. It's simply easier to overlook our own bad traits and assign them to people who aren't like us. Have you ever been afraid of things like that?"
Kekoja nodded slowly.
"Of something new? Of something strange?"
Kekoja nodded again.
"Because it was truly frightening, or because you'd never seen anything like it before?"
"Both."
"Smart boy. Aye, we can be afraid of something we know all too well . . . or too little. Ah, lad! Now there's the thing—I suppose I'm not afraid of Sabirn because I think I know you better than most folk. I've heard all the tales spread about your people, but so far I haven't seen any of them coming true."
"They say we steal."
"And I imagine some of you do. So do some Ancar. So do some Torhyn. Some have titles." Duran shook his head. "Nothing special in that."
"They say we're wizards."
"Now that I would like to see," Duran said. "Most cheat. I haven't met a real one yet, though I suppose that doesn't mean there aren't any."
Kekoja cocked his head. "Grandfather was right. You are a strange one."
Duran laughed and drew the chair out from behind the desk so he could sit facing Kekoja. "I suppose I am."
"Why do you talk with Sabirn?"
"I'm interested in your legends, your stories. That's why your grandfather fascinates me."
"Why?"
"I save stories. I collect them like some men collect books. Somewhere in those stories is a key to the past, to what really happened."
"When?"
"Hundreds of years ago—when your people ruled their empire."
The Sabirn boy's face went very hard in the lamplight. "That was a long time ago."
"Aye. So long ago most of the facts are probably forgotten by now. But legends can hide facts, lad, beneath their fanciful surfaces. That's what I'm after. I'm like a man who sifts sand through a sieve hunting for gold."
The room grew silent. The windows stood wide open to the summer night. Duran could hear crickets, the cry of nighthawks, the barking of a faraway dog. He looked at Kekoja, but the boy seemed lost in thought.
"Grandfather knows," Kekoja said finally. "He knows the most stories of any of us."
"Maybe sometime he'll tell the ones he hasn't told."
"Maybe. You write these stories down? All of them?"
Duran nodded. "What I can remember of them after they're told."
"In these books?"
"In some. I write what your grandfather says. What the other Sabirn say, the ones I've hired to help me when I go to the country." Duran suddenly remembered what Vadami had told him about a legendary Sabirn wizard. "Have you ever heard of someone named Siyuh?"
Kekoja's eyes widened; he sat bolt upright in the bed. "Ziya!" he whispered.
"A story you know?"
"No." The boy looked down, leaned back up against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't."
"Are you sure?"
The lad would not meet his eyes. "Nothing," Kekoja repeated.
Duran knew he had missed something there. The moment was gone; he could not recapture it.
"I'm tired," Kekoja said, turning his back on Duran and stretching out on the bed. "Let's go to sleep."
"If you want." Duran frowned at the boy, wishing he knew what had happened. One moment, Kekoja had been open and friendly; the next, he exuded all the charm of a stone.
And gave him the floor again.
CHAPTER SIX
A huge clap of thunder shook the house the following morning and jarred Duran out of a deep sleep. He sat up in his bedding, rubbed his shoulder, and looked around. It was dark enough outside to be night, and the rain had started to fall heavily.
"Damn." He rose to his feet, lit the lamp on the bedside table, and stretched the stiffness from his neck and back. Yawning, he walked across to an open window.
The wind had picked up and blew in off the harbor. Duran could hardly see across the narrow alleyway that divided his block from the building next door. He cursed again, drew the window shut, and hurried over to the other window. Rain blew in there, too, and Duran's sleeves were soaked by the time he got the window closed.
He walked to the window at the front of the room, shut it partially, and returned to the bed. Kekoja was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes. Duran nodded a good morning to the Sabirn boy, drew the chamber pot out from under the bed, and used it.
"You next, lad," he said, standing and pulling on his hose. He stuffed his feet into his shoes and walked away from the bed to give Kekoja some privacy.
"Slops men'll be drenched to the bone this morning," Kekoja said.
"If they come now," Duran said, looking out the window at the downpour, "they'll be drowned. Is your head better?"
"Aye. Doesn't hurt near as much."
Duran turned around. "How's your ankle?"
Kekoja set the pot down, sat down on the bed, and rubbed his foot. "Feels fine. But it felt fine yesterday, too."
Duran crossed his arms on his chest. "Walk for me. Just across the room and back."
Lightning flared, followed instantly by another crash of thunder. Kekoja flinched, stood, and made the limping trip back and forth. He waited by the bed, his dark eyes watching Duran's face.
"Looks good," Duran said. "Better than yesterday."
"Then I can go?" Kekoja asked, his face lighting up.
"Where?" Duran waved a hand to the storm outside. "You want to go outside in this?"
"Well, maybe not now. But you think I can walk good enough to let me go?"
Duran sighed softly. "Aye. But I wouldn't go anywhere until the storm lets up." He came and picked up the chamber pot. "I've got to get our breakfast and let Dog out. Are you hungry?"
"Not very." Kekoja sat back down on the edge of the bed. "You go on an' eat at the inn, if you want. Bring me back some of what you have."
"All right." Duran picked up the lamp, too, and started toward the steps. "If you're interested, you can look at any of the books I have up here." He glanced over his shoulder at the Sabirn boy. "Some even have pictures in them."
"Duran," Kekoja said, "I'm sorry I lied to you. You been good to me, and I shouldn't have done it."
"Well, don't lie again. You don't need to be afraid of me."
"I learned that." Kekoja smiled slightly. "You can tell when I'm lying anyway. You got a good eye on you. And, Duran?"
Duran paused on the first step. "Ask Grandfather if he wants to look at me walk. Even if you decide I can leave, he's the one who'll have the final word."
Duran nodded and descended the stairway to his shop. Thunder boomed again and Dog whined as Duran walked toward the front door.
"Sorry, Dog," Duran said, unlocking the door one-handed. "You stay close to the building, or you'll float away."
Dog stood on the doorstep, sniffing the rain-soaked wind, unsure whether to go out or stay inside. Duran leaned out the door, set the chamber pot on the doorstep, and ducked back. The gutters were deep underwater already, and a steady stream of rain poured down from the second story overhang.
"In or out, Dog," Duran said, reaching behind the door to get his cloak. "I can't wait forever."
Dog wagged his tail, and stepped out into the street, shook his head at the rain and trotted off around the corner. Duran pulled his cloak on, and cursed the weather, for it told him he would suffer another day with few customers. He leaned up against the doorjamb, and watched the rain fall. Quicker than he would have guessed, Dog was back, dripping with rain and anxious to be inside.
"Bad day for all of us," Duran said, stepping aside to let Dog in. Dog wagged his tail, distributing rain outside of the puddle he was dripping on the boards, sat down, and began to lick the water from his coat. "Stay here like a good boy. I'll be back."
Lifting the hood of his cloak up, Duran stepped outside, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Drawi
ng a deep breath, he turned and ran across the street where the door to "The Swimming Cat" stood cracked. Duran entered, stood for a moment dripping in the doorway, and flipped the hood back from his face. Thunder rumbled overhead.
"Morning, Sor Duran," said Old Man from his place inside. "Bad storm again today."
"Aye. I'm drenched from crossing the street. Your grandson wanted you to watch him walk today. He said you're the one who'll tell him if he's well enough to leave."
"You think he is?"
"He's a lot better, aye. He's not dizzy anymore, and I think that ankle of his has healed."
Old Man's eyes sparkled in the lamplight. "I'll come," he promised, "when the rain lets up."
Duran nodded and looked up as Tutadar walked in behind the bar, taking his usual morning position. "You're brave," Tut said, looking up from his money-counting.
"No. Hungry." Duran came to lean on the bar and glanced around. "No one else in here yet?"
"Not likely till the storm lets up. You eatin' here this mornin' or takin' out?"
"Here." Thunder raided the windows. "Hladyr grant it'll slack. I'm not anxious to go back out in that."
"Who would be?" Tutadar walked to the kitchen and bellowed something at his cook. "Can't remember havin' such bad weather at this time of summer," he said, returning to the bar and pouring Duran a glass of wine. He shoved the mug across the bar and leaned forward, his arms crossed. "Trade's gone to hell—'nother ship gone."
Duran took a drink, wiped his moustache. "Another?"
"Word is, I hear it from Efdin, the Duke's got one well overdue. The Gull's Pride comin' out of Padis loaded down with spice—likely straight to the bottom in that big storm last week."
Duran frowned. Efdin the baker would know news having anything to do with spices. Last week. That must have been the storm that roared into Targheiden the same day the thugs had chased Kekoja into the alleyway.
"Hladyr bless the crew. I'll bet the Duke's not pleased. The price of clove will go up now for sure."
"Gull's Pride ain't the only ship out of Targheiden might be in trouble. From what some of the folk stayin' here in the upstairs say, weather's been foul at sea for the last fifteen days." The door to the kitchen cracked open and the cook stuck his head out, hailed Tut. "Sit," Tut said, "I'll bring you your breakfast. Might join you myself."
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