CHAPTER ONE
The midday sun managed a brief deception, illumining the Great Hall of the ducal palace, casting illusory warmth on grey stone walls. For a moment tapestries and banners blazed out above the crowded tables. High in the sooty rafters, smoke from the great cooking fires eddied about like a man-made mist.
Members of the ducal court packed the tables set beneath the high seat, their garments a sea of color highlighted in torchlight. Grey-clad priests of Hladyr sat elbow-to-elbow with richly dressed lords of the Duchy; dark blue robes of court wizards contrasted sharply with the House artists’ polychrome. Several alchemists sat together, a knot of black in the midst of the tables.
Facing them all, His Grace Duke Hajun vro Telhern sat at the center of the high table, his wife at his left, his eldest son and heir, Brovor, at this right; the other royal children, daughter Alwisa, and son Saladar, his youngest, sat to the wife’s left.
Sated and drowsy from rich food and drink—to say nothing of the cups of wine he had downed—Hajun would have nodded had ducal dignity permitted.
But outside, the clouds closed, and once more the hall grew shadowed. A sudden gust of rain slatted against the windows and Hajun winced: Shining One, he prayed silently, keep the winds furled. Guard my ships, Hladyr… keep them safe.
He met the eyes of a grey-haired man sitting at the table closest to the high seat. “Jorrino,” he said. “Attend me.”
The man rose from his chair, bowed, and walked to the table to face Hajun.
“It’s raining again,” Hajun said unnecessarily: the sound of it on the windowpanes behind him was audible over the conversation in the hall. “I’m sick to death of this weather. What are my wizards doing about it?”
Jorrino drew an uneasy breath, met Hajun’s gaze squarely. “What we always do, Your Grace. Wish it off on another city.”
Hajun scowled. “Dammit, wish a little harder then.”
The wizard spread his hands. “My lord, I assure you, we’re doing all we can.”
An old, old doubt came back. “Could someone—some enemy of mine—be responsible for the storms?”
“Possibly, lord. While we aren’t sure one can ill-wish the weather, we aren’t sure one can’t: we keep searching.”
“For what do I fund you? For aren’t sure?”
The wizard bowed distressedly, and stood in silence.
“Well?”
“There are whispers, lord,—”
“Whispers. Gold to my wizards… and they bring me whispers.…”
Jorrino gnawed at his moustaches, folded his hands, bowed. “Sabirn, Your Grace—somewhere in this city, a gathering of powerful Sabirn wizards—”
Hajun let go his breath and fell back with a wave of his hand. “Gods, if I’ve heard that one once—”
“My lord, they say this information is from a Sabirn.”
Sabirn: little dark people of the alleyways and back streets of Targheiden, people good for little else than the most menial tasks. Hard to think of any of them as being wizards …
“And who was this Sabirn who so freely whispers these dire plots?”
“A fortune-teller—”
“Gods…”
“In the market. The Guard caught him stealing and put him to the question. He admitted to fakery, but he swore—swore, lord, that genuine wizards among his people have powers—”
A small, icy snake uncoiled in Hajun’s stomach. “Do you believe him?”
Jorrino edged closer, dropped his voice. “Lord, the Sabirn have no love for us.”
Hajun started to protest, but frowned and thought on it, on the weather, the ill winds—inconceivable that Sabirn might have wizards powerful enough to bring the kingdom down… but they were secretive, they were ancient: wizards, legend said, long ago… before Targheiden stood—
Before Hajun’s duchy existed… prosperous, powerful… holding a place of importance in the Ancar realms that Hajun’s cousin, the king, fully recognized: the king might hold control of the plains and the trade coming from them, but it was up to Hajun to keep that trade moving in and out of the kingdom of Ancas.
And now Hajun’s chief wizard echoed rumor of a Sabirn rebellion, some alliance of powerful wizards.
Hajun gnawed his lip. “I want you to keep me advised on this, Jorrino. I want to hear everything you hear, is that understood?”
The wizard bowed. “I do, Your Grace.”
“And, whatever it’s worth, keep wishing this weather onto someone else. For our trade’s sake.”
“Aye, lord.” The wizard bowed again and returned to his place.
“Sabirn?” a deep voice asked.
Hajun glanced sidelong at his eldest, Brovor—like looking at himself twenty years back: the same height, blond hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Like himself if only, Hajun thought, Brovor could find more use for his brain and less for his physical strength. The days when lords ruled by might of arms were fading; more often now, prosperity settled on the lord who was smart enough to use diplomacy to get what he wanted. The nurturing of trade, not the conduct of war, was the new business of princes.…
“Speaking of Sabirn,” Brovor said, leaning toward Hajun. “Did you hear about the near riot in the slough?”
“Damned nasty. Several of the Guard knocked about.”
“They got the bastard who started it,” Brovor said, “and he was Sabirn. Nailed his butt to the wall, from what I heard.”
Hajun lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was a crowd out of hand, a crowd chasing down a thief.”
“Ah, but the thief was Sabirn.” Brovor poured himself another glass of wine, took a long drink, and belched. “We ought to burn all of them. Damned demon-worshippers!”
At which Saladar stared meaningfully at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Saladar,” Hajun asked sharply of his youngest. “What’s your opinion?”
“Regarding the Sabirn or the riot?” Saladar’s smile did not touch his eyes. “I certainly don’t agree with Brovor.”
“And why not?” Brovor leaned on one brawny arm. “You never were much of a warrior, brother.”
“Hush, Brovor,” said the duchess. “Saladar’s matched you in every feat of arms he’s been set to.”
“Fah!” Brovor took another gulp of his wine. “Book-reading. Scribbling.”
“Saladar?” Hajun said, ignoring his eldest son’s grumbling. “Why don’t you agree with Brovor?”
“Slaughter the Sabirn? Who would we find to sweep the streets, then?” Saladar asked, smiling again. “Or collect the slops? I say, keep the Sabirn around. They have their uses.”
Brovor made a rude noise. “I say kill them all. Let the commons sweep and slop. Then you won’t have to worry about rumors. Or the dole.” He reached for the pitcher of wine.
“Enough wine,” Hajun said quietly, stopping his son’s hand. “You don’t want to trip over yourself when you leave the table.”
Brovor’s face went red. He took a deep breath, but subsided back into his chair.
“Tomorrow’s your name-day feast.” Hajun released his son’s shoulder. “Surely you don’t want to wake with a headache that will keep you from enjoying your festivities.”
“No.” Brovor’s eyes wavered slightly. “But you won’t mind, sire, if I celebrate tonight with my friends.…”
Hajun sighed, his eyes flicking down the tables at his eldest scion’s company. Stories had filtered back to him of the parties Brovor had attended in the company of these young lords.
“I won’t keep you from it,” he said, as Brovor relaxed. “But in your cups, do possibly remember the ceremony at the temples starts not that long after midday. If nothing else, grant your future subjects the sight of a man fully in control of himself.”
Brovor nodded, then grinned widely. “I won’t disgrace you, Father, and I won’t trip over my own feet. I promise.”
“Let him have his night,” Tajana said, a smile softening her face.
“I’ll be back before the midnight bell, Father.” Brovor grinned again. “Don’t wait up for me.”
# # #
“Ladirno, what do you think… about the Sabirn wizards?” Ladirno glanced sidelong at the alchemist who had spoken. “Do you believe it?” the other pressed him.
“I reserve my judgment.” Ladirno met his colleagues eyes. The man who sat to his left was elegant as any lord in the Duke’s hall, his black robes as rich, if more somber. “And you, Wellhyrn?”
Wellhyrn’s lips curled. “Sabirn? Wizards with the power to bring down a kingdom. If malice could serve—”
“I wonder what our Sabirn-lover would say about this?” asked one of the younger alchemists.
Ladirno shrugged. “One has to guess what Duran’s thinking. Years since he’s been to court.”
“Maybe there’s a reason.” Wellhyrn waved a languid hand. “If anyone might know what’s going on with the Sabirn—”
“He hires them to go out into the country with him to gather herbs,” said the other alchemist.
Another: “Maybe he’s sleeping with them.”
Wellhyrn snorted: “Herbs. Midwifery, next.”
Ladirno said: “With his father banned from court—”
“Consorting with Sabirn. A man of the Profession should have standards—”
“What does he do?”
“Midwifery. He runs an apothecary.” Ladirno reached for his wine-cup and drank. “He’s been making his living that way for over thirty years. Lives in a garret. Looks twice his age. Deals for pennies. By now, it’s probably the only thing he knows.”
Wellhyrn leaned forward on the table, his arms crossed before him. His eyes glittered in the torchlight. “He’d have money, he’d have a good deal else if he weren’t out to spite the Profession. He’s got his father’s books, the gods know what he’s got. He deals for pennies, he hands it out free, hands physic to any beggar in the quarter. Free! Hands out his cures, tells them to midwives—the gods know who they poison, who knows what he hands out? Or think what would happen if he stumbled across some great alchemistic secret. Gods, he’d hand it out on the streets.”
“A fool.” The younger alchemist chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “And where would the Profession be, colleagues, if we all gave away our secrets?”
“Folk poisoning each other all over town. Burning the town down to melt metals. We’re highly trained, my friends, the gods only know what this fellow is.”
Ladirno said: “He doesn’t experiment. As Wellhyrn said, the only thing he’s interested in is medicine.”
“Oh, aye… and look what he did with his great discovery.” Wellhyrn toyed with one of the heavy gold rings that graced his right hand. “The fool discovers a cure for the sexual pox, and what does he do, but come to court and tells everyone. Now any quack doctor can treat the pox. Think of it! Duran could have made himself richer than all of us combined if he’d kept the cure to himself.”
“Thank the gods he’s a fool.” The older alchemist scratched at his beard. “He could imperil all Targheiden if he does discover something big in alchemy. There’s no sense of professional ethics in the man.”
Ladirno shrugged. “Small danger. Right now he’s so damned poor he’s barely making ends meet.”
The light in the hall brightened as the sun slid out from behind the clouds. Wellhyrn leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs out under the table.
“I’m off to the harbor,” he said. “I’m expecting a shipment. Come with me, Ladirno?”
Ladirno contemplated the long walk from the upper city to the wharfs. “Ah, why not. We’ve been cooped up long enough as it is with these damned storms.”
# # #
After a brief hour of sunlight, the clouds had gathered again and, accompanied by thunder, rain fell on Targheiden in sheets. Duran looked out the open door at the water rushing by in the street and gave up on the notion he might have any customers this afternoon.
Despite the open doorway, the thick clouds cast the interior of his shop into deep shadow. Duran walked back to the counter, reached for his flint, and struck a light. Cupping an oil-soaked rag between his hands, he carefully lit the lamp and drew the glass down around it.
Its feeble glow barely reached the walls of the narrow shop. A large yellow dog rose from its place on the other side of the counter and ambled through the shadows toward Duran, its tail swinging side to side.
“So, Dog,” Duran said, glancing out the doorway to the street, “now you want to go out. Well, go then, though gods know you won’t like it much.”
Dog nuzzled Duran’s knee in passing, stood for a moment on the rain-spattered threshold, then carefully ventured onto the overflowing walk. The rain was easing somewhat, but Duran did not expect the dog to go far.
He turned away from the door and found a long splinter of wood. Lifting the glass side of the lamp, he kindled the splinter and lit the lamp that hung over the counter. No more, he cautioned himself, unless customers come. Fish-oil’s not getting cheaper.
Wind gusted through the doorway, setting both lamps to flickering. Duran considered closing the door for warmth but that would reduce the light and discourage customers. He sighed quietly, and sat down on the high stool behind the counter to wait, disconsolately, for business. In the street, water overflowed the gutters, poured off roofs.
Ha. The only people who will visit me this afternoon are the drowned.
Behind him, neatly arranged on wooden shelves that ran up the wail, sat his herbs and medicines, each resting in small pottery jars. He was not rich enough to afford glass, so he had labeled each jar in small, neat printing. His more precious medicines sat in a locked cabinet toward the rear of the shop; he kept the key on its chain around his neck at all times. Certain crazies would kill a man for what rested in that locked cabinet.
He laughed to himself. From the Queen of Sciences to herb-pottery. Here he sat in a narrow shop, surrounded by herbs, poultices, and whatnots, visited by the poor folk of Old Town, for whom he was the only thing coming close to a doctor. He healed their fevers, their sores, dispensed drugs that took away pain, and even more dangerous drugs that ended unwanted pregnancies. Those he never admitted to having, and the women who sought him out—even the whores—knew that blackmail worked both ways.
There was his cure of the sexual pox; gods knew he saw enough business from the poor who could not afford to go elsewhere, but he occasionally treated richer folk who desperately wished to protect their identities, and keep the knowledge of their disease from the High Town doctors—in which cases, Duran never asked any of his clients more than the most general of questions, and they were happy to return the favor, and to pay at least what kept the shop going. Not more. There were ways and ways to guarantee a poor apothecary’s silence: one preferred a modest coin—and risked no higher fees.
Oh, Father, Duran thought, settling back against an upright in the shelving. What would you say of your son now? How far have I fallen?
Thirty-five years in Old Town sat on a man, made him grey and grim and bent with study in dim light. Duran’s blond hair had whitened, his gaunt shoulders stooped more than in his youth, and he had to hold things decidedly farther away these days to see them clearly.
Time, and time—the marks of which were deeper in Old Town than in the High City up the hill, despite that his art had kept him free from sickness and hunger: rain still caused his joints to complain. He grimaced, realized he had not had his midday meal yet, and got down from the stool.
A hunk of cheese and a fresh loaf of bread sat on the shelf under the counter. He cut a slice of that bread and the end off the cheese, wishing he had something besides water to wash the meal down… naturally, as if drawn back on a string, Dog appeared at the doorway, dripping rain-water, tail wagging in hopes of his share.
# # #
The rain had nearly stopped by the time most folk in Old Town closed their shops. Duran stood in the opened doorway, watching a grey steady drip off the second story overhang onto the street… the rush of the gutters grew quieter as the storm rumbled off to the north. Duran snorted: save for old Mother Garan, not one customer had darkened his door all afternoon, and the old woman had only bought willow tea for her headache, one of the simpler and least expensive of Duran’s physics.
Dog lay curled up by the doorway, dreaming in the late afternoon, his ears twitching and his tail thumping now and again on the wooden floor—chasing rabbits in his dreams, Duran guessed, though in this part of town it might as likely be mice or the occasional young cat unaware of where Dog’s territory began—Dog, just Dog, because Duran had never come up with a name that fit his companion: and Dog had never complained.
Neither had Duran repented the expense of Dog’s healthy appetite. Dog’s presence served as a deterrent to burglars, and gave Duran a sense of security. Though he never made much of what he kept in his locked cabinet, a large protective animal on the premises eased his mind somewhat.
Duran sighed, giving up hope of making more than his one afternoon sale, and looked at the inn that sat across the street from his shop. “The Swimming Cat” was the inn’s name—a name given it generations back by its owner whose cat had fallen into a half-full rain barrel one night. Old Puss had survived the ordeal, and the innkeeper found her the following morning, clinging claws hooked to the side of the rain-barrel, water up to her neck—a stubborn talisman for a tavern always borderline on ruin.
The “Cat” was somewhat seedy now, but still reputable. As the largest inn in this section of Old Town, it catered to travelers who could not afford the better inns farther away from the harbor—excellent food for the price, a gathering place for the neighbors, as well as passers-through from the harbor.
Duran took his cloak down from behind the door, gathered up his keys, blew out the lamps, and stepped outside—Dog, lost. in dreams, opened one eye, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep. Duran locked the door, put the keys in his belt pouch, and started across the street to the inn.
“Bad rain, eh, Duran?”
The woman’s voice made Duran wince and turn: it was his neighbor, the seamstress Zeldezia.
“Aye,” he said. “Nearly drowned coming back from the docks.”
Zeldezia leaned against her doorjamb, shoving a lock of her brown hair back over one shoulder. She was near Duran in age—not ill-favored, but one seldom saw her smile. “We been having more rain than usual, don’t you think? Them as says it’s witchery—”
“Aye, that we have. Perhaps it will end soon” Duran put on a stubbornly pleasant smile, nodded to her, and turned away. A conversation with Zeldezia was the last thing he wanted on a gloomy afternoon. Damned woman. Enough to curdle a man’s appetite.
He stepped over the stream of water flowing down the gutter and made for the “Cat’s” doorway. One benefit of the rain, even Old Town smelled better for it, washed and clean, refuse swept away in the gutters—redistributed down the block, generally. But not near the “Cat.” Tutadar, the innkeeper, kept his frontage and his alley clean, holding it bad business to have his clients stepping over garbage.
He kept the inside the same—scrubbed. The inn was more crowded than usual for this time of afternoon; doubtless the rain had kept folk indoors who would have otherwise been elsewhere. Duran paused at the doorway steps, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside.
“Greetings, Sor Duran.”
He glanced down, just inside the doorway, at the man who had addressed him. The fellow sat on the floor, a walking stick leaning on the wall of the tavern behind him. He was white-haired, clad in clothes patched, but quite clean. The dark eyes that looked up at Duran were full of intelligence and wit.
“Greetings, Old Man,” Duran said. “Do we have another story from you tonight?”
The old man shrugged. “Perhaps. If I feel in the mood.”
Duran smiled. Old Man was always in the mood. The locals in the tavern had heard all his stories time and again, but no one seemed to grow tired of them. For a few coppers, the old fellow would spin tales that kept his audience enthralled, despite their familiarity with the stories. But Old Man truly shone when the common room was full of travelers who had not heard his tales before. It was then that Duran could swear he was hearing new stories, not those he had listened.to for years.
Old Man was Sabirn. But Tutadar had even allowed him inside the inn. Despite a few nervous glances from newcomers, Old Man had become such a fixture of the neighborhood that locals hardly took account of his race.
“So.” Duran dug in his belt pouch and came up with a copper… one of the three that Mother Garan had paid him for the willow tea. He placed the coin in Old Man’s upheld hand. “For a story, then… if you’re in the mood this evening.”
Old Man’s smile was most engaging. “For you, Sor Duran,” he said. “I’ll tell it for you.”
Duran nodded and walked on into the common room—quiet al this hour, due to grow noisier after evening traffic had had a few cups. He saw a few of the tables occupied: Bontido, the potter, for one, who lived on the other side of the seamstress; Ithar, whose smithy neighbored the inn; a few rain-soaked, better-dressed passers-through from the harbor warming themselves …
“Your usual, Duran?” the innkeeper called out from across the room.
“Aye.” Duran sat down at his accustomed table, shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders, and stretched out his feet. It was then that he got a look at the two well-dressed men who sat at a table a few paces away from his.
Ladirno and Wellhyrn! What, by all the gods, were those two doing in “The Swimming Cat”? Duran considered ignoring the two, thought, actually, of changing his table or coming back later, but that was a coward’s choice, not to mention it would draw attention from his neighbors. The pair turned their heads to stare at him: he smiled, tight-lipped, nodded a perfunctory courtesy, intended thereafter to pay his attention elsewhere, deliberately.
But: “Ah, Duran.” It was Ladirno who spoke, the older of the two. With silk-lined cloaks, softly woven tunics above supple hose and neatly shod feet, the two were totally out of place among the local trade. “We’ve heard this is where you spend your time.”
Duran nodded again, jaw set.
Ladirno’s companion lifted an elegant eyebrow—Wellhyrn, the younger, the more handsome of the pair (and he knew it, Duran thought). His clothes were that much richer, gods, velvet and silk in the somber colors of the Profession, and he bore himself with an easy arrogance. “Duran,” Wellhyrn said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by the other customers. “What a surprise—in a seedy place like this—”
“I like it,” Duran muttered.
“Really?” Wellhyrn turned to his tablemate. “Shall we be going, Ladir? The wine’s sour, the storm’s delayed the ship until at least tomorrow. We can certainly do better than this uptown.…”
Ladirno shrugged, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood, gathering up his cloak. “And when can we expect to see you at court again, Duran? Or in the guild meetings?”
“Sometime soon,” Duran promised, making an effort to sound friendly.
Wellhyrn had risen to his feet. He swept his cloak up from the back of his chair and settled it around his shoulders. “I’m sure we’ll all look forward to that day. And the guild fees. But that can’t be in your way, can it?—Coming, Ladir?”
Duran watched the two men cross the room and saw the clink of the coins they tossed to the innkeeper. He could have lived on such extravagance for days.
Damn, damn! He knew he should not let them bother him, but by Hladyr the Shining he could not help it. Fellow alchemists. Ha! Ducal favorites, they spent their days at court, amusing the nobles with petty tricks… sleights of hand that kept gullible patrons interested in funding. Tricks of the Profession—all honorable, of course: research materials came dear, and one could hardly explain the real secrets.…
The hell. Duran took several deep breaths and settled back in his chair. He would not call the present elite of the Profession charlatans, but by his lights they came close. In his father’s day—
In his father’s Laboratory—
Lalada, the cup girl, brought Duran his ale. He took the mug, smiled a silent thanks, and drank. The brew tasted bitter on his tongue, less the fault of the ale, he was sure, than of his mood. There was nothing wrong with what the “Cat” served, damn, there was not.
He took another drink, waiting for his supper—meat pie tonight, an extravagance: every fourth day, Duran allowed himself real meat… beef from the herds that grazed to the north of Targheiden—that much a one-time nobleman allowed himself, every fourth day, no oftener.
Tutadar himself brought Duran’s supper to him. “Don’t let them gilded donkey-butts get to you, Duran,” he said, straightening and crossing his arms on his chest. “Bet them black crows never saved any lad like you did Sora Mitti’s son. Think on that ’un, Duran. Them folk ain’t’ got nothin’ on you.”
“Thanks, Tut,” Duran said, cutting open his pie and sniffing the sweet smell of beef. He glanced up, remembering the innkeeper’s wife. “Is Anha’s hand better tonight?”
“Aye, thanks. She wanted me to tell you that, Sor Duran. She’s puttin’ that salve on the cut like it’d save her, she is.”
“If it flares up again, have her see me.” Duran reached for his belt pouch to pay for the pie and ale, but Tutadar nudged his shoulder.
“No, no, this ’un’s on Anha and me. For bein’ a good neighbor.” He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. “And for not bein’ snot-nosed like them two. Enjoy, your meal.”
Duran stared for a moment, then nodded and smiled. He set to his pie, aware now that he had it before him just how hungry he was.