"Can you believe it?" Wellhyrn fairly shouted, pacing Ladirno's rug, "That damned man has got to have more than one wizard backing him! There's no other way to explain it!"
Ladirno leaned back in his chair, watching Wellhyrn sputter. His young colleague had burst in not long after he had gotten home, his handsome face red with rage and his hands clenched as if he were prepared to strike out at anyone who got in his way.
"Calm, calm," Ladirno said. "Be patient."
"Patient!" Wellhyrn cried, facing him. "We're near the end of our resources. Two, two wizards, who don't come cheap! And from what Mandani's spy tells him—nothing's working!"
"He has his eye on Duran, then."
"Evidently he's been to that inn for his midday meal. The spy says that it was the same as yesterday. Duran seemed quiet, but not moody—showing no signs of bespelling, nothing in the world wrong! What in Dandro's hells are we going to do? We can't afford to put another wizard on him!"
"We may not have to do anything at all," Ladirno said, taking a sip of his second glass of wine. "I think the little priest might have solved our problems."
"Vadami?" Wellhyrn was incredulous. "That priest?"
"Aye. I just happened into the 'Shoe.' Ran into Vadami. He's utterly convinced Duran's damned, that he's lost his soul to darkness by dealing with the Sabirn."
"So? We tried that argument in court, and it didn't get us anywhere."
"This isn't the Duke we're dealing with, Hyrn. This is a young, ambitious priest, who's very pious, and very interested in doing something that will draw that piety to the attention of his superiors."
"What has that to do with our situation?"
"He still thinks I'm Duran's friend," Ladirno said, "and I'm not going to dissuade him of that fantasy. He told me today that he's reached the end of his patience, that Duran's beginning to corrupt the minds of Old Town." Ladirno leaned closer and lowered his voice. "He plans to run Duran out of town."
Few things ever caught Wellhyrn at a loss for words, but this did. Ladirno found satisfaction at his colleague's stunned expression.
"He's what?"
"Planning on running Duran out of town," Ladirno repeated.
"Are you certain?"
"Aye, I'm certain. Vadami's going to talk to that shrew who has her shop next to Duran's. He seems to think she's the most pious woman he knows."
"The seamstress?" Wellhyrn curled his lip. "She's nothing but a gossip and a troublemaker. She's had that reputation for years."
"That may be. But this time, all her gossiping and troublemaking will benefit us. She's the one after Duran; she'll get the entire neighborhood stirred up against him." He took another sip of wine. "Trust me, Wellhyrn. Not everything requires wide actions. We'll be rid of Duran without having to lift a finger ourselves."
"And without any suspicion coming to roost in our nest."
"Exactly.—I'm only sorry if the Duke's heir is receiving treatments for the pox from Duran, there's no chance that Duran can finish. He won't have a chance to save Brovor's life—personally. But there are other doctors. And we can discover who."
Wellhyrn smiled coldly. "That's beautiful. We couldn't have thought up anything that would have worked as well. But do you think Duran's neighbors will act? After all, he's been a well-liked man. And that woman—"
Ladirno shook his head. "He's taken the Sabirn side against them—what do you expect they'll do? What any pious folk would do—and they are that, Hyrn, they are that. They don't know statecraft from hogswill—but they do know their own pocketbooks. Trust that."
"Then our wizards are working."
"Perhaps. Perhaps you have someone else to thank—but let's wait a day or two. At least until we know for sure that Duran's gone. He may have some protection—protection of a sort we'd rather not deal with. It won't hurt to keep ill-wishing him."
"It's money we can ill afford," Wellhyrn pointed out.
"Let me tell you—friend. You involved us in this. I've found our solution. I want you to remember that."
Wellhyrn gave him a hard-jawed stare. "You—"
"The storms, friend. You want to know why our wizards aren't having any luck. Perhaps it's because Duran is involved up to his neck. Perhaps it's because he does have protections—from wizards the Duke's own wizards can't beat. Personally I don't want to touch this mess—but we're in it; and being in it, we'd damned well better put somebody else between us and the trouble—somebody with special protections: let the Temple fight this thing."
"A petty priest."
"A very zealous priest. Duran's human. What's human has soft spots. There are things he cares for, things he cares about—that's where we can get him. That's where this priest can get him. We don't have to touch the situation. Whatever black arts are behind him—they'll lose him. They'll lose the only reason they could possibly have to pay attention to us, do you follow me, Wellhyrn? Have you thought—if Duran is protected like this—what he could do if he turned those wizards' attention on us?"
Wellhyrn's eyes glinted in the lamplight. "So we use the priest, the priest uses the woman, the woman—runs that whoreson Duran right out of town. And his notion of who's responsible has to be his own neighbors."
"Exactly. You see—I do think of things. Slowly, but I do think."
"Gods! I'd give a lot to be there."
"Which is precisely where we're not going to be. We want not the slightest hint that we had anything to do with this!"
"Aye, aye. But our wizards can do a little something to speed things up."
A cold shiver ran down Ladirno's spine. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing that can be traced back to us. I'll make sure of that. What I have in mind will simply make the neighbors a bit more—nervous about Duran."
"You're not going to do anything illegal, are you?"
"I won't answer that. This way, you won't know."
"Dammit, Hyrn! Think things through! Just give it time, let things work the way they will—let the priest handle it!"
"Because I want this nailed down," Wellhyrn said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And I want to make sure this works. Damn Duran and his airs. An Ancar noble. I'm five times the man he'll ever be."
Ladirno met and held his colleague's eyes. "Don't let revenge get you in trouble. Don't. Stay away from this!"
"Pfft. You're getting jumpy as an old woman. I won't have anything to do with it."
"You've got a cruel mind," Ladirno said, eyeing the smile on Wellhyrn's face. "Damned cruel."
Wellhyrn leaned back in his chair, and lifted his wineglass in a graceful hand. "Oh, aye, I do. And isn't it wonderful?"
The rain had momentarily stopped; the sound of it running from the eaves down into rainbarrels was loud in the comparative silence of Old Town.
Vadami walked slowly through the cloud-covered twilight, his eyes roving around the street. He was cloaked against more than the rain: it would do him no good to be noticed right now. He walked till he saw Zeldezia's sign swaying in the wind, and made for her door with all the stealth he could manage.
Duran's door was shut, which either meant he was sequestered inside, or that he had gone across the street to the inn. Good, Vadami thought. He wanted no contact with the man tonight—just a word with the good woman.
The evening weather was warm. Zeldezia's door stood cracked open, and lamplight spilled a gold sliver onto the wet cobbles.
"Zeldezia!" he called out softly, and rapped softly at the door. "It's Father Vadami. Are you there?"
He heard footsteps, and the door opened. Zeldezia opened it wider, swept her skirts out of his way, dropped an anxious little curtsy—pleased to see him, worshipful of his office: she always was. "Father! Come in, Father, please, an' get yourself out of the weather!"
Vadami entered the small shop. As always, he could have eaten off the floor. Everything shone, from the wooden floor to the tables laden with sewing, to the good brass lamps hanging from the ceiling.
"An' what can I do for you?" Zeldezia said, offering him one of two chairs that sat by a table. "Can I get you some cakes? Some wine?"
"No, no," he said, sitting down. With a rustle of her skirts, she took the chair opposite. "I've come to you out of concern, daughter—perhaps for a little help in a situation. I need someone—brave and committed to Hladyr's commandments. I think you're that woman."
Her dark eyes glittered. "Ask, an' if I can, I'll help. How could anyone turn you down, Father?"
"It's about Duran."
Her face hardened and her mouth curved down into a deep frown. "Duran! If I hadn't owned this shop long's I have, I'd move! I don't want no dealin's with 'im, Father, I truly don't, I avoid 'im as I can—"
Vadami leaned close briefly and patted Zeldezia's hand. "I know, I know, daughter. And surely you're not the only one. I fear—I fear there's worse than we thought."
"Oh?" she sat up straighter in her chair, her hands nervously playing with the tongue of her fine leather belt. Her eyes were frightened. "What could be worse?"
"Actual practice of the dark arts."
"Next door?" Zeldezia wailed.
He kept his voice calm, tried to assure her by his steady gaze that he was doing what he thought was best. "That's what we have to stop, Zeldezia. For your sake—for the sake of everyone involved."
"You know he sent that Sab kid somewheres?" she asked. "But, mind you, that kid'll be back, an' we don't know what devilment he's off to—or who he's dealin' with! Father, we got to do somethin'."
"I know. That's why we have to break up this Sabirn nest, Zeldezia. I don't want to hurt Duran, and I don't think you do. But for the safety of all concerned, for the souls of the folk hereabout—Duran's already lost, Zeldezia, and he's spreading his corruption. He's perverted holy Scripture. He's blasphemed. All these things he done—but what his Sabirn allies have done—"
Zeldezia signed herself nervously.
"They're aiming at the Duke himself, Zeldezia. It's power they want. They're using Duran's Ancar blood to find and curse things they couldn't touch. He's the canker that will spread, spread through all this town—"
"What can we do?"
"Get him out of this neighborhood! Out of Targheiden!"
She sniffed quietly, gnawed her lip, twisted at the fringes of her shawl. "I been thinkin' the same thing for a long time now, Father. I been worried, oh, I been worried! But Duran's got hisself some good friends. He got Tutadar and Ithar, two of the most respectable folk in this neighborhood. Gettin' them to go along with your plan ain't going to be easy."
"Maybe there are some we can't trust. Maybe there are some we shouldn't tell. But surely there are those that will do Hladyr's work. . . ."
Zeldezia nodded vigorously. "If you bless us, Father, if you tell them yourself that the Sabirn are behind all this wickedness, if you say it—aye!" She squared her shoulders. "Some of 'em may not like me, but I got a good reputation! I make more money than a lot of 'em. I'm a respectable woman. An' with you, Father—"
Vadami nodded. "Exactly. Exactly. Go to your neighbors. For their soul's sakes."
"I will! I will, Father! Bless us!"
"Hladyr bless you," Vadami said. "You're a good woman, and a pious soul. You have to be discreet."
"Aye, aye, I know who to talk to, an' I know what words to use. I done it before an' they listened. They only got to look around 'em and lissen to the thunder. I'll do it, Father, we'll see there ain't no more sneakin' Sabs among us. . . ."
Duran walked into the "Cat," ignoring the coldness from his neighbors; Tutadar was one of the few even to acknowledge his presence. Duran sighed softly and continued to his table.
He knew Tutadar had spread the word that he was going to send Kekoja off for a few days; he had hoped that would calm things.
It seemed they had miscalculated. Badly.
Several gloomy fellows sat in a far corner of the common room, merchants, by the cut of their tunics, harbor traffic—which could not be happy. They looked to be Sacarreans, most likely, from the looks of them. Probably in town to trade their spices for grain and metals mined to the north. If that was so, they had been marooned here in Targheiden for days now, unwilling to chance passage across a storm-ridden sea.
Damn the weather. Damn all this wretched summer, its storms, its ill humors, its frustrations and its angers: in any better season no one would have faulted him hiring Kekoja to serve as his runner. The customers Kekoja had taken physics to had not complained. Several of Duran's neighbors—Ithar and Edfin the baker—had been happy to see Duran making a good profit.
That was the way life had always been in Old Town. When one of your neighbors was doing well, you wished him all the best of luck, hoping some of it would rub off on you. Good business in one trade had a habit of begetting good business in another.
But the weather had soured that. For good.
And changed everything.
He looked up as Lalada came to his table with a mug of ale. She did not meet his eyes; she merely set the mug down on the table, took his order for breaded fish, and walked away, dumb as a post. Duran watched her go, a sadness creeping into his heart. He had cured the bad humor that had afflicted her head, and she no longer sniffed and sneezed. That should have been enough to convince her she was safe in his presence. Obviously not.
Then the thought reached him that this might be the last evening he ever spent in "The Swimming Cat." Suddenly, everything took on a new importance. He stared at the old wooden tabletop, gouged here and there by knives. He heard the squeak of his chair as he changed position. Everything—the flickering lamplight, the sawdust spread on the floor, the two grey cats who slept in a far corner, the sound of muted conversation—seemed magnified. The relative calm of the common room, the friendly atmosphere that was usually present . . . all those things would dwell only in his memory.
He rubbed his eyes. He was growing old. He cheerfully admitted it. And, as the proverb assured him, it was far easier to teach a young dog new tricks than an old one set in his ways. A piece of his life—a major piece of his life was going away from him—or he was going from it—and he was less interested in looking to the future than in looking at what he was losing. . . .
Was that not the attribute of age? He was forty-five: that should have been still young. But it was late to be starting over. It was late to lose everything. There were not enough vital years left—to build a life on.
So what did one do? Exist. Exist was all, without a past, with only a dozen or so baskets holding his whole damn life—
And no interest in where he was after that.
Maybe it was better to stay, fight it out, die here, if that was what it came to—
Except the books—
"Duran."
He looked up. Tutadar had brought his breaded fish; the innkeeper set the plate out before Duran, then pulled out a chair to sit down facing him.
"Thanks, Tut." Duran began cutting up the fish, and lowered his voice. "I hoped the neighbors would at least be easier with the boy out of town. What's going on?"
"I don't know," Tutadar said, crossing his arms on the table. "Hail this morning. Warehouse roof collapsed, folk goin' about the Slough in boats, f' gods' sake. That's gettin' close to home, you know what I mean?" He nodded toward the front door. "Nobody been givin' Old Man a copper. Not a one. Maybe I misjudged everyone. I'm sorry. I did hope they'd look on you kinder. But folks is scared. Folks is scared an' mad an' they got nowhere to send it."
"Tut, I've lived here, I've dealt here, I've barely kept my head above water for years. I get the kid and I do—well—for the first time in my life. Is that evil? Is there any evil influence in that?"
Tut shrugged uncomfortably.
"Today I only had six customers—and them up from the harbor. Not my neighbors. I don't understand that, Tut."
Tut shrugged and never met his eyes. "Don't know. Don't know, it's what I said, folks is just nervous. I'm sorry about the kid. I am. You know it ain't me holds agin him. I don't want t' see you hurt, Duran!"
Duran stared at his friend. He hated pretending this night was like any other night. He wanted more than anything to confide in Tutadar, tell him where he was going, make some tie he could keep. . . .
But he dared not. For the first time in years, a hint of distrust had entered Duran's heart, even toward Tut. Even as he despised the feeling, he recognized prudence when he saw it.
"Well, so we keep our heads down. What happens next?"
"Hard tellin'." Tutadar looked ceilingward. "Long's the weather stays bad, I don't think you got a chance in Dandro's hells of keepin' 'em happy with you."
"Tut, I want you to listen to me carefully. If anything happens to me, I—"
"Don't you go talkin' like that, Duran!" the innkeeper interrupted. "Nothin' going to happen to you if I have anythin' to say 'bout it. Or Ithar, for that matter."
"Thank you, Tut. And I know you mean it. But hear me through, if for nothing else than amusement. If anything should happen to me, I want you to take care of Dog. He knows you and trusts you, and he makes a good guard. And sell what I own, down to the shop itself, and give the money to some young doctor who might want to make a few trips to Old Town."
"Duran." There was a warning in Tutadar's voice. "Don't you bring no bad luck on yourself by talkin' this way."
"All right." Duran let a smile touch his lips. "Just you and Ithar keep in mind that you've been good neighbors all these years. That I've been proud to know you."
Tutadar blinked rapidly. "That's somethin', ain't it, when an Ancar noble says he been proud to know Old Town rats like us."
"This Ancar noble's one of those rats, too, courtesy of the old duke."
Thunder rumbled loudly. Duran and Tutadar both flinched.
"I confess," Tutadar muttered, "I don't trust these storms no more. They been gettin' real nasty.—An' I know you ain't goin' to agree, an' I know you're going to hate me for sayin' it, but I still think Sabirn're involved somehow."
"I can't seem to convince you, can I?"
Tut shook his head. "Now, I will admit they ain't all bad. I never did mind Old Man. An' that kid who been workin' for you, he never been nothin' but polite to me. But that don't take into consideration the rest of 'em. I can't. I can't like 'em, I can't deal with 'em. . . ."
"I wish I could make you understand," Duran said. "I hope someday you'll find a reason to believe that because a man's different doesn't make him a bad fellow—just different."
"They're too different. They're spooky."
Duran smiled and took another sip of his ale. "Enough of this gloomy talk. I don't' want to go home with a bad taste in my mouth. I like you too much, Tut."
Thunder rumbled again. "Sounds like you're going to go home with rain on your head. 'Less you want to stay 'round here."
"I'm afraid not." Duran sighed, gulped down the rest of his ale. "I think I'll be going to bed early tonight."
"Probably not a bad idea." The innkeeper shoved his chair back from the table and stood. "You take care of yourself, hear? An' don't you go givin' me any money for your fish. The meal's on me."
The sound of a rock thrown against the shutter of his apartment woke Duran from a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and stood. Fully dressed, he walked through the darkness to the back window, and threw open the shutters.
It was raining again—which actually reassured him, for no one in his right mind would be out on the streets in this downpour.
"Hsst! Duran!"
Kekoja's voice. Duran could make out the Sabirn lad standing directly below the window, along with another man. Duran waved, and felt his way back across the room, while rain blew in on the gusts.
The last few small items were packed—everything in four remaining baskets. He lifted one, grunting slightly under its weight: the last of his books and writings, this one. Walking back to the opened window, he carefully balanced the basket on the sill, tying the rope about it for a sling.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head, hand held over his eyes to shield off the rain. "Heavy!"
Kekoja waved and Duran eased the basket out of the window, bracing himself against the wall below it with his knees and feet. Gently as he could, he lowered the basket into Kekoja's hands, then watched Kekoja untie the long rope. The other man took up the basket on his shoulder and trotted off into the darkness and falling rain.
Duran hauled up the rope, returned to his baskets, and readied the next to be lowered—a lighter one: it contained all his clothes, his blankets, and what linen he possessed. He lowered the basket out of the window, Kekoja untied it, shouldered it and with a wave, disappeared around the corner into the deserted street. It would be some time before the two Sabirn returned, so Duran dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in the water-laden draft, and stared off into the darkness. Lightning flashed overhead, subdued, and the thunder that followed, a gentle rumble. Thank Hladyr. Conditions could not have been better for the task at hand. Maybe something was going right. Maybe the gods did not disapprove what he was doing.
They showed no lights: the bedroom was dark. Even so, he saw the long, narrow room in his mind's eye as if the sun were shining. It was his last night here. The last time he would sleep in his own bed. The last time he would listen to the homely creaks and groans of the building—his home, his shop—
A wave of sadness filled his heart. If only things had turned out differently. If only his neighbors could see that the Sabirn were little different than themselves.
If only. If only Hladyr could come down from heaven and walk among men again: it would take a miracle of the same magnitude to turn the hearts of his neighbors.
He heard the scuff of steps on wet cobble. He stood, looked out to see Kekoja and his companion returned from whatever hole they had nearby. He prepared the next basket, his alchemist's tools, mainly vials and beakers.
"Fragile!" he whispered down. "Glass!"
Kekoja received the basket: his partner took it. The last, then. Duran hauled the rope up, tied it to the last basket—and this was the hardest to see go—this contained his father's weapons, the sword, the daggers, all had been passed down from father to son for generations of Ancahar noblemen. Heirlooms of the heart—his mother's carefully wrapped jewelry: he had never sold them—no matter how desperate things became.
Maybe things would have been different if he had. With those jewels, he could have bought a far better shop and not lived so near to the edge of poverty.
Maybe.
The sword, the jewels, his father's notes—all that was -irreplaceable.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head. "You sleep on this one, hear? Take care of it."
Kekoja lifted his hands, received the basket—and the rope, this time.
Duran stood in the window after they had gone—realizing suddenly he was standing in a house bereft of everything he owned . . . everything that was valuable to him. All of it carried away to gods know what destination in the hands of the Sabirn. And he had to trust them. He had no choice. He was empty-handed now. They had everything.
Name-brothers, Old Man had said. Old Man had talked about trust. About friendship. But so had Tut. So had his neighbors—once.
He sighed and drew the shutters. There. It was done. He could not turn back now; he had committed himself to the most unsettling future he had ever chosen in his life.
"Oh, gods!" He rested his eyes against his hand in the dark, shook his head. Brovor. Brovor would have to seek another doctor to treat his pox. He had to do that. He had only a few treatments left, but it was vitally important he receive them. Brovor had to understand that—and he dared not, dared not send any message to him.
There was Mother Garan. Who would help her? Thunder rumbled distantly. The rain poured down outside the window, the sound of it hitting the roofs and pavement, unnatural, malevolently persistent.
At least Kekoja had gotten the baskets away. Duran thanked the gods for this one small favor.
And prayed for Brovor's good sense, and an old woman's comfort.
At this late hour, in this downpour, the few souls on the streets walked briskly to their destinations. A fool would be standing here in the rain: but Ladirno did—in the shadows of the alley across the street from Wellhyrn's rooms. He could not sleep. His instincts, his curiosity, had finally driven him out at this ungodly time of night to take up this watch—
All because of the threat Wellhyrn had made.
Ladirno had no idea what Wellhyrn proposed to do to Duran, but if it was against the law, he wanted to know. He had suspected Wellhyrn in the past of shady dealings he had never been able to prove—but in this, for various reasons—
This time if Wellhyrn was being a fool, he fully meant to disassociate himself—leave Wellhyrn to twist in the wind, if that was the case.
He froze, leaned closer against the wall: a man approached Wellhyrn's building, obviously taking his time and appearing slightly drunk. Ladirno glanced up at the doorway, and saw Wellhyrn step outside. Head bowed, a purposeful gait to his walk, Wellhyrn left the doorway and stepped directly into the other man's path. The two of them collided, and the drunk staggered, nearly knocked from his feet. Ladirno held his breath, hoping to hear something . . . anything.
But no words were exchanged, aside from a muffled curse or two. Wellhyrn reached out to steady the drunk and quickly dropped something into the man's hand. Ladirno drew a sharp breath. The lamps which burned at the doorway to Wellhyrn's apartments lent a fair amount of light to the street, and in this light he had seen the glint of gold.
The drunk snarled something at Wellhyrn, appeared to get his directions totally mixed up, then lurched off again, this time headed down the hill toward Old Town.
Wellhyrn glanced up and down the street, while Ladirno held his breath, plastered against the side of the building and praying his colleague would not look his way.
Some bored god must have heard his prayer, for Wellhyrn turned around and went back inside.
For a long moment, Ladirno stood shivering against the wall. What was it that Wellhyrn had paid this man for? He had seen the flash of at least one gold donahri, sufficient price for a murder in some quarters.
A sour taste filled Ladirno's mouth. Ladirno spat into the street, gathered his cloak tighter, and hurried off into the dark down the alley.
A bell rang somewhere. A distant bell, muffled and indistinct. The sound of it filtered into Duran's sleep and woke him from a dream of rain.
He sat up in bed, his heart pounding. He listened, unsure whether the bell had rung only in his mind, or in the real world.
No. There it was again—the "Cat's" bell—that only rang for theft and fire—
Duran sprang from bed, and ran toward the front window. Flinging open the shutters, he stared down into the street.
The rain had stopped. Torchlight from the "Cat" lit up the street, people running—
But not only that light—
"Fire!" someone called—Ithar, he thought. "Get buckets!"
Duran cursed aloud, lit his lamp with shaking hands, flung his clothes on, grabbed the lamp and rushed down his stairs—Dog was barking now, frantically. Duran set down the lamp, grabbed his cloak, unlocked the door with trembling fingers.
He stepped into a scene of chaotic motion. People ran here and there, searching for buckets. He could see the flames now, and his heart lurched. The fire burned up against the walls of Zeldezia's shop. Duran glanced around and found Tutadar. The innkeeper was standing in the center of the street, directing his fellow neighbors to various rain barrels, instructing them where buckets were kept.
"When did it start?" Duran yelled over the commotion.
"Don't know! But it's burnin' good!"
Duran stared at the fire. The blaze was impossible—in a puddle-filled alleyway, debris soaked and sodden—
"Dammit!" He ran to Tutadar's side. "Don't throw water on it, Tut! Call back the buckets!"
The innkeeper stared at Duran as if he were mad.
"It's an oil fire, Tut! For gods' sake, don't throw water on it! Can't you see? It's too damned wet for anything but oil to burn like that!"
Tutadar narrowed his eyes and looked back at the fire.
"Wait!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the yelling of the neighbors. "No water! You hear me? No water!"
"Get mud, get dirt. Flour! Something that will smother the flames!" Duran glanced around. "Find Bontido. He's got to have something like that around his shop!"
Several of the neighbors were beating at the fire with heavy blankets now. Someone ran off with Bontido toward the potter's shop. Zeldezia stood in the street, her hands clasped, wailing in a shrill voice. A man ran back from the inn, struggling under the weight of a heavy bag of flour.
"Hurry!" Tutadar hollered. "All of it! On the fire!"
The man approached Zeldezia's shop, held the bag firmly, one hand keeping it open, and began tossing flour onto the fire. The flames fell back some, but did not die.
"Move aside!"
Duran stepped back as Bontido and two other men pushed a manure wagon full of soaked stable-dirt toward the shop. One of the men grabbed a shovel and started tossing the dirt onto the flames. Duran watched, his heart pounding raggedly. How the hells had an oil fire got started?
Who would have done such a thing to Zeldezia?
A ragged cheer went up from the neighbors as the fire guttered and slowly began to die. Duran drew a deep breath, not surprised to find his knees shaking.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to face Tut. "That'n was set," Tut said grimly. "Ain't no accident."
Duran nodded, still shaking.
"Damn you, Duran!" Zeldezia's shrill voice penetrated the voices of the crowd. "This is all your fault! Sabirn-lover! They witched my shop, they tried to burn me in my house!"
"Gods," Tut murmured, holding tight to Duran's shoulder.
The seamstress elbowed her way through a crowd grown suddenly silent.
"You brought this here fire on me!" she raged. "You an' them damned Sabirn!"
"Calm down, Zeldezia," Ithar said, reaching out to take her arm.
She yanked away from the smith, her eyes narrowed to slits. "You think I don't know! That I can't guess! You—"
"Zeldezia, shut up!" Tut roared, leaving Duran to step between. "You shut your damned mouth! You been nothin' but trouble the past few days, an' now you're accusin' the man who had enough sense to know what that damned fire was, and how to fight it!"
Zeldezia backed up a step. "What d'you mean—he knowed what it was?"
"It ain't sorcery! It's an oil fire. If we'd poured water on it, we'd've made it worse. You got Duran t' thank we saw it in time!"
"He knowed what it was! How'd he know? Oil don't get on the side of a body's building by fallin' from the sky!"
"For the gods' sake, Zeldezia, if he'd started that damned fire, he wouldn't've tried to stop it—"
Zeldezia spat at Tut's feet. "The Sabs started that fire—-probably that damn boy's skulked back t' get me, near burned the block down! An' you, Duran, you're guilty along with 'em! Ever since I started tryin' to change your ways, you been settin' 'em on me—They wanted to burn me out, that's what, they know what I know—that they been witchin' the weather, that it's them plottin' agin us—"
Duran kept silent. Anything he said at this point would only make matters worse.
Tears were running down Zeldezia's cheeks now. "You low-down scum . . . you Sabirn-lover! I hate you for this! An' you'll pay, Duran! You'll pay!"
She spun around, ran into her shop, and slammed the door.
For a long moment the street was silent, so silent Duran could hear the water dripping from the eaves.
"She's crazy," someone muttered. "Damned woman's crazy."
"Maybe not," somebody else said.
Tut gripped Duran's shoulder. "Duran, I think you'd best go back inside. Hear?"
Duran nodded, turned, and walked slowly to his shop. Dog stood in the lighted doorway, his tail wagging slowly now that the noise had died down.
Duran shut the door behind him, leaned up against the counter, staring off into the shadows.
Someone had deliberately started that fire.
Kekoja? Gods, no, no. Not Kekoja, not Old Man—not fire, that could have burned Zeldezia alive.
Who would do such a thing? Who in the world would do a thing like that?
A jar was out of place on the counter. It weighted a paper.
It said, in a boy's uneven letters, The river gate. Tomorrow sundown. Fire not ours.