"Gods-cursed storms!" Wellhyrn snarled, flinging his sodden cloak to the floor of Ladirno's apartment. His light brown hair was plastered to his forehead where the hood of his cloak had not kept the rain out. Damp spots marked his expensive jerkin, and his hose were dark to the knee above soaked glove-leather boots. "I don't think I've ever seen the like! Has anyone told you about the river? It's flooding the lower areas of the Slough."
"Bah!" Ladirno waved a hand. "It could flood the Slough right into the sea, and the world would be a better place for it. What in the gods' names brings you out on a day like this?"
Wellhyrn's green eyes caught the light from the grey, rain-spattered window. "News, Ladir. News we can possibly turn to our benefit. Do you have something to drink?"
"Aye." Ladirno walked over to the sideboard, poured himself and Wellhyrn a glass of wine, then extended one of the glasses to his guest. "What is it now? Gods, you pick up more gossip than anyone I know."
"Duran," Wellhyrn said, dropping down into a chair and sipping at his wine. "I was out early this morning, before the downpour. I stopped for breakfast at the 'Shoe,' and who should drop by but your new friend, Vadami."
"Vadami? My friend?" Ladirno snorted. "That fellow's nobody's friend but his own. Well, what about him?"
A thin smile touched Wellhyrn's face. "Vadami, oh, so -humbly asked if I'd seen you. He seems to think you're a friend of Duran's."
"Gods."
Wellhyrn chuckled. "Anyway, I didn't shatter his delusion and asked him to join me. I said I might be seeing you later in the day and if he had a message, I'd be happy to pass it along."
"So?"
Wellhyrn lifted an eyebrow. "Vadami had been ministering to some poor creature in Old Town last night and was on his way back to the Temple. He happened to be walking up Smithy Street by 'The Swimming Cat,' when he noticed—of all things—that old Sabirn from the tavern—and that Sabirn kid—"
"—his grandson, by my sources."
Wellhyrn's handsome face was alight with malice. "Both of them at Duran's door. Him and this young boy. Now I ask you why. I ask you why Duran let them in and shut the door fast."
Ladirno frowned. "Puzzling."
"Isn't it?" Wellhyrn's mood changed: all humor had fled from it. "It makes me damned nervous, Ladir. What in Dandro's hells is going on in that shop, that's what I'd like to know! Why's Duran buying good ale of a sudden—eating beef like a gentleman? Did you catch that?"
"Did Vadami hear anything?"
"In a storm like the one last night? Hardly. He was afraid of being seen, and only got close enough to make sure he saw what he thought. Then he retreated to shelter at the front of 'The Swimming Cat' to watch what happened next."
Ladirno swirled the wine in his glass, watching the lamplight in it. "I'd give a lot to know what was going on in there."
"So, dear colleague, would I." Wellhyrn stretched in the chair, his movements graceful and refined. "I'm very much afraid that Duran might be involved in something."
"Such as?" Ladirno asked.
"Sabirn secrets. Such as—hidden knowledge. One wonders what he's doing—and what the Sabirn's price is."
"He's been talking to that old man for years."
Wellhyrn took a sip of wine. "Doing gods know what for years."
"Fah! I think there's no secret to be had. If that old man knows secrets like that, if any Sabirn does—why are they so damned poor?"
"I can know many things," Wellhyrn said softly, his voice smooth, "but if I don't have the tools to make use of what I know, I might as well not know it."
"Gods. You don't think—"
"What better cover for a wizard than to appear as an old beggar?"
"Now you are grasping for straws. I'd believe Duran capable of searching for Sabirn secrets—but credit him with wanting to bring down the kingdom . . . For gods' sakes, Wellhyrn . . . he's an Ancar noble!"
Wellhyrn sneered. "Was an Ancar noble. His father was -banished—for treason."
"Treason being the old duke's whim, by what I hear, not Hajun's. And Duran's still Ancar. I can't believe any Ancar—"
"Would do what? Consort with Sabirn? Think about it. Obviously he's after something from the Sabirn. We think it's alchemical secrets. It could be worse. But even if it's only the one, they provide him with alchemistic secrets we can only dream of—if only to keep him on the string. And where would that leave us, and the other members of our profession?"
Ladirno stared at Wellhyrn, and rubbed his forehead, fighting down a headache.
"Now you're beginning to see it," Wellhyrn said.
Ladirno stared at the rain-washed window. "I suppose," he murmured, "we'd better brave the storm. It's time both you and I had another conversation with our little priest. I want to get to hear his story for myself."
Vadami stood in the doorway of "The Golden Shoe," abhorring the thought of going out into the rain and wind of Old Town, but if word of his loitering got back to his superiors, they would take his hours here for softness. He sighed deeply in resignation, took a long breath, opened the door, and nearly ran head-on into a dripping Ladirno accompanied by an equally sodden Wellhyrn.
"Ah, Father Vadami," Ladirno said, thrusting the hood of his cloak back and smiling. "The very person I wanted to see. What luck to find you here."
Vadami pushed his own hood back, bowed slightly, and kept a smile on his face, unsure whether he was being mocked.
"A table for three," Wellhyrn said to a serving-boy. "And your best half bottle of wine."
Feeling caught up in something he did not understand, Vadami followed the two alchemists to a table at the rear of the common room, far from the crowd near the windows. Seating himself across from the two hosts, he unclasped his cloak and let it hang over the back of the chair.
"How may I help you, Sori?" he asked, trying to read the expression on their faces, but their smiles never wavered. Hladyr bless! If only he could be as important as these men. If only the Shining One would bless him with the luck . . . would bring his love of the gods and his work to the attention of his superiors.
And get him out of Old Town.
"I got your message," Ladirno said conversationally, leaning back in his chair. The waiter brought a carafe of wine and three glasses to the table, left them unpoured at the wave of Ladirno's hand.
"My . . . message, yes." Vadami watched the lamplight glitter on Ladirno's gold neck chain. "About Duran—"
Ladirno tilted his head, implied invitation.
"I'm getting increasingly worried, Sori. He doesn't want to listen to me—and—considering you have some concern for him—rather than go to Temple authorities, you understand—"
"We appreciate this," Ladirno said.
"I thought maybe you'd be able to talk some sense into him. After all, you're his—" Cough. "—friend in the Guild—"
"You mean about his visitors last night."
Vadami nodded. "He's endangering his soul, consorting with the Sabirn. It's become extremely serious—this business on the west end—"
"We understand that," Wellhyrn said smoothly. "Necromancy is a very serious charge."
"I'm trying to rescue him. I can't make any headway with him, though gods know I've tried. He doesn't believe they're dangerous."
"What was the old man talking about?" Ladirno asked, pouring Vadami a glass of wine, then filling his and Wellhyrn's glasses. "Did you hear anything at all? Can you guess anything?"
"No." Vadami took a sip of the wine, marveling at its smoothness. "I couldn't get that close. But whatever it was—it undoubtedly had to do with the dark arts."
"You think so?"
"What else would a Sabirn be talking about? They're devils! What can they want but to snare the innocent? I've tried to warn him, Sor Ladirno. Duran's soul is in my care, it's my duty as a priest of Hladyr to keep him from falling into darkness."
"Could the old man have been telling Duran secrets?" Wellhyrn prompted, running a languid fingertip around the rim of his glass. "Things the Sabirn might—remember?"
"No one could know. The old man usually tells tales at the inn. But people have seen Duran writing while he talks."
The two court alchemists exchanged a brief look, one full of obvious concern. Vadami's heart warmed: these were good people. It was good to know that men so powerful still had concern for a friend in danger. Maybe, with their help, he could talk Duran into leaving the Sabirn alone.
Maybe—with their help—and a good outcome for this affair—he could find friends at court—
It was very wise of him—to have gone to them and not his superiors.
"I am concerned." Wellhyrn shook his handsome head. "Have you noticed this old Sabirn talking to anyone strange?"
Hladyr bless! Sorgun orders me to tell him if this old man ever talks to anyone who lives outside of Old Town. Now I get the same question from these eminent alchemists. . . .
"No. Not that I can remember. But I'm not in Old Town every hour of every day. I certainly could keep an eye on things—"
"That would be appreciated. But don't worry too much. We'll see if we can talk some sense into him. Meanwhile, keep up your watch. We'd like to know how he's doing." He smiled and spread his hands. "Unfortunately, we don't see much of him at court. It's probably very embarrassing for him to attend, poor as he is."
"Perhaps we ought to help him again," Ladirno suggested.
"Aye. Perhaps."
"I—" Vadami hesitated, cleared his throat. "I did—observe the shop last night—out of concern, you understand. Attempting to be sure I understood before I—approached anyone with this information—"
"Did you see him leave the premises?"
"No. But I did see—other traffic that night."
"Be more clear."
"I can't be. Two heavily cloaked men—I'm sure they were men—went into Duran's shop. They—went uptown. I followed them—as far as the palace gate."
"And?"
This was frightening. Vadami wished he had more understanding what he had seen. Wellhyrn's eyes frightened him. "They went inside. The guards evidently knew them. They passed without question."
"Anything distinctive about them?"
"One very tall. Broad-shouldered. Both in black cloaks, wrapped up to here—" A measure at his nose. He swallowed heavily, wondering if he was in some danger. He searched his recollection frantically for detail. "One—the small one—had blue boots. Blue with silver piping down the side. . . ."
That got a reaction: both alchemists went very attentive and stared at him.
"Sori?" Vadami asked.
"And?"
"That's all. That's all I saw."
"Interesting." Wellhyrn reached into his belt pouch and pulled out two gold midonahri. "Take this as your donation for the day. And don't worry about Duran. We'll talk with him."
"And you'd best be off for Old Town," Ladirno said. "Just—be as discreet as you have been. This is important."
Vadami reached out and took the coins, trembling. Hladyr bless, it was more than he usually saw in a month for all of Old Town.
He pursed the coins, stood, took up his cloak. Ladirno and Wellhyrn nodded him a courtesy. "Father," Ladirno said by way of parting, as if he were somebody.
"The blessings of Hladyr," he murmured, signing them both. "I'll remember you in my prayers."
As the priest walked off to the door, Ladirno met Wellhyrn's eyes, said in a hushed vice, "You know who that was."
Wellhyrn's voice was unsteady. "What in Dandro's hells was he wanting with Duran?"
Ladirno's face shone pale in the lamplight. "Let's get out of here." And out on the street, in the downpour: "The duke's heir!" Ladirno hissed. "Gods, man, what's going on?"
"Knowing Brovor, Duran could have been selling him a love potion."
"Don't joke!"
"But we'd better hope it wasn't anything more than a love potion."
"What do you mean by that?"
Wellhyrn looked him in the eye, water streaming down a face paler than its wont. "There's another possibility. What's Duran best known for?"
"He's an herbalist—a part-time alchemist."
"Think, man! The famous cure for the pox! What if—"
"O gods above and below!" Ladirno felt his heart lurch in his chest. "You don't think he—the heir—good gods, Brovor's negotiating for Mavid's daughter—the alliance with—"
"Why else would he be visiting someone like Duran? If you were the Duke's son and had the pox, would you call in the court doctor to treat you?"
"Of course not. I'd . . ." Ladirno rubbed his eyes. "Gods! If Duran is treating Brovor, and he cures him—"
Wellhyrn smiled nastily. "He's either rich, or dead—when Brovor's the duke."
"Hells!" Ladirno shook his head. "But this Sabirn connection!"
"Worrisome. Damned worrisome." Wellhyrn gnawed at a hangnail and Ladirno stared helplessly at his younger companion, wishing his mind worked with the same speed as Wellhyrn's. He felt certain Wellhyrn had other things in mind, dangerous things—
"I think," Ladirno said, cautiously feeling his way forward, "if we mentioned that Duran's tied in with the Sabirn to the prince himself—just happen to mention it—"
Wellhyrn shot him a furious scowl. "Why would we just happen to mention Duran? Don't be a fool! That's a way to get both our throats cut!"
"But—"
Wellhyrn's smile dazzled. "But the Duke! His Grace has the rains to contend with, he has the suspicion of Sabirn -necromancers—if he finds out an Ancar, the son of a pardoned traitor—is dealing with Sabirn—"
"Talk about dangerous! Good gods, Wellhyrn!"
"No, no, if we phrase this exactly right, stressing Duran's Ancar heritage, the Duke might take it personally—personally enough to take action—and uncover this conspiracy. . . ."
A cold chill ran up Ladirno's spine. "What kind of action, Wellhyrn. We're talking about Duran's head!"
"Exile. Exile's what his father got, exile's the most likely thing."
"But what about Brovor?"
"There is the other possibility, you know."
"What?"
"That the heir's in on it—the wizardry—the Sabirn—"
"God, no! Not Brovor."
"Wouldn't be the first son wanted his inheritance early. Say the Sabirn knew that impatience. Say the Sabirn found a way to Duran—who has away to the heir . . . you know what we're talking abut here?"
"Hladyr save—"
"We just talk with His Grace, we just quietly—quietly handle all this. Tell him a non-Guild alchemist is . . . friendly with the Sabirn. With all this anxiousness about the situation—the Duke will be concerned, the Duke will move. . . ."
"Gods, this is dangerous."
"Steady. Steady. It's also profitable. For us, you understand. When you play at these levels—you take risks. Brovor's one. But one thing we know—he's not working with the Sabirn. If he's being double-crossed—he'll come to us to sound us out—and we can position ourselves—"
"I don't like this!"
"Easy. Easy. Let's go back in, have something to eat, calm ourselves. Gods only know how long we'll wait at the palace, and I'll be damned if I'm both hungry and wet."
The wind rattled the expensive glass windows of the Great Hall, and the Duke—in tedious and sparsely attended audience—winced at the noise. Another day of storms had swept down on Targheiden . . . another day of weather that could sink a ship and lose all its cargo: more complaints. A minstrel played something soothing in one corner, and the courtiers stood or sat together in small groups, their conversations low enough so that nothing could be heard.
"Damn soggy bore," Hajun muttered to his wife, who sat a few paces away with her daughter and their ladies, all of whom were busy with needlepoint. He had not been in the best of moods all day, and it was a wonder she was even speaking to him after he had snarled at her over breakfast.
His two sons sat with a group of friends their own age, other lords' sons, brought to Targheiden to learn manners of the court. They laughed, told jokes, and diced together, the weather preventing their usual summertime entertainments of hawking, arms practice, and hunting. Brover had been much out on the town lately. Granted he had not stayed out late, and had not returned drunken as he had so many times in the past—such partying worried Hajun: that was the fight at breakfast. His wife dismissed it as the last fling of a young man on the verge of state marriage and true adulthood, counseled him to ignore the late-night outings.
But there were hopeful signs. Today, for instance, Brovor and Saladar were not feuding—an unusual but welcome sight.
"Your Grace . . ."
The door to the hall had opened: his steward entered, paused, and ushered two black-clad men into the room: Ladirno and Wellhyrn. Hajun smiled in greeting, though his heart was not in it. He wanted nothing to do with their speeches or demonstrations today; but—in a slow day—they promised, perhaps, diversion. . . .
"Wellhyrn, Ladirno," he called out, stirring in his chair. "You attend me in vile weather, gentlemen. I do commend your faithfulness."
The two alchemists bowed and approached the dais, past the idle courtiers, conversations briefly paused, the eternal estimating glances following whoever walked that route. Wolves, Hajun thought, estimating the town dogs.
"Dreadful day, isn't it?" Hajun gestured Ladirno and Wellhyrn to be at ease, hardly interrupted his signing of permissions and warrants, thick on the desk.
"The river's beginning to flood the Slough," Wellhyrn said. "As I'm sure Your Grace has heard. . . ."
"Good riddance." Hajun signed another document and blotted it, guarding his sleeve. "Surely there's something else going on in Targheiden besides the floods."
Ladirno glanced at Wellhyrn and bowed slightly, lowered his voice. "If it please Your Grace, we've come here today for a reason."
"Aside from keeping me company while the storms rage? Laudable. I need diversion."
Neither man reacted to his sarcasm, and Hajun felt briefly cheated. Town dogs indeed.
"A matter somewhat touching the Guild," Ladirno continued, leaning a bit forward in his chair. "Something—of great -delicacy—"
"So tell me, man. Don't let me die of old age before you get around to it."
This time a faint flush stole across Ladirno's face. Hajun chided himself for being snappish: Ladirno and Wellhyrn were hardly responsible for the vile weather. He smiled quickly, to pass off his words as levity.
"It involves the Sabirn, lord," Ladirno said, "and one of your court."
"Oh?" Hajun's quill stopped on its way to the inkwell. "One of my—court?"
Wellhyrn cleared his throat, attempted to whisper: "One of our colleagues—"
Hajun beckoned him up a step on the dais. Both advanced anxiously.
"One of our colleagues," Wellhyrn said, "a member of this court—at least—in entitlement, if not in fact."
Hajun felt his wife's eyes on him, and lowered his voice. "Who's involved?"
"Duran vro Ancahar."
Hajun let out his breath. "So. Duran's hardly one of the luminaries of this court," Hajun said. "In fact, it's been a long time since he's even darkened my door."
Ladirno nodded and gestured quickly. "That may be true, lord, but he has access here. As well as to the Guild."
"He's been known for years—to have contacts among the Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, keeping his voice as low as his companion's. "Being his colleagues, as Ladirno said, we have a professional -responsibility to report—" The young man glanced around, and lowered his voice further. "—possible involvement in the dark arts."
Hajun blinked. "Duran?"
"There's perhaps reason he keeps to Old Town, that he's—ignored your late father's generous restoration of his rights. He goes off into the hills with the Sabirn. He's taken a Sabirn into his house. There are rumors—" Wellhyrn coughed. "—of moral nature. He ignores his priest—his closest associates are Sabirn."
"Why?"
"Why indeed, Your Grace," Wellhyrn said. "In this most unusual summer—in this year of disasters—why these nightly visitors, why these strange associations, why this sudden distance from his priest?"
"Which is strange," Ladirno said. "Duran's always seemed to be religious in his own way."
"Huhn." Hajun studied the two alchemists. There was something going on here, something that lurked beneath the surface of their ready concern. He had not seen that concern evidenced so obviously before. Maybe there was a great deal going on he had not paid close attention to.
"Its a matter of concern," Wellhyrn said. "Understand: we know this man. We mark changes in him. And considering his discovery, his trade in—medicines certain individuals might have reason to want in extreme secret—there's such a chance for blackmail. Understand, Your Grace, we've no proof. But we've abundant witnesses of his Sabirn contacts. This boy—a storyteller at a certain tavern—whom he entertains late, behind closed doors—an Ancar nobleman, Your Grace. In these anxious times . . ."
"Your Grace," said Ladirno, spreading his hands, "it's well known that all Sabirn practice the dark arts in one way or another. Their very gods . . ."
Hajun nodded. He looked up at the windows—at the perpetual, unnatural spatter of rain.
Wellhyrn said softly: "I know you've been concerned, lord, by the weather. As have we all. Uncommon. Malicious. Flooding in the Slough."
"The necromancer they hanged," Ladirno said, softer still, "Your Grace, she was Sabirn. But not the only Sabirn."
"All Targheiden knows you've lost ships," Wellhyrn said. "If it were a plot—how better to undermine the duchy? Even the kingdom itself . . ."
Hajun stared at the two men, forcing his face expressionless.
"Why would Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, "woo someone like Duran? And why doesn't he return to court?"
"Jorrino, Chadalen," Hajun said, beckoning the two of his court wizards in the hall. "Master Jorrino. Master Chadalen. These two gentlemen have suggested Sabirn agency turning the weather against me. Is there any chance of this being true?"
Chadalen was a tall fellow, his dark blond hair and blue eyes speaking of mixed Ancar heritage. He bowed slightly. "Anything is possible, Your Grace."
Jorrino, the elder of the two wizards, shook his head. "We're aware of the hanging. But whether it's so—I can't answer. We simply don't know enough about them to say for sure. It's very difficult to locate a wizard by his effects—unless you know his motives, Your Grace."
Hajun leaned on the armrest of his chair and propped his chin in his hand. Everyone knew the Sabirn for demon worshippers, down to the last child of them. He remembered their dark, silent faces, seen from his remote viewpoint of royal carriage or shipboard. He remembered their soft, unintelligible language, the way they seemed to drift from shadow to shadow—servants, even in the highest houses, clinging to dark, ancient gods, even those who professed to convert—one always had to doubt—
"Lord?"
He looked up: the two wizards and the alchemists were watching him, waiting for some reaction.
"Could the Sabirn be responsible for the bad turn in the weather?" he asked.
"It's certainly possible." Jorrino shrugged. "They operate outside the jurisdiction of the Temple. We've thought mostly of foreign enemies. But—if there are secrets we've not yet met, I suppose—I suppose if one truly dealt in the dark arts, which we do not, Your Grace! Being gods-fearing men—one might indeed gather enough power to control the weather."
Hajun frowned. Gods above! If the rumor about the Sabirn wizards was true, could they be behind the bad luck that had been plaguing his trade fleet? Was it possible they were powerful enough to ill-wish him in such a fashion despite his wizards—who confessed to their own impotence against forbidden, ungodly magics—
The plot . . . always the plot.
When one of those little, dark people looked at him, he had always shuddered.
"Chadalen . . . if the Sabirn are ill-wishing this weather on Targheiden, can you and your colleagues deflect their power?"
Chadalen looked worried. "We can only try, Your Grace. -Perhaps—abandoning our concentration on foreign enemies, directing our attention much closer to home—may make us of more effect."
Hajun rubbed his eyes, looked again at the four men facing him: the two alchemists' faces betraying nothing of what passed in their thoughts; the two wizards, impressive in their dark robes, equally expressionless.
Damn! He felt forced into a corner, beset with maybe and might-be.
Duran was hardly a threat to Ladirno's position, or Wellhyrn's, for that matter. They had no reason for professional jealousy. Duran had bothered no one, never tried to ease his way back into favor.
But consorting with Sabirn, leaning toward use of the dark arts, and of possibly plotting the end of Ancar rule over Targheiden—could a son's bitterness over his father's exile go that far?
Hajun took a deep breath. "So be it," he said and sat up straight in his chair. "I'll bring Duran in for questioning."