"Duran!"
Duran looked up from the alembic he was heating: Kekoja stood before the counter, soaked to the skin, a growing puddle spreading beneath him on the floor.
"I've got orders, Duran! People actually gave me orders!"
Duran set aside his book and smiled widely—so a little talk up and down the neighborhood had worked, his customers did have faith in him—
"Anyone seriously ill?"
"No."
"Good." Duran remembered the alembic, picked the head up in thick rags, poured out his decoction from the cucurbit, wrinkling his nose. "Who ordered what? You remember them all, I hope?"
"Aye." Kekoja closed his eyes and cocked his head. "Young Filland's teeth are bothering him again. Says he needs what you usually give him."
"That would be watercress," Duran said, taking a jar from the shelves behind him. "Who else?'
"Sora Mitti's son's got a toothache. She says it hurts him real bad."
"All right. What she needs is clove seeds." Duran got out another jar. "And she'd better have him to Heimid, get that seen to. Are you paying attention to what I'm giving them? You said you wanted to learn herbs."
"Aye, I'm listening. Cardilla says you know what you give her."
Another jar came off the shelves. "Hemp tea for Cardilla."
"And Mother Garan's headache's back."
"Poor woman." Duran shook his head. "Willow tea for headache. Any more?"
"No. That's all." Kekoja's dark eyes looked suddenly worried. "But it's a start, isn't it?"
"It certainly is. You did marvelously. You have an honest face. Now pay attention to how much I'm giving to each of these people." Duran started making heavy paper packets into which he inserted the various remedies. As he worked, he briefly named off the dosages and how to figure, while Kekoja watched every move. "You are a help," Duran said. "None of these folk would have come in today. They'd have suffered. Especially Mother Garan."
"Why don't you sell the old lady a big lot? She says she's got it all the time."
"Because—she only affords a bit. And I'll tell you a secret: I'd give it to her at cost—except she'd take too much, she'd take it all the time—and willow tea hurts the stomach if you take too much, too long: and she'd be worse off."
"She says she really hurts."
"If it doesn't clear up—if it gets worse—there are stronger things. You give them—if you have to. If there's nothing else can be done. And they'll ease the pain—but that's all they'll do."
"You mean she'll die. . . ."
"People do." He finished wrapping the last of the packets, and carefully placed them in the small waxed basket he used when gathering herbs. "Try to stay as dry as you can," he said, handing Kekoja the basket. "And take your time. Don't slip on the cobblestones."
Kekoja grinned. "If I do, I know a good 'pothecary to treat me." He drew his cloak over the basket held tight under one arm. "Don't worry, Duran. I won't get into trouble."
Duran watched the boy step back out into the rain and disappear down the street. Dog lay by the opened door, his tail thumping against the wall.
"Dog," Duran said, "if this works, I might see a comfortable living."
Dog whuffled once, and settled down for a nap, unconcerned whether Duran made a profit or not.
Two more days of storm and rain. The first day, Kekoja returned with twenty-five coppers off his orders; the second day, it was twenty-two. Duran immediately paid the boy his share: eight -coppers—a couple of good meals at an inn like the "Cat."
Now, sitting on his stool and watching the afternoon sunlight break through the clouds, Duran congratulated himself. The deep dark secret was out on the streets—no wizard, a bright-eyed, cheerful boy: folk relaxed, he had given the boy a chance to do more than . . . gods only knew what Kekoja had done before Duran had rescued him from the thugs.
And, gods, if his business continued to hold—if having Kekoja's healthy legs to run for him could bring orders in from streets up and down Old Town—he had always lived so frugally and saved every copper he could; he kept his small hoard hidden beneath one of the boards in the floor upstairs. If he continued to make the profits he had seen in the past two days, he might—
A scratching at his door brought Duran out of his daydreaming. He looked up at the skirted shadow in his doorway.
"Afternoon, Duran," Zeldezia said, stepping into the shop. Dog lifted his head, sniffed twice, and the beat of his tail stopped. "Never seen the like of this weather."
Duran put on a polite expression and nodded. He had not seen much of Zeldezia lately, a state of affairs he considered most fortunate. He had not talked to her since the boy had taken to the streets, he was sure she had that on her mind, and he vowed he would not let her make him lose his temper, that he would be polite to her no matter what she said.
"Sure been strange," she said. "All them storms comin' in. More like spring."
"Aye. It certainly has," Duran replied. "I hope you're doing well."
"Pfft." Zeldezia waved a hand. "It'd take more'n rain to keep business from my door. Folks got to have clothes to wear." She walked over to the counter and leaned up against it. "See that Sabirn lad up and down the street. He stayin' here?"
Duran drew a deep breath. "He isn't staying here anymore, Zeldezia. I promise you."
"Then where's he livin'? He stole anything?"
"No."
"He's taking medicines to people." Zeldezia's dark eyes narrowed. "Who knows what he's pilferin'. Duran, where's your good sense? How, by all the gods, can you trust 'im?"
"I trust him. He's a good runner, and an honest one."
"Ha! Honesty an' Sabirn ain't even in the same world with each other. I bet some o' your stuff ain't ever gettin' to your customers. You ever checked?"
"He hasn't done anything of the kind." Duran shifted on his stool, determined not to be angry. "I know how much I charge, and he's returned with every copper of it. I know my doses, I sell exactly what's required, and it gets there."
"But how you know he's been tellin' you the truth? How you know he ain't got more orders than he tells you? That he ain't takin' money for 'em and not givin' it to you?"
"I'd find out."
Zeldezia snorted something under her breath. "You're a damned trustin' man, Duran, if you think that kid ain't stealin' from you. An' what do you think he's doin' for your reputation? It's a little uppity of a Sab, runnin' medicines! Ain't never heard the like."
"Uptown shops use Sabirn all the time," Duran said. "As for my reputation—my good customers take care of that."
"Huh. Next you'll have 'im mixin' and boilin'.—You don't let him, do you?"
It hit too close. Morally he hated the lie. "Of course not." He arched an eyebrow in her direction. "And he saves people time . . . which most of us who work don't have in abundance." As usual, Zeldezia did not rise to his pointed remark. Duran doubted she understood him. "You know how it is. Old folk needing medicines and can't get out in the bad weather; and I can mix or I can be running up and down the streets getting soaked."
"Huhn." She straightened her skirts. "I still say you're out of your mind, Duran. An' I don't like havin' that kid runnin' in and out of your shop. Some of my uptown customers might see 'im."
"So? Your uptown customers wouldn't blink. They're used to Sabirn. And you certainly haven't been shy about telling everyone you know I'm responsible for the boy's presence. What's to keep you from telling your customers the same thing?"
An odd look passed across Zeldezia's face. "Do you honestly think I'm nothin' but a gossipy busybody? That I don't care what happens to you?"
"I don't know what to think," he said sternly. Gods, could Zeldezia be softening?
"Believe me. I am concerned."
"You certainly have a strange way of showing it. I'd far rather be left alone."
"—I'm concerned for your soul, Duran. . . ."
"Listen, what I do is between the Shining One and myself . . . not all the neighbors!"
"But Vadami. . . ."
"He's already talked with me," Duran said, keeping his voice even. "At your instigation, no doubt. Zeldezia, I wish you'd let it lie! Trust me to know whether my soul's mine or not!"
Zeldezia's face darkened. "I talked to him about you, aye, I did, an' I told you so. An' I told you what Vadami said to me." She drew a sharp breath. "I been outright and plain, everythin' I done. I care about you! But nothin' I've said, an' nothin' he's said, seems to've made any difference."
"Gods! Is that how you care? Who made you that way?"
"An' what do you mean by that?" she asked, drawing herself up and crossing her arms on her chest.
"Just what I said. Someone must have been damned nasty to you for you to be so bitter. And it wasn't Sabirn. I doubt you ever knew any Sabirn. Why can't you leave people alone, Zeldezia? Why can't you keep your nose out of other folk's business?" He lifted a hand. "Before you say the Sabirn lad I hired is your business, too, let me remind you he doesn't come into your shop. He doesn't even pause by your door. And as for you . . . you don't have to come over here and talk with me. You don't have to associate with someone who's obviously a damned soul!"
"That's not fair!" she cried. "Not fair at all. I done fair with you—"
"Even the Sabirn?"
Zeldezia's dark eyes glittered. "Them folk ain't got no souls! They sold 'em to demons and other crawlin' things of darkness in exchange for their nefarious powers!"
Hardly Zeldezia's own words. He saw Vadami in that. "And do you know that for a fact, Zeldezia?"
"Don't have to know it: Vadami told me so."
"If Vadami told you a country pig would be our next duke, would you believe him?"
"You be careful, Duran." Zeldezia's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You're comin' close to heresy. Vadami's a priest! You should have respect!"
"I won't dispute that. I talked with him that night . . . we quoted scripture. He quotes at me, I can cite him holy words that say the exact opposite of what he says."
"You a priest, too, you an' your uptown ways?' Zeldezia looked ready to be impressed. A lie tempted him; a dangerous lie, but:
"No." Duran allowed a small smile to touch his face; and he remembered Old Town had no sense of humor about the Temple. "But I had a fine education in my father's house. Surely you know that."
For some reason Zeldezia's face went red. "Oh, aye, Duran . . . lord it over the rest of us, you bein' Ancar and noble. Well, you're poor as us, now, ain't you? An' as for bein' Ancar . . . if I remember what the priest told me, it was Ancar destroyed the Sabirn empire and put them demons down! That's why there's the Duke, Hladyr bless 'im! Don't you snigger at prayin' an' tell me you know more'n Hladyr's own priest!"
Duran nodded toward Dog, who lay asleep by the doorway. "Once all dogs were wolves. They preyed on man's livestock, and man himself when they were pushed to it. Now some of them live with us, guard us, and are our friends. Just because two of Hladyr's creatures were enemies once doesn't mean dogs were demons. Or that old enemies can't change. Hladyr can change them. Maybe Hladyr has. Would you hate his creation? Because he put the Sabirn here. Would you say demons are powerful as Hladyr? I don't. So what happens is his doing, isn't it?"
Zeldezia snorted. "Very pretty, Duran. You're even tryin' to sound like a priest." She turned toward the doorway. "Mark my words, you're huntin' for trouble keepin' that boy workin' for you. One of these days it's all goin' to come home to you, your jokin' an' your lookin' down your nose at folk an' you're sendin' this slinkin' Sab kid around so's poor sick folk got no choice but deal with 'im, that's the respect you got for your neighbors. I tell you, some woman alone, she's got cause t'be scared of that kid, sure she's gon' t' pay 'im, sure she ain't gon' t' tell if he ask't more money than you said—she's scared!"
"Tell me when this happened! Name me names!"
Zeldezia would not meet his eyes. She flounced toward the door. "Any decent woman! Any poor old woman or ailin' old man, for that matter! You deal with your neighbors with that Sab kid, you go right on, and when it comes home, you remember what you done, 'cause not a one of your neighbors'll come to help you!"
She walked out of the shop, nearly stepping on Dog as she did so.
Dog scrambled out of the way, looked reproachfully at Duran, then shook himself and ambled outside. Kekoja was due back any time now, and Duran felt relieved the boy had not returned to find Zeldezia in the shop.
Duran shook his head. With people like Zeldezia in the world, it was no wonder one of mankind's favorite pastimes was war.
Thunder over Targheiden as Duran locked his door and ran across the street to the inn. The rain had started falling heavily just as he left his shop and, by the time he ducked inside the "Cat's" opened doorway, his cloak was wet.
"Good evening, Sor Duran," Old Man said from his place on the floor. "Do you think this rain will ever stop?"
Duran shook his head and gave Old Man a copper. "For your story tonight, if you're in the mood to tell one."
Old Man smiled and slipped the coin into his belt pouch. "I may tell one you've never heard before," he said.
Duran paused, looking at him. But Old Man looked elsewhere.
Duran walked to his table. The mood of the customers in the "Cat" was subdued tonight, the gloom of yet another day of rain, Duran thought. Tut came, took his order, and vanished back toward the kitchen without more than a few polite words.
During which Duran found himself the object of several furtive stares. Hladyr bless!
Then he thought sourly: Zeldezia.
Damn her.
He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and glanced up as a red-nosed Lalada brought him his ale.
"You don't look like you're feeling well," he said.
"Not," she sniffed. "Got a bad humor in my head."
"Come over to the shop, and I'll give you something to make you feel better."
Lalada stared for a moment. "Only if you give it to me. Don't want no Sabirn handlin' it."
Duran matched the ale-girl's stare. "You'll get it from me," he promised, "and no one else."
"Then I'll stop by tomorrow. 'Fore I come to work. You be up that early?"
"I can be."
"I'll be there."
Duran watched her go back toward the bar and shook his head. Damn Zeldezia! Gain a bit and that woman's mouth undid it all again . . . He had gotten around her before. He dropped his chin on his hand and thought. . . .
Tut came up with the beef pie—beef pie more often these days, thank the boy for that: nothing wrong with fish . . . in fact, he liked fish . . . but gods, a body could get tired of second-choice. . . .
The door to the inn opened, a momentary rush of rain-sound, a rumble of thunder overhead.
Ladirno and Wellhyrn entered the common room.
Gods . . . not tonight.
What in hell brings them down on the harbor-route?
The two ducal favorites made quite a show of shaking the rain from their costly cloaks and slowly walking to take a table near Duran's. In a perverse way, it warmed Duran's heart that none of the "Cat's" customers paid any attention to the newcomers' fastidious settling-in.
"Duran." Ladirno nodded slightly as he took a chair close by. "I hope you're doing well."
"I am. And you?"
Ladirno smiled. "Excellently. We did an experiment for the Duke a few days back—in between the storms—and produced him gold from a stone."
"And received quite a handsome gift from His Grace for doing so, I might add," said Wellhyrn, inspecting his fingernails. He looked at Duran and lifted an eyebrow. "We've just come back from the harbor. My shipment's been delayed again by the weather.—How are you doing in this dreadful summer? How are the finances?"
Duran tried to keep his face expressionless. "I'm doing all right. Thanks for your concern."
Tut came out from the kitchen; Ladirno and Wellhyrn placed their orders in loud voices, the "Cat's" most expensive, -individually prepared selections. Duran busied himself with his pie, though neither alchemist seemed interested in talking with him again.
Pompous asses! He chewed a bit of pie, swallowed, and took a long drink of ale. He was doing far better than they thought. . . .
But he had no inclination to compare finances and he certainly had no desire for their attention. Ladirno he never minded much; the fellow was competent but all too willing to practice the tried and true without ever seeking the new. It was Wellhyrn who puzzled Duran: there was something hard and dark and twisted about the man . . . something Duran did not like or trust.
He kept his head down, eating his pie and drinking his ale, and trying not to pay attention to his colleagues' conversation. Most of it, he thought was aimed directly at him, since Wellhyrn was recounting events that Ladirno must already know . . . successes at court, admiration from fellow alchemists, and gifts of money from the Duke and other nobles.
Dammit, man! he chided himself. If you wanted a life like theirs, you could play the game, too.
And have them for permanent company . . .
" . . . hear about the necromancer they hanged over on the west side?" Wellhyrn was asking Ladirno, as the two of them started their dinners. "The Guard caught her practicing and took her before the priests. They say she never would admit to -anything—but one knows."
"They put her to the question, of course. . . ."
"Hot irons," Wellhyrn said. "She cursed the priests when they were hanging her. Quite a show. Big crowd."
"In all this rain? Gods."
Wellhyrn laughed, a cold laugh, unnerving to hear coming from one so young. "Folk know there's something odd in this weather. You should have seen it. All these hundreds of people standing in the storm and the lightning—"
"You saw it?"
"Oh, I did."
"Huh." Ladirno gave a shiver or a shrug. "Demon-worshippers. I want no part of it."
Enough to curdle a man's appetite, Duran thought, listening to it. He finished his pie—he had no inclination to be chased out of the warm tavern in the height of the rain, and he hoped they would leave soon—turned slightly away, and leaned back in his chair, trying to give the impression he was dozing after a rich meal. He heard Wellhyrn and Ladirno rise, finally scatter coins on the table in payment for their food, and leave.
But he heard the gossip they left in their wake. He heard people mutter—sorcery . . .
"Duran."
He looked up: Ithar stood at his side, a mug of ale in one burly hand.
"Mind if I join you?"
Duran shook his head and gestured to a chair.
"Saw them snot-nosed rich boys tryin' to bother you," Ithar said, sitting down. "Don't you let 'em get to you, Duran. Them kind ain't worth more than fish food." His dark eyes sparkled. "An' maybe the fish'd spit 'em back."
"Sometimes it's hard to ignore them," Duran admitted. "Them and their money."
Ithar cocked his head. "Why?"
"Hladyr only knows. I can't think of anything I'd want from them."
"Fah! You just remember that them kind don't never do nothin' for anyone but themselves. They may have all the money an' importance, but they can't take it with 'em."
Duran drew a deep breath. "I think you're right, Ithar, but there are times when I'd like to punch their smirking faces in, and me, a gentleman."
"Don't waste your time. You got better things to do." Ithar crossed his arms on the tabletop. "That Sabirn boy of yours workin' out?"
He looked hopefully at Ithar. So maybe the damage was not that widespread. "Aye. I wish I'd thought to hire someone long ago. I never thought I had the money for it"
"An' Sabirn come cheap."
Duran nodded. "I've been doing all right lately than I've seen in years. I might be able to buy some better equipment for the shop if things keep going so well. I might want some smithing. . . ."
"Be glad of the work. But you just be careful, Duran. An' you tell that boy of yours to keep his head down an' never look like he's doin' anythin' but run for you. You understand?"
"Zeldezia's been talking again."
"It's not only that," Ithar said. "It's that hanging—"
"The boy's nothing but an orphaned kid! He's damn sure no wizard, let alone any—"
"No, no. I didn't mean it that way." Ithar lowered his voice. "We ain't seen no necromancers in years, Duran. Not in years. Now they go an' find themselves one that's probably been spellin' the weather . . . bringin' on the storms and such . . . An' maybe that's it an' now it'll stop—"
"I don't believe anyone can control the weather," Duran said. "Not even the Duke's wizards, else he wouldn't have lost so many ships at sea."
"Ah, but what if his enemies got themselves a bunch of wizards to counteract his wizards? Eh? What then?"
Duran closed his eyes. What had caused his father to fall from power and the friendship of the Duke? Was it wizards again?
"You just keep yourself out of trouble, Duran . . . an' keep an eye on that lad. Whatever that necromancer did, she got caught at it."
"Or, she was an easy one to blame for the bad weather," Duran suggested. "Some poor old soul—"
"Duran. Duran, lissen to me. That necromancer they hung?—She was Sabirn."
Duran left "The Swimming Cat" earlier than was normal for him, while the rain was still falling and lightning played in the heavy clouds. He ran across the street, stood in the windy space beneath his second story overhang, and cursed the key that stuck in the lock. The warm feeling of late afternoon had disappeared from his heart, leaving coldness behind . . . a coldness next to fear.
Gods above and below! If Targheiden's folk decided that Sabirn were at fault for the weather—
He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it behind the door, absent-mindedly patted Dog, who stepped outside to his nightly duties all oblivious to hazards—
He resolved to say something to Kekoja in the morning, warn the boy—gods, how did one explain such lunacy to a boy?—warn the boy to keep the lowest profile he could.
And himself? Damn. He was Ancar. His personal danger was negligible. He was no courtier, had no enemies with political reasons—he refused to be a coward, could not turn back from what he had done, from hiring Kekoja . . . honor forbade that. Pride did. He could not desert the boy—or fling him off, out of some stupid, weaseling fear—
By the time Duran had lit his lamp, Dog came back into the shop, stopping in the doorway and shaking the rainwater from his coat. He sat down, scratched at one ear, then jumped to his feet and whirled about.
"Sor Duran."
Old Man stood in the doorway beneath the overhang . . . Old Man, and Kekoja.
"Come in," Duran said, wiping his hands on his tunic. Gods hope there was no problem. He tried to tell himself it was other-wise, a personal business. Gods, who might be seeing him here, from the "Cat's" door? "Come in, you'll drown out there."
He lit the lamp hanging above the counter and turned up the wick in the other. Old Man and Kekoja came into the shop, shook the worst of the rain from their cloaks, and sat down on the floor.
"What can I do for you?" Duran asked, coming round the counter to face his guests.
Old Man's dark eyes were steady in the lamplight. "You left early tonight, Sor Duran. I've come to tell you that story I promised you."
A sense of guilt washed over Duran—for all his fears. For a woman hanged . . . For thinking—instantly—why? What will the neighbors think?
"Please." He shut the door against the rain—wondering again who might see, as if that door being shut—made it clear it was no case of Old Man being customer. But he hated cowardice. "Can I get you tea?"
"Tea, yes, thank you," Old Man said; and Duran got the pan he used for tea, lit a spill, and fired up the little apothecary's stove at the end of the counter—while Old Man settled into the only chair, while Kekoja settled cross-legged at his feet—
Like some personage with his escort.
"Thank you," Old Man said, when Duran brought the tea, and sipped it while Duran found himself a seat on the stool, his own cup in hand. . . .
"This is a story I doubt our neighbors would appreciate," Old Man said after several sips. "You've asked me several times what things were like before our empire fell. Well, I thought I'd tell you a story about those last days, if you want to listen."
Duran's heart beat in fear. "Of course I'll listen." He realized in his panic what Old Man was offering—he knew what he ought to do, and set the teacup down on the counter at his elbow. "Did your grandson tell you I keep such stories written down? To prevent their being lost? Do you mind?"
"No. Write anything you like."
Duran hurried behind his counter and pulled out a sheet of coarse paper and a stick of charcoal. Seating himself on his stool, the paper on the counter, he took up the teacup again, poised himself anxiously to take notes.
Old Man smiled and began his story. At the first, it seemed a mere recounting of old myths, old accounts reassuringly -familiar—agreeing with what the Temple held the world was like a thousand years ago: the barbaric Armu had pushed eastward across the Irdanu River into Pesedur, thrust out of their homelands themselves by the tall, fair Ancar. Kingdom after kingdom fell to Armu hordes and Ancari armies, all advancing toward the west and the heart of the Empire.
Then Jarrya fell, the breadbasket of the inner world, and the Ancar came southward into the Sabirn peninsula—toward the capital, where authority tottered—as at sea, Sakar harbored pirates and worse, sitting poised to do any kind of damage they could to failing shipping . . . taking advantage of the Empire's weakness, adding to that weakness by raiding ships, ruining mercantile houses . . . increasing poverty and dissent—
Duran dutifully made brief notes, interested that once Targheiden had been called Cerinde and that fabled Sakar was now known as the Sacarres. But of greater matters, secret matters, he heard nothing he had not been told before, albeit in pieces and disconnected as a whole.
Then Old Man spoke of the Empire itself.
Sabis was the capital of that empire, and the center of the once thriving trade that had made the Sabirn wealthy, drawing substances and goods from all around the Inner Sea. Sabirn ships, far more advanced than those of other nations, carried Sabirn trade into all the surrounding world, bringing back wonders from other countries—arts, slaves, furs and silk and spices. The Sabirn had boasted banks, a class of traders with power in the imperial court, and a beginning guild of artisans. In short the level of their civilization had rivaled what existed today—in everything but the blessings the Temple provided, the knowledge of Scriptures, the work of Hladyr's priests—
There had been other gods.
"And wizardry?" Duran asked, as Old Man paused for a moment, "You had your wizards, didn't you?"
"Ah, wizards. Aye, we had our wizards, as you have yours. Their methods didn't vary much from yours."
"No more powerful?"
"No more powerful."
Duran found himself vaguely disappointed.
"But there was other knowledge," Old Man said.
"Alchemy?" A chill went down Duran's back. His hand paused, waiting.
"Alchemists . . . who were wizards. Wizards who were alchemists. That gave them the power. . . ."
Duran swallowed. "Did you ever hear of any of them who could turn base metals into gold?"
Kekoja ducked his head to hide his expression, but Old Man disdained such subterfuge. He laughed quietly.
"No." His dark eyes glittered in the lamplight as he looked up at Duran. "Can you?"
"No," Duran admitted, shaking his head. "Not I. And no one I know can—" Thinking of Ladirno and Wellhyrn this evening—and their claim of gold. "—despite what they say." He could hang for what he admitted. The Guild would see to it. "They're simple tricks."
"What we did have in the twilight of our empire was a man named Sulun, who called himself a 'natural philosopher'—and who came close to developing a weapon to drive the invaders out of Sabir."
"A weapon—of wizardry?"
"Of natural force. Sulun and other like-minded folk survived the downfall of the Empire, and went off into the wilderness, taking all their knowledge with them." Old Man smiled slightly. "They were known as wizards, Duran . . . and some of them were. But wizardry only gave them luck. Their wits gave them what they made."
"Then they could have saved the Empire—"
"Aye. But when an empire is falling, even philosophers find themselves dealing with time and fools. There was no time. And there was an abundance of fools. So Sulun and his followers took with them a knowledge of medicine, of shipbuilding, of manufacturing . . . of all kinds of things. We remember. We do remember."
"But remembering—" For a moment Duran was conscious of himself as Ancar, tall, fair, blue-eyed—themselves as Sabirn, the dark, ancient folk—who might want their Empire back—
Or want revenge for it . . .
"Your barbaric ancestors crushed Sabis like an overripe fruit," Old Man said, and clenched an uplifted hand. Let it fall. "Say nothing, Sor Duran. You are not your ancestors. We are not ours. Sabis was ready to fall . . . hollow from the inside out. Kingdoms and empires age. They have their lifespans. They breed descendants. Your ancestors happened to be the instrument."
Duran felt the flush on his cheeks. "Nevertheless, the waste of it all—"
"Nothing is wasted—nothing lost."
He stirred on his stool. "You know the priest, Vadami? He told me there was once a great Sabirn wizard named Siyuh—Ziya? Who made fire leap from his hands. Is that a true story?"
Old Man's smile never wavered; only his eyes became hooded, shut off, remote from Duran's questions. "Perhaps that's a story I can tell you one day. But not tonight. I've talked longer than I should."
"What would you do," Kekoja asked suddenly, leaning against Old Mans knee, "if you knew what we knew in the days of our empire?"
"Me?" Duran blinked in the lamplight. "I've never really thought about it. I'd try to make better medicines first, I suppose. When I see people die and I can't help them . . ."
"And being an alchemist," Old Man said, "you're interested in changing base metals to gold. What would you do if you could?"
Duran studied Old Man for a long moment, trying to guess why he and Kekoja were asking such seemingly unrelated questions. "I'm not denying I'd like to have more money. Money can buy many things, Old Man, and it can help people if it's used right. But consider this: if I was interested only in making money, I'd be up in the Duke's palace with the rest of the alchemists."
Old Man frowned and ducked his head. "I must be going," Old Man said, then, reaching for his walking stick. "At my age, sleep is something I value."
Kekoja stood, drew Old Man's cloak up, and helped him to his feet. The suddenness of this departure puzzled Duran, but he left Old Man's secrets alone. He stepped down from his stool, set his paper and charcoal stick on the counter, and faced the two Sabirn. Should he tell them about the necromancer who had been hanged, and warn Kekoja to keep very quiet? No. Tomorrow. It was quite obvious Old Man and his grandson wished to leave.
"When you come to work tomorrow, remind me to tell you something," Duran said to Kekoja. "It's important, but it will keep."
"Aye."
Duran watched from his doorstep as Old Man and Kekoja walked across the street. Then, just as he started to turn away, he noticed two men standing in the shelter of the building across the alleyway. Dog joined him at the doorway, growled softly, and sniffed in the newcomers' direction.
"Old Man," one of the men called out softly. "It's us."
Brovor, returned with his companion for another treatment.
Aside from the one time Brovor had let Duran know he recognized him, no one had mentioned names again. Duran's estimation of the heir had gone up; the young lord had not missed one night of coming for his medicine, though it meant going out in the rain and visiting a section of town he otherwise might never have frequented. It must have been difficult for Brovor to get away from the palace every night. But fear was a great motivator, and if getting the pox kept Brovor away from the whores, the lad might have learned a lesson.