Two days passed. Duran glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the street, but Zeldezia's door was shut. He had exchanged nothing more than brief greetings with her since their argument that day, and he frankly found her silence a blessing. Hladyr only knew what she was saying behind his back, but at least she had quit trying to get him to throw Kekoja out on the street.
Old Man sat in his usual place by the doorway and, as Duran passed, smiled broadly. Duran smiled back, then carefully erased the expression from his face as he entered the common room. He did not know how far rumor might have spread the story of his guest, but it would not do to rub his neighbors' noses in the fact.
Tutadar looked up from what he was doing at the bar, and lifted an eyebrow as Duran stopped. "Eating here, tonight?" he asked, setting a freshly drawn mug of ale on the counter. "That's a change." A lower voice. "Kid gone yet?"
"No." Duran glanced around the common room, found it not all that busy, filled mostly with his neighbors, and kept his own voice down as he paid attention to the mug Tut offered. "A few more days should do it. His head's a lot better, and he doesn't lose his balance that often. That was a damned nasty sprain he suffered. Came close to breaking his ankle, I'd say."
"You want your usual?" Tutadar asked.
"Aye.—How's Anha's hand, by the by? Any better?"
Tutadar's face broke into a smile. "Oh, aye. Think your medicines got her back to her old self. She been yellin' at me lately just like she used to."
"Good." Duran turned and walked back to his table and sat down.
And noticed a change.
Slight, that change, but a change nonetheless in the atmosphere of the common room; though his neighbors had nodded to him as he passed by their tables, there had been none of the usual good-natured bantering back and forth with him that he was used to.
He leaned back in his chair, cursing himself for seeing shadows where there probably were none. On the other hand, if Zeldezia had been as busy telling people about Kekoja as he feared she had, then there could be a damned good reason.
The tavern girl, Lalada, came to his side carrying his plate. Duran smiled up at her as she set his dinner on his table, and felt his expression freeze: she had not returned the smile, and moved with an uncertainty he was not used to seeing in her—some days ago.
Damn Zeldezia! She must have been in the "Cat" the last couple of days, spreading all lands of rumors about the Sabirn boy. Duran took up his ale, sipped at it, and pretended he noticed nothing amiss.
The smith Ithar got up, came over to his table. That was encouraging. "Mind if I join you?"
"No. Please, sit down. How's your arm doing?"
Ithar pulled out a chair and sat. He extended his arm and, even in the lamplight, Duran could see that the cut was healing normally, new pink skin.
"Feels lots better," Ithar said, letting his sleeve fall. He took a long drink from his mug. "Wanted to thank you for what you done."
"No thanks needed. You just be careful in the future to wash any cut you get, never mind the mud, and you shouldn't have any more trouble."
The smith nodded, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, leaned forward on the table. "Want to ask you a couple questions, Duran. Man to man."
"Certainly." Duran's heart lurched. "What?"
"You got yourself a Sabirn kid in your house?"
Duran briefly shut his eyes. "Has Zeldezia been telling everyone in the neighborhood, or just a select few?"
"Then you ain't denyin' it?"
"No. Did she also tell you the boy had been hurt . . . badly?"
Ithar's eyes wavered a bit. "No. She didn't."
That figures, Duran thought. "It is true. He was beaten by three young toughs in the alleyway outside my house. I chased them off and I'm keeping him until he can walk again."
"Chased them punks off?" Ithar asked. "With that stick of yours? Them as been hangin' round—"
"Aye."
"You could've been hurt bad, Duran. Any of 'em could have had a knife."
"One did."
Ithar drew a long breath and took another drink of his ale. "Why didn't you call for help? We would've come a-runnin'."
"I was too busy.—Now, let me ask you a question. Did Zeldezia tell you the boy's Old Man's grandson?"
The smith shook his head.
"It seems to me that someone who's so free with other people's business could at least get the story right."
"But, Duran . . ." Ithar shook his head. "The boy is Sabirn."
"So's Old Man! I can't imagine you leaving an injured boy on the street just because he's Sabirn, Ithar. I truly can't."
Ithar scratched his head. "Maybe not. But I wouldn't have let him into my house, f' the gods' blessed sake—"
"Ithar, none of the Sabirn I've ever dealt with have stolen from me. That's the truth. None's ever done me an ill turn."
Ithar stared at Duran for a long time. "Tut always said you got too kind a heart for your own good. I agree with him."
"For Hladyr's sake, Ithar! The boy's no demon. He's just like you or me."
"Look, Duran: Old Man . . . he don't worry me. He's old and he's crippled. But a young kid now, fast on his feet—"
"Ithar." Duran reached out and set a hand on the smith's forearm. "A skinny, fourteen-year-old boy's no threat to you or anyone in the neighborhood. He's been here three days and nothing's happened. Has it? Tell me if it has."
"You're an honest man, Duran, but you got a soft spot's going to do you hurt. You took in that dog when he was starvin' and you was little better. Now, you're taking in this Sabirn lad when you know better, and he ain't got no uses." Ithar's brown eyes were level. "You tell me: you going to stand surety for 'im? Pay us for anything he steals? 'S only fair. . . ."
Duran leaned back in his chair. "He's not going to steal anything from you," he said, "and if he does, I'll be the first one to turn him in to the Guard."
"You mean that?"
"I swear to it."
"Well . . . if you stand for 'im . . ." Ithar drank again. "But I'll tell you for damned sure, Duran . . . makes me nervous just thinkin" bout one of them little, dark folk livin' this close to me. Gives me the creeps."
Duran chewed and swallowed and reached for his ale. "If you met the boy, Ithar, you'd change your mind. He's intelligent—a good lad . . . polite and smart. He's a kid, Ithar. Like any kid. What in hell's everybody spooked for?"
"If you say so." Ithar looked at Duran for a moment, then selfconsciously grinned, reached across the table, and rested a hand on Duran's shoulder shook in comradely fashion. "You're all right, Duran . . . you really are. Twenty years I knowed you, an' you been honest. I just hope to hell what you're doin' here won't do you hurt."
"That I can't help. Zeldezia's doing the hurt."
"Feh!" Ithar waved a hand. "She talks too much. We don't believe everything she says. . . ."
"You believed this, didn't you? Didn't ask me?"
The smith nodded slowly. "Aye, that's so—but, dammit, ain't nobody took in a gods-cussed Sabirn. Sneaky bunch. None of us likes 'em. . . ."
Duran finished his fish and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Sneak is as sneak does. Some don't care who they hurt. Some don't care what the truth is."
"Zeldezia? Believe me, Duran . . . I'm going to let everyone know about it, too." His face grew serious. "But that boy give you any trouble, you tell me. Givin' you any trouble?"
"No. For one thing, Old Man's talked to him, and told him to mind his manners."
"Dandro's hells . . . you do be careful. You been lucky in the past dealin' with Sabirn. Hope your luck's still with you."
"Come over and meet the boy yourself, if it'd make you feel better. He's a kid. See for yourself. He won't bite."
The smith's eyes wavered. "Not me, Duran. You can keep that kid in your house long's you want to, by me, but don't be tryin' to get me to be friendly to 'im."
"All right. But don't worry, Ithar. Your tools will be where you leave them—same as always. If anything is missing in this neighborhood, I'd look to the gang that beat this lad. Sure won't be him taking anything. I promise."
"That's all I can ask." The smith finished off his ale, spat into the rushes on the floor, and stood. "Got to be goin'." Ithar lingered, said, on an apparent second thought: "You take care."
Duran watched Ithar return to his table and wondered if Ithar knew something.
Heads got together. By the hour Duran left "The Swimming Cat," a number of heads had gotten together, and the atmosphere in the common room of the inn had returned to near normal. A number of his neighbors still looked at him from the corners of their eyes—still, he felt sure, distrusted him, thanks to Zeldezia's spreading rumors. But Ithar, both honest and forceful, would set the neighbors right, and Duran thanked Hladyr he had known the smith as long as he had. Next to Tutadar, the smith was probably the most respected man in the neighborhood.
As (Duran smiled wryly, balancing the basket containing Kekoja's dinner in one hand, fumbling for his keys) he himself certainly was not.
He opened the door to his shop, set the food down on his counter. He was lighting the lamp when he heard Dog growl a warning.
The two young lords stood in the open doorway, cloaked as before.
"Come in," Duran said. He held on to Dog until both men had entered his shop, then ushered Dog out the door. The animal growled again, and refused to go any farther than the doorstep. "It's all right, Dog." Duran scratched Dog's ear, shut the door, faced the two men. "I have to take something upstairs. I'll be right back down."
The Duke's heir and his companion glanced around the shop. "See that you are," Brovor growled. "We don't have all night."
Arrogant young cock, Duran thought, and lit the lamp over the counter for his customers' benefit, keeping his chin down—gods, they had known each other as children, he and Brovor. And he was that much changed. . . .
He picked up the basket of food and the other lamp, and climbed the stairs, opened the door.
"Duran?"
Duran set the lamp down, giving light as the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"I've got a customer," he said, opening the basket and setting Kekoja's food on the bedside table. "I'll be back. It shouldn't take me long."
Kekoja's nose wrinkled. "Fish again?"
"Beef pie tomorrow. I promise you. Eat your food, lad, I'll be right back."
"How many more times do I have to come here?" Brovor asked, from behind a fold of his cloak.
Duran paid attention to his work. "The sore's started to disappear. The swellings gone down."
"How many times? I asked you a question."
"This will be your fourth treatment," he said. "With luck, ten more."
"Ten?" The prince's whole body jerked. "You damn quack, that's intolerable!"
"Lord." The heir's companion spoke from the corner. "It does take time."
"And if I don't come back?" Brovor asked, his voice edged with menace.
"You die," Duran said with a shrug, tossed the swab, got up, and wiped his hands. "Sooner or later, you die."
"Damn you!" Brovor took a long breath. "You—"
Someone knocked on the door.
"Who's that?" Brovor asked in a hoarse whisper, clutching his cloak about him, his hand reaching for the hilt of the short sword he wore.
"I have no idea." Duran had not heard Dog bark, so he assumed his visitor was someone Dog knew. He put the top on the jar and set the wand beside it. "It's probably a neighbor—"
"No one must know I'm here!"
"I suggest you and your friend go to the back of the shop where the shadows are deepest. I'll try to keep this brief as possible."
"Gods! I'll—"
The heir's companion took Brovor by the arm. "Come, lord. He's right. Patience. Please."
Brovor glared at the door a moment longer, then followed his friend to the rear of the shop.
Another knock.
"Just a moment," Duran called. He glanced once over his shoulder to be sure the two young lords were hidden, then opened the door halfway and stepped outside.
Vadami stood waiting in the street.
Hladyr bless! The priest! Not now! Duran resisted the urge to glance behind him as he held on to the door.
"Good evening, Duran," Vadami said. "Hladyr's blessing on you."
Dog sat a few paces away, tail dropped. He was not fond of Vadami, but he was too well mannered to growl at someone he recognized.
"Good evening, Priest," Duran said, stepped out past the priest, pulled the door shut. "Been boiling up medicines. It's a warm night. Pleasanter air out here, I assure you, Father.—What may I do for you?"
"Just a social call. How are things going here in your neighborhood? Are you and your neighbors in good health?"
Like hell, Duran thought, a social call. Where was Vadami going with these questions, at this hour—
With the prince in the shop. And Zeldezia's going to him about the boy—
"Everyone's doing fine, thank you. Aside from normal complaints, headaches and such, no one's been sick."
"That's good to hear. Summer can bring on bad fevers."
"True, but I haven't seen the fever so far this year. My business isn't doing all that well, but I don't mind if it means folk are healthy."
Vadami rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. "I haven't seen you at Temple in some time. . . ."
"Difficult to close my shop—folk do need medicines. I've no help."
"I saw Zeldezia there," the priest said, his voice holding mild reproof. "She manages."
"That may be true, but Zeldezia makes better money than I do. And her clients can wait. A sick youngster—"
"Of course, of course." Vadami dismissed the subject with a brief gesture. "But I thought you had help. A Sabirn."
Duran bit his lip. "A boy. A boy beaten and left in the alley. He's not help, Father, far from it. His family's poor, the boy might have died. A work of charity."
"Charity to someone who deals with the dark powers. Do you understand that? You're putting your soul in peril."
"I doubt the boy has anything to do with powers—dark or light. He's a frightened kid—"
"Duran. This boy—this boy sleeping in your house—is an agent of deception. Of temptations—"
Duran snorted. "Why? Because they're dark, short, and speak a different language? This is a fourteen-year-old—"
"They're wizards. Demon-worshippers. Dealers with the dark. They reject the worship of Hladyr."
"Were they ever invited to worship him?" Duran asked.
Vadami's face tightened. "They could come to the Temple if they wanted to . . . if they evidenced a sincere desire to change their ways. But none of them has ever done that. They've no souls. They can't repent."
"That's for priests to say," Duran said, making a desperate effort to avoid controversy. "They're servants in all the noble houses. I see no difference in principle. . . ."
"What's wrong with you, Duran? Of course there's a difference. They're servants. But you deal with them, you trade with them. . . ."
Duran spread his hands. "They're the only help I can afford—when I can afford it at all."
For a moment, Duran thought that he might have broken through the priest's narrow view of things, but Vadami's face hardened. "So you take this boy into your employ—"
"Not my employ!"
"They're already starting to bespell you, just like Zeldezia said. Duran, I'm warning you. Don't have anything to do with the Sabirn! If you do, you'll be denying Hladyr and all his works. You know the Book of the Shining One, where it says:
"A fool is he who turns from Hladyr's face,
For darkness shall rise to engulf him,
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.