The common room of "The Swimming Cat" stood almost empty; most of the customers were travelers marooned at the inn by the storm. The neighborhood folk had left a while ago, rain or no rain, to return to their shops and finish out their business day.
Duran sat at his table, taking longer than normal for his lunch. Lunch. He smiled to himself. Hiring Kekoja as his runner had given him enough of a profit that he had decided he could afford lunch. It was fish, to be sure, but it was warm, and the ale that had accompanied it tasted ever so much better than water.
Tut walked up, a mug of ale in his hands. He had finally finished setting out clean mugs behind the bar, and supervising the cleanup of the tables after his noontime customers had left. Now it was Tut's turn to sit for a while, to relax before preparing his staff for the dinner crowd.
"So," he said, sitting down at Duran's table. "That kid of yours doin' real fine for you, ain't he? I can't remember a time when you been in here for a meal other than breakfast or dinner."
Duran nodded. "Aye, Tut. I can afford a mug of ale every noon now, a hot lunch now and again. And perhaps a meat pie for dinner, who knows?"
Tut took another swallow of ale and lowered his voice. "Keep your eyes on that Zeldezia. She been goin' around talkin' 'bout you again."
"Hladyr bless! Now what?"
"She been sayin' you're comin' close to demon-worship yourself. She says even the good priest ain't been able to change your mind."
"Gods, why doesn't she stay out of my business. That boy doesn't bother her at all—he's never been around when she's come to my shop. Why can't she leave me alone?"
Tutadar dipped one fingertip in a puddle of spilled ale, and drew an idle pattern on the tabletop. "'Cause you don't pay her no mind, Duran. She don't like people who pay her no mind. Now if you were to tell her you'd think 'bout what she been tellin' you, maybe she'd leave you alone."
"For a while."
"For a while," the innkeeper agreed. "But you don't tell her what she wants to hear, you see? You ignore her, an' go on 'bout livin' your life, fine as you please. That must be eatin' at her."
"Why can't she bother someone else?" Duran asked. "You'd think she'd grow bored with me."
A wide grin crossed Tut's face. "You're a challenge. I don't think she's ever met anyone who don't pay her no mind." He gestured briefly. "The rest of us . . . we just tell her what she wants to hear an' then go on 'bout our business. You tell her what she don't want to hear."
Life was an eternal compromise in Old Town. One compromised with what one bought, not having the money to afford better. Where one lived was a compromise, for the same reason. And, as Tut had said, dealing with people one met or had to deal with on a daily basis, was an eternal compromise.
Duran had learned many lessons living in Old Town, but compromising what he believed in was something he found the hardest. It galled him even more to give in on something when it made, or should have made, no difference to anyone else one way or the other.
"Maybe so," he admitted, "but, gods, Tut!"
"Hey," Tut said, "you want to shut her up, there's one way."
"What's that?"
"Sleep with 'er."
"Good gods, Tut!"
Tut shrugged. "'At's what she wants."
"And then I'd have her for good and all. Thank you, no!"
"Long as you don't—she's got nothin' to do but stew an' be religious. Mostly it's that Sabirn kid. I been tellin' you that, an' I thought you understood."
"I do understand, but, gods, she should be able to see the lad isn't driving her business away, that no one in the neighborhood has had anything stolen. None of the other neighbors are put out by his working for me—"
Tutadar looked down into his ale, swirled it a few times, and slowly lifted his eyes. "It ain't exactly that way, Duran."
A cold chill ran Duran's spine. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Guess I am," Tutadar said softly.
"By the gods! What is it that they're upset about now? I thought between me, you, and Ithar, they'd calmed down."
"They had," Tut said, shaking his head, "but Zeldezia been talkin' necromancy and demon worship. An' nobody's real comfortable with that—"
"Me either, Tut, and you know it."
Tutadar met Duran's eyes. "I know it. I knowed you for years and you never been into the dark arts that I could see, but them Sabirn dabble in demon worship all the time."
"I'm sure they have their own forms of wizardry. So do we. You use what works in this world, and wizardry works. Up to a point." He leaned his elbows on the table. "Beyond that point, it's only conjecture. Period. I've yet to see anyone use wizardry the way it's portrayed in the sagas and poems. That's storytellers' fables. If such things really could work, don't you think we'd see evidence of it all around us?"
"Well, you got a point. But most folk don't have your mind, Duran. We never been educated like you. We can only believe what we hear."
"Have you seen any wizardry lately . . . real wizardry, not street-seller wizardry?"
"No. Can't say I have. But Zeldezia, she been talkin' 'bout the dark arts, not somethin' you'd see everyday."
"Dandro's hells! Just because some people are different from others, does that mean they're evil?"
"I s'pose not. But, I still don't like them little people 'round my inn." The innkeeper lifted a hand. "An' before you start in on remindin' me I still let Old Man stay here, you know what I think 'bout that. He's old an' crippled, an' he don't bother no one. I'm talkin' the young ones, the ones who don't like us any more'n we like them. Who's to say they ain't using the dark arts?"
"You think the boy who works for me is a demon worshipper?"
Tutadar's gaze wavered. "Maybe not him . . . he always been polite and nice to me when I seen him. But that don't mean other Sabirn ain't makin' pacts with demons. You ain't forgotten that necromancer they hung outside town, are you?"
Duran sighed. "No. I haven't forgotten. And I've warned the boy what happened, told him to be very quiet and very polite—"
"He better be quiet, if he knows what's good for 'em. If the neighbors suspect he been involved in anythin' smackin' of sorcery, they'll take it out on you."
"I haven't heard any complaints from my customers," Duran pointed out, flinching at another loud boom of thunder overhead. "If they thought the boy was a devil worshipper, they wouldn't be letting him deliver their medicines."
"Any of 'em stopped by your shop to talk since he been takin' your physics to people?"
"No. But the weather's been too bad for most people to be out. I haven't seen more than six or seven people a day in my shop lately. Why should they walk in? It's convenient for them to have the stuff delivered, that's why I hired the kid, Tut, convenience!"
"What do the folk who have stopped by your shop think 'bout your boy?"
"They don't seem to mind."
"Huhn. Where's the boy now?"
"I told him I was going to sit a while after my meal. I don't know where he went. But he'll be there when I get back." He sat up straighter in his chair. "In fact, I'd probably better go. Not that I expect to have all kinds of people waiting at my door, but there's—"
The door to the inn opened. Duran lifted his head and Tutadar turned in his chair.
Two men stood at the edge of the common room. Lamplight glittered on their helms and mail; their bearded faces were expressionless, their eyes shadowed.
Tutadar rose quickly and went to greet them. Duran stared. The Duke's own Guard. Two of them. In Old Town. His chest tightened. Why, in Hladyr's name, had they come to Old Town and, more specifically, "The Swimming Cat"?
He shoved his mug to one side and watched the two men brush by Tutadar and come toward his table.
"Duran Ancahar?" one of the guards asked.
"I'm Duran," Duran said, amazed his voice was steady. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"The Duke requests your presence at court," the other guard said. "Sor."
Duran's mouth went dry. He glanced at Tutadar, but Tut seemed speechless. The other customers were watching with unveiled curiosity.
"I'll come," Duran said, standing and pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
The two guards turned, walked across the common room, and waited by the doorway. Duran took a deep breath, fastened his cloak, and followed.
"Please tell the boy I've gone to the palace," he said to Tutadar. "I shouldn't be long."
Tutadar nodded, his eyes gone very wide. "Hladyr bless, Duran," he said. "I'll watch your shop."
Duran nodded, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door where the Duke's Guard waited.
No sooner had Hajun sent two of his Guard to Old Town to bring Duran back he had regretted the decision. He glanced around the hall now, saw the two alchemists over by the edge of the room, deep in conversation with two of his courtiers. His wizards had retired to their side of the hall, and stood silent, watching everything that went on around them with hooded eyes.
Damn! he thought. It's like a battle. One side draws up their troops over here, and the other army deploys its lines over there. He disliked the image that had come to mind. During his reign, he had put more than a moderate effort into keeping factionalism at a minimum. The last thing he needed now was for there to be "war" between his alchemists, his wizards, and his priests.
With the chance of a wizard-war mixed in with it.
He remembered Duran, the Duran he had known as a very young child, the boy with whom his eldest son had studied, played, and learned rudimentary arms. Duran had never seemed anything but forthrightly honest, honest as his father—so much so that one had feared even then that honesty would not stand him well in the future. Politics was the air Hajun had breathed—even in those days; not that he liked it . . . Hajun had much rather return to the fabled past when a man's word was a man's word, and the fine shading of meaning did not overlay everything a man said.
But Duran's father, Hajun's friend, had been banished from court and had his title stripped from him, Hajun frankly had never understood why. The old duke had counseled his son, saying this is what a duke must do sometimes, even when he doesn't like what he's doing. . . .
By which Hajun had taken it that his friend had powerful enemies at court, and knew that placating those enemies had been more beneficial to the duchy at the time than protecting a longtime ally.
Politics stank.
And now Hajun was embroiled in his own politics, maneuverings which, in an odd way, mirrored those of his father—hoping his friend's son had not gotten himself involved in something—-irredeemable.
Dabble in the dark arts himself? Gods, no. Duran was like his father, a kindred soul of sorts, a throwback into the earlier days of Ancar rule, when a man proved himself, rather than talked himself into power. One could admire a soul like that. One had.
And here Hajun sat, about to look down from his high seat at the son of his friend, and make decisions he might not like, or even—personally—believe in.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Hladyr keep him from making hasty judgment, from letting himself be maneuvered into something, or argued out of justice—or into it—
He glanced at his wife, found her eyes on him, and grimaced. This was not going to be an entertaining afternoon.
Somewhere, in the depths of his heart, he prayed it would not be a tragic one, either.
Duran let the guards lead the way into the ducal palace, shaking the water from his cloak as he walked. He was dressed in his work clothes, threadbare but serviceable—hardly the attire he would have chosen to attend his duke.
But if the need for his presence at court was so demanding that guards had been sent to escort him, Hajun would have to take what he got.
The guards stopped outside a heavy wooden door, one of them rapping on it with a heavy fist. Duran's knees had started to tremble. He had no idea what was going to happen to him on the other side of that door, but had a notion what it was about.
His father's shade stood to one side, ghostly against the stucco wall. You are Ancar, his father's voice whispering in Duran's mind. Remember that. Whatever happens to you, remember your pride.
The doors opened. Duran followed the guards into the hall, keeping his pace even with theirs. Let no one say Duran Ancahar had been a coward—or flinched from a meeting with his duke.
And there, over to the far side of the room: Ladirno and Wellhyrn. Duran nearly broke stride when he saw them, their presence here throwing his thoughts into disarray.
Nor was Brovor present, and Duran thanked every god he knew he did not have to cope with that complication while he spoke to Brovor's father.
"Your Grace," one of the guards said, saluting with his fist on the center of his chest. "Before you stands Duran Ancahar, come with no delay from Old Town to do you honor."
Duke Hajun's eyes met Duran's, his fingers moved slightly, and the two guards stepped back in unison, then turned with a smart clash of metal and each took up a position slightly to the left of the high seat.
"Come forward, Duran," Hajun said, motioning to the foot of the dais.
Duran swallowed, stepped forward, and stopped, looking up into the Duke's expressionless face.
"I apologize for bringing you here on such short notice," Hajun said, and Duran heard only sincerity behind the words. "But you've been accused of certain things that must not go unanswered."
Perhaps he was expected to reply. Duran kept silent.
The Duke cleared his throat. "What do you know of the dark arts?"
"With regard to what, Your Grace?"
"Have you ever had anything to do with use of the dark arts?"
"No, Your Grace."
"Never?"
"Never, Your Grace."
The Duke drew a deep breath. "On your honor as an Ancar, you can assure me of this?"
"Aye, Your Grace. I do. I have no such dealings. Nor know of any."
The Duke leaned back in his high seat, rested his chin on his fist in silence. Duran shifted his weight, glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, in the direction the Duke himself was looking.
"Your Grace," Duran said softly.
"Aye?"
"Do I have the chance to know who has accused me?"
The Duke straightened in his chair. "Aye. You're Ancar. It's your right." He turned and gestured. "Ladirno. Wellhyrn. Attend me."
Duran's heart lurched. Why? Why had those two accused him of such idiocy? They knew him better than that. What in Dandro's hells did they think to prove?
The two alchemists stepped close to the high seat and bowed, neither of them meeting Duran's eyes.
"These are your accusers, Duran," the Duke said. "Would you question them?"
Duran smiled suddenly, recognizing one of the pivotal points of Ancar law. At a trial before his lord, the Ancar accused was not assumed guilty until it had been proved beyond a doubt—and as accused, he could question whoever had brought him before his lord's justice. He wondered if Wellhyrn and Ladirno—Torhyn themselves—were familiar enough with Ancar legalistic principles to know the old law, the rights of Ancar with Ancar lord. . . .
He turned toward his two colleagues of the Profession, folded his arms, and smiled at the sudden confusion on their faces.
"What gives you the right to accuse me?" he asked—not the accent of Old Town, not Duran the apothecary—not at all.
Ladirno glanced sidelong at Wellhyrn, a flush reddening his face.
"By report, Sor Duran," Wellhyrn said in his most urbane tones. "We've had reports about you that lead us to believe you're involved in the use of the dark arts—with utmost concern for your soul. . . ."
"A report. In other words, you have no personal proof of this. It's hearsay."
"Our source is impeccable."
"Who?"
"Your priest. Vadami."
"Vadami." Duran felt a tide of anger welling up inside: Vadami, aye, but urged on by Zeldezia, he had no doubt. He said, coldly, deliberately: "And by what right does Vadami, a Torhyn, accuse me?"
"By virtue of your continued association with the Sabirn. He's warned you, has he not, that dealing with the Sabirn is dangerous, that it puts your soul in peril? Yet you have ignored him, haven't you, and continued to deal with the Sabirn?"
Duran turned toward Duke Hajun. "My lord, what Wellhyrn says is true—up to a point. The priest Vadami did warn me to see less of the Sabirn."
"And did you follow his advice?" the Duke asked.
"No, Your Grace."
"Why not?"
"Because he couldn't prove to my satisfaction that the Sabirn were evil. All he could do was repeat the same, well-worn suspicions people hold concerning the Sabirn; and we do not, not, my lord duke, desert loyal servitors on simple hearsay."
"You've had dealings with the Sabirn for years now, haven't you?"
"Aye, Your Grace. And not once have I personally seen behavior that in the least indicated an interest in, or use of, the dark arts."
"Hladyr as your witness?"
"Hladyr as my witness, Your Grace. I will not lie, in any cause."
The Duke nodded slightly, then gestured one of the court priests forward. "Take note of this. Duran Ancahar, once Duran vro Ancahar, has sworn in Hladyr's name. As an Ancar, he has taken the oath against his soul."
The priest seemed only mildly interested, though Duran suspected otherwise. "It is so noted, Your Grace."
"Very well." The Duke turned back to Duran. "Your accusers also maintain that you habitually entertain the old man who frequents 'The Swimming Cat.' That you frequently take notes on this person's utterances. Tell me why."
Duran shot a glance at the two alchemists. "Someone must have nearly drowned himself to see that, Your Grace. I had no idea my humble life was interesting enough to draw an audience in a storm."
A low murmur of laughter ran through the crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. Both Wellhyrn and Ladirno frowned and drew themselves up straighter.
"As for taking notes, absolutely I do, Your Grace. For years, I've collected Sabirn legends and tales—a purely scholarly interest. They ruled a great empire. My hope is that, in some of their legends and stories, they've left behind truths that could help us in modern times."
"In what manner?" the Duke asked, a spark of genuine interest lighting his face.
"As Your Grace already knows, I deal in medicines. I dispense what help I can to poor folk in Old Town. It's been my hope to discover forgotten medicines in the Sabirn legends—medicines to ease suffering, medicines to equal what must have been in the old Empire."
For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The Duke leaned forward in his chair.
"But could we trust such medicines? The Sabirn are known to be demon worshippers, Duran. Necromancers! How can you deal with devils and do good?"
"To my observation, Your Grace, and on my honor, I have never seen, nor heard of, any Sabirn working the dark arts. The Sabirn I know are far too busy surviving, to be using the amount of time necessary to perform such draining tasks; and I would reject anything that came from such sources."
"And how do you know dark sorcery would take such a great amount of time," asked Wellhyrn, a sly look on his face, "unless you've been involved in it?"
"Would you like to inform His Grace how long it takes for an alchemist to perform some of our simpler tasks? Or is it effortless? A snap of the fingers, perhaps?"
Wellhyrn dropped his eyes. "His Grace is already aware that we work very hard to produce what we give him."
"Then if you're working with nature and find things arduous and time-consuming, doesn't it make sense than any actions taken contrary to nature would be much harder?"
No one spoke. The Duke motioned one of his wizards -forward.
"Jorrino. Is what Duran said true?"
The wizard bowed slightly. "He makes an uneducated guess, Your Grace, but—naively close to the truth."
"But—" Wellhyrn said.
"Wellhyrn," the Duke said, his voice gone very cold. "You've not been asked to speak."
Wellhyrn subsided, his face gone white with shame.
"All of which is getting us nowhere," the Duke said, leaning back in his high seat. "Wellhyrn, Ladirno. You told me you fear Duran may be involved in the dark arts. The key words here are 'may be.' You've no proof beyond hearsay. Is this true or false?"
"To our own concern, Your Grace—" Ladirno said. Wellhyrn seemed to have lost the faculty of speech.
"The priest Vadami has spoken to Duran about consorting with the Sabirn, and Duran has—for his own reasons, reiterated here—refused to comply. This is the central substance of your accusations. True or false?"
"True, Your Grace.—But—"
"None of you has proven that Duran is guilty of anything more than speaking with the Sabirn, and that in the course of master to servant. True or false?"
"On the surface, true, Your Grace, but his writing—"
The Duke turned to his wizard and his priest. "I find no guilt in this man, either of performing the dark arts, or of lying. Do you concur?"
"We find no cause, Your Grace," the priest said. "We have ways of seeing such things. He's telling the truth as he sees it."
The wizard nodded. "I don't sense he has ever dabbled in the dark arts, Your Grace, and we wizards have ways of seeing that, too."
Duran let loose his pent-up breath, his eyes fixed on the Duke's face.
"Then hear my judgment," the Duke said. "I find Duran innocent of all charges of dealing in the dark arts. I find Ladirno and Wellhyrn guilty of bringing unfounded charges against him. As for the priest, Vadami, I suspect him of being overzealous."
The two alchemists stiffened in their finery, their faces gone pale and still.
"Duran Ancahar."
Duran stepped closer to the dais.
"I urge you to keep your dealings with the Sabirn to a minimum. They are not well-liked in Targheiden, and are—rightly or wrongly—suspect of nefarious dealings. I pass no judgment with present associations, but beware new relationships. Do you hear me?"
"I do hear you, Your Grace."
"Wellhyrn. Ladirno.—I assume you thought you had reason. But consider: bringing accusations against another citizen without adequate cause can be slander. By holy Scripture, slander is perilous to one's soul. Both of you are banned from attending court for the next ten days, during which time you may meditate on this. Do you hear me?"
"We hear you, Your Grace," Ladirno said faintly.
"Good," Hajun said. "You have my leave, gentlemen."
Duran's knees were shaking again, only this time from relief. His two colleagues bowed to the Duke, turned, and stalked off down the hall, neither of them affording Duran so much as a glance.
Duran stood his ground and caught Hajun's eyes.
"Duran?" the Duke said, lifting one eyebrow. "You have something else to say?"
"Yes, Your Grace. It's good to see that Ancar justice has not died with the past. My thanks, Your Grace."
With which he bowed deeply, and turned away.
"That gods-be-damned, no-good, lying bastard!"
Ladirno sank back in one of the chairs in his apartment and let Wellhyrn rage, pacing up and down the room, his face livid with anger.
"Do you realize what he's done to us?" Wellhyrn howled, turning to face Ladirno. "He's disgraced us in the Duke's eyes, that's what he's done! We've been banned from attending court for ten days, Ladir! Ten days!"
"He certainly has," Ladirno said acidly. "Thank the gods it's nothing worse."
"I'll see Duran Ancahar damned before he gets away with this! I'm twenty times the alchemist he is! If he thinks Ancar blood can ingratiate him into the Duke's favor by disgracing us, he's got horseshit for brains!"
Ladirno gazed out the window at an overcast sky, some -disconnected portion of his brain marveling that all Targheiden had not begun to flood yet.
"Dammit, Ladir! Pay attention to me!" Wellhyrn stopped in front of Ladirno. "If I hadn't listened to you about taking our suspicions to the Duke—"
"Now you wait just a damned moment," Ladirno snapped, rising. "Don't you try laying the blame on me. It was your idea!"
Wellhyrn glared.
"Thank Hladyr's mercy our banishment wasn't permanent," Ladirno said, doggedly keeping his tone mild. "The Duke's not known for his sweet temper—no more than his father was."
"How did we know we'd get ourselves involved in some kind of damned Ancar trial?" Wellhyrn raged, pacing again, periodically slamming a fist into his open hand. "And Duran . . . can you believe it? He talked his way out of everything!—sweet as one of the Duke's own courtiers!"
"You forget," Ladirno said, still in the same mild tone, "that Duran's father used to be the Duke's companion and, as such, he was Ancar of the Ancar. What do you think that name means? Ancahar. That's aristocracy, man—blue-blood, to the utmost."
Wellhyrn's face grew red, and Ladirno allowed himself a small smile. He had always suspected that Wellhyrn hated Duran for once having thrown aside what he would give his soul to be—an Ancar lord of the highest degree. Title aside—Torhyn were Torhyn—and Duran had been born a noble.
Wellhyrn seized a book from Ladirno's table and threw it against the wall. Ladirno winced, but kept silent, afraid of Wellhyrn's violence.
Wellhyrn spun around and faced Ladirno, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm not going to take this lying down," he snarled. "I'll get that son of a dog for this. I swear it!"
"And what are you going to do?" Ladirno asked, watching Wellhyrn pace.
"There's got to be a way we can get back at him without anyone knowing. And, by all the gods, I'll come up with one." Wellhyrn halted abruptly. "I've got it! By all that's holy! We'll set our wizards at him!"
Ladirno sighed heavily. "Would you get control of yourself, Hyrn? Stop raging and think! We can't afford to set our wizards at him. We have enough enemies of our own; diverting our wizards from them could be disastrous!"
"No more disastrous than letting Duran get away with what he's done!"
"He's done no more than defend himself," Ladirno said, "as you or I would have in like circumstances. He accused us of nothing more than inaccuracy—"
"Which could have gotten us banished for good! What's the matter with you? How can you speak in his defense."
"I'm trying to get through to you. Now . . . sit down!"
Ladirno had seldom used that particular tone of voice with Wellhyrn: in shock, the younger man drew a deep breath, then sat down in the matching chair.
"I don't mind hiring someone to set on Duran," Ladirno said, most reasonably, he thought. "But our resources are limited. And if ours are—his certainly are."
"Maybe you're right." Wellhyrn brightened. "He couldn't afford it. Gods, he couldn't hire a junior apprentice—and if we bought even an hour from a second-rate wizard—"
"Now you're thinking."
The old, malicious smile was back on Wellhyrn's face. "Then let's do it," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Tomorrow morning." He laughed coldly. "We'll ill-wish that bastard. If Duran is treating the heir for the pox, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll fumble the treatment."
"Dammit, Hyrn! I don't care what you do to Duran, but don't even think of misfortune on the Duke's son! I won't stand for that."
"Take a joke, Ladir!"
Ladirno held Wellhyrn's gaze until Wellhyrn looked away. "Do you want to contact the wizards, or shall I?"
"You do it." Wellhyrn's eyes glittered coldly in the lamplight. "I'll think of other ways we can get to this problem of ours. And believe me, I'll think of something!"