CHAPTER THREE
Duran woke, the morning sun just slanting through the shutterslats. He stretched—gods, he was stiff; and ached in more places than he thought possible. He grimaced, rubbed his eyes, rolled over on the pallet, and glanced over to his bed.
The boy was still asleep; curled up in a little ball, he had kicked the rest of Duran’s blankets down toward the end of the bed. Duran snorted softly. From the still air, the lack of draft from the window, there would be small need of those coverings tonight. Warm, moist air, no morning wind from the sea—it promised a muggy, nasty day.
Duran sat up, arms on knees, and stared at his sleeping charge. The boy had had his suspicions—extreme suspicions—for which Duran did not blame him. Hence the night on the floor—but only one night, damn the young fool. And what in hell could he do with the boy? Turn him out on the streets? Good as Duran knew his medicines to be, that ankle would take several days to heal, maybe need more than wormwood. Maybe need rest—else the boy would limp his way through life: and a Sabirn lad had no prospects but portage and a hand-to-mouth existence. Lame, he had no hope but beggary.
He wiped the hair back from his face and sighed, feeling all the indiscretions of last night. Maybe he was getting too old to be fighting in alleyways. Forty-five. He shook his head, remembering his youth, when he thought anyone who was forty-five had one foot in the grave, and the other one slipping in behind it.
But he did not feel old. Inside, he was still in his twenties, still at the prime of his life. He scratched his beard, raked a hand through his hair, and levered himself to his feet, by degrees.
He nudged the table, grabbed after the edge, for balance. Kekoja stirred, stretched his legs out, and groaned softly.
“Hladyr bless,” Duran said in morning greeting. “You’re better?”
Kekoja rubbed his eyes, sat up in bed, and yawned. He glanced at Duran, then eased his foot out to the side of the bed and looked at it. It was spectacularly puffed, red, and angry.
In addition to which, the boy looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Chamber pot?” Duran asked, feeling the need for the same. Kekoja squirmed his way to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered his feet to the floor. He winced, his eyes narrowed in pain.
Duran knelt and drew the pot out from under the bed. He held out an arm and helped the boy to his feet. “I won’t look, if it makes you feel better,” he said.
The boy shook off the help, turned his back, balanced gingerly against that foot.…
No trust of him. No.
Traffic was beginning to stir in the streets below. Duran kept his eyes fixed across the room as Kekoja performed his duty, thinking if they did not both hurry, the slop gatherers would be come and gone—not a pleasant prospect for an upstairs bedroom on a hot day.…
“Shit!”
Duran glanced around just as the boy wobbled and fell sidelong onto the bed, slid halfway to the floor.
He hauled the Sabirn lad up to his knees, trying to be careful of the ribs—helped him lie down then. The boy’s eyes were slightly glazed and his face had turned decidedly pale, broken out in sweat. But he shoved the help away.
“Boy?”
Kekoja was breathing hard. He wiped his face, glassy-eyed, said, thickly, “Lost my balance.”
“Lie still,” Duran commanded, despite the boy’s hazed objections lightly running his fingertips over the boy’s skull.
“Yeow!”
Duran jerked his hand back. “You’ve got a lump on the back of your head the size of an egg. Where else did they hit you?”
“Don’t remember.” The Sabirn lad took a deep breath. “I’m dizzy.”
“I’d expect. People who get lumps that size on their heads don’t feel especially wonderful afterward—Does it feel better when you lie down?”
“Not as dizzy…”
“Listen, son. You stay put in that bed until you can stand up and not fall all over yourself. Head wounds aren’t anything to treat lightly.”
Kekoja nodded slowly, eased his head back on the pillow, and looked at Duran, his eyes still glassy. Duran ignored him, used the chamber pot himself, took it toward the door.
“Stay put!” he ordered the boy.
The Sabirn lad nodded.
“I mean it. Don’t try to get up. You’ll do yourself lasting harm. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Faintly.
“Good.” Duran started down the stairs. “Remember it. I’ll go get us something to eat.”
# # #
Dog stood waiting at the doorway, excited and turning around in circles.
“Poor fellow,” Duran said, opening the door and letting the dog outside. “Don’t have your own convenience, do you?”
He set the chamber pot on his doorstep, stood up and stretched, with a deep breath of the morning air, paused for a glance up the street. Zeldezia had opened her shop and was now busily sweeping around her front door. Efdin, the baker, had already started his day: the sluggish air carried a scent of fresh bread. There was the rattle of chains as Ithar opened his smithy. Apprentices began to gather at the doorways of the other shops on the street, laughing and calling out to one another.
Duran thought of Kekoja waiting upstairs on the bed, with not a little worry, having the lad alone with his shelves, his medicines, his personal things—
Damn it all, anyway. Here he, who had always been courteous and kind to the Sabirn, was worried about robbery—on the part of an injured boy. With an ankle like his, and that knot on his head, he’d be lucky if he could make it down the stairs.
He closed the door behind him, locked it, and crossed the street to the “Cat.” The door stood open, food was cooking. Old Man had stirred out of his night-time place on the floor inside to sit on the wide doorstep, a bowl of food in his hands.
Duran nodded at Old Man in passing, and entered the common room of the inn. This early in the morning, there were no people at the tables. Tutadar stood behind the bar, going over last night’s take, arranging the coins in neat rows before him.
“Morning, Duran,” Tutadar said, glancing up from his work. “Want your usual today?”
“Aye. A double portion. I’ll take it with me if I can.”
Tutadar shot Duran a questioning look but said nothing, and walked back toward the kitchen. Duran leaned up against the bar, keeping his eyes to the street outside. Should he tell Tutadar about his unusual guest, or not? Double portions alone of his breakfast would serve as a clue that something odd was going on.
“Got company?” Tutadar asked casually, returning from the kitchen, carrying two covered metal plates. He set the plates on the bar, and filled two mugs with wine.
“Aye.” Duran glanced around the common room. He and Tutadar were still alone. “Last night three toughs beat up a boy in the alleyway. I chased them off, but the boy’s in a bad way. Won’t be able to move for a couple of days.”
Tutadar snorted something under his breath. “Damned punk kids are startin’ to make life miserable. Himself the Duke better do somethin’ about it. Bad for business.” He met Duran’s eyes. “Got any idea whose kid? Some ’prentice?”
“No.” Duran risked it all. “He’s Sabirn, Tut. About fourteen. Nice looking boy, smart—”
“You left that kid in your house? Alone?” Tutadar leaned forward on the bar. “I know you don’t mind workin’ with them Sabirn, Duran, but don’t let ’em fool you. Once your back’s turned, they’ll take you for everythin’ you got.”
Duran signed for quieter voices. “This one’s in no condition to do that right now. Those toughs really knocked him around. Hit him hard enough on the head, he’s still dizzy. On top of that, he’s got an ankle sprained bad enough to keep him from walking for at least another day or two.”
“And what’re you going to get from this, Duran? ’Sides another mouth you can’t afford to feed.”
“I couldn’t leave him out in that alley, Tut. And I don’t think you would have, either. I thought of Old Man—”
“No!” Tut said, waving his hand. “No! Old Man I don’t mind, Old Man’s got his place here, he’s our Sab, all right? He’s old, he knows his place, he don’t make no trouble. But there ain’t no kid comin’ in here, no. You’ve got too good a heart in you, Duran. One of these days, it’s going to cause you trouble.”
“Tut—keep it quiet, will you? He’s just a lad.”
Tutadar set the covered plates and two mugs in a well-worn basket. “Just a kid,” he muttered. “Listen,” he said, then, leaning forward on the bar, his eyes locked with Duran’s. “You ain’t helpin’ yourself by keepin’ company with them Sabirn. I know you’re too damned good-hearted, but—tongues is going to wag, Duran. They already do. It’s one thing, hirin’ some Sab to dig herbs, port baskets and all, but there’s a limit, man. There’s a limit t’what folk will understand You get my drift? Ain’t me, you know that… but you know you can’t keep that kid in there much longer without everybody findin’ out.”
Duran nodded. What Tutadar said was all too true. Because of his uptown ways, because of the… odd smells from the apothecary shop, lights at all hours, the occasional midnight customer, his neighbors already considered him peculiar. There were apothecaries who dabbled in… elimination of persons unwanted; there were those who sold things… unapproved by the clergy and against the law, as murder was.…
A man who dealt with harbor trade, who treated whores, a large part of whose trade was harborside, in diseases law-abiding folk disdained to name—
“I hear what you’re saying.” He dug in his belt pouch and set out four coppers on the bar. “I’ll bring the plates and basket back after I’m done,” he promised.
“Keep your eyes on that kid,” Tutadar warned, setting Duran’s money aside for the first of his morning sales. His voice grew gruff. “Don’t want anythin’ to happen to you. You’re a good neighbor.”
Duran smiled sadly, lifted the basket, and went outside. Old Man was finishing his breakfast, his dark eyes roving up and down the street. Duran nodded again in passing, nothing said, and crossed over to his shop, where Dog sat waiting on the doorstep. Duran juggled the basket in one arm, took out his keys, and opened the door—
While the seamstress, Zeldezia, stood leaning on her broom, her sharp eyes watching his every movement. Duran nodded a dour good morning to her as he went inside. Damned nosy woman. Before the hour was out, she would have told all the neighbors that Duran was eating in his house this morning, rather than at the tavern, and probably know exactly what he had for breakfast.…
The slop gatherers had already been down his side of the street: the chamber pot sat empty by the steps. Later, Duran advised himself. Breakfast first. He waited for Dog to come into the shop, shut and locked the door, and went upstairs.
# # #
Kekoja sat propped up in bed, pillows stacked between his back and the wall, silently watching Duran lay out the two plates and set out mugs of watered wine on the table beside the bed. Duran noticed a glitter in the black eyes: hunger, most likely. He wondered how long it had been since the boy had eaten a good meal.
“Fish,” Duran said, removing the covers from the plates. “Fresh fish. Straight up from harbor. The ‘Cat’ is fastidious. Are you still dizzy?”
The youth carefully shoved himself upright on the bed, his eyes moving from the dishes to Duran’s face. The scowl persisted.
“What do you want?” Kekoja asked, turning to the edge of the bed, carefully putting his swollen ankle off the side.
“What do I want what? What kind of question is that?”
“You got something in mind, or you wouldn’t be doing all this.”
“Eat your food,” Duran said, shoving a short knife across the table to the boy. “It’s going to get cold.”
Kekoja hesitated, then accepted the knife and began cutting up his fish, spearing small bites of it.
“Why do I have to want something from you to feed you?” Duran asked.
“Never had any Ancar treat me decent before.” Kekoja took another bite, chewed hurriedly, and shot him a scowling look. “An’ if they did, they’d want something.”
“Well, I don’t. So take your mind off it.” Duran drank and set his mug down. “Now I’m going to ask you again—seriously: do you have any family or friends who will be worrying about you?”
The boy’s black eyes measured Duran with a look too mature for his apparent youth. “Hundreds of ’em.”
“Hladyr’s Light, boy! You’d think I was out after—"
The boy stared at him, jaw clenched.
“I’d like to find your kin, boy, let them know where to find you, get you home, for Hladyr’s sake, I’ve no other motives. Why would I go to this trouble? There’s whores harborside. So what would I be after?”
Kekoja’s eyes dropped. He speared another bite of fish. “I don’t know,” he said, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. “Sell me, maybe.”
“Nothing worth the night on the floor. Lad, I don’t bother boys. And I don’t sell them, either.”
Kekoja looked at Duran again. “I got a grandfather,” he said at last.
“A grandfather. Where does he live?”
“’Cross the street.”
“Across the—You don’t mean the old, white-haired man who sits in ‘The Swimming Cat,’ do you?”
A nod.
Duran leaned back in his chair and regarded the boy with renewed interest. Old Man’s grandson? He had never thought of Old Man as anything but Old Man. That he had once been married and had a grandson …
Not here, Tut had said.…
“You want me to tell him you’re here?” Duran asked. “He can’t take you in, but, hell, wouldn’t he like to know you’re here?”
A brief flash of emotion passed behind the boy’s black eyes.
“Aye. If you’d do that…”
“After breakfast. And before I go, I’m taking another look at that ankle. Can you wiggle it? Wiggle the toes?”
Kekoja moved his foot carefully. Toes moved. “Hurts.”
“Then we’ll soak it again.” Duran finished off his fish and drained his mug. “I have to run my shop,” he said, leaning back in his chair as the boy ate the last of the fish. “I’ll open up, heat up some compresses. Will you be all right up here?”
“Afraid I’ll steal something?”
“Not really.”
“Everyone else thinks so.”
“I’m not everyone else,” Duran said, putting his plate into the basket and following it with Kekoja’s. “The sooner you realize that, the more comfortable you’ll be. Besides, you try that window, lad, you’ll break your neck. Hear me?”
# # #
Old Man sat on the doorstep, his face relaxed as he leaned his head back against the wall, outside, this warm morning. Duran looked all directions, saw no one he knew, hunkered down on his heels. “Greetings, Old Man.”
“A good morning to you, Sor Duran.” If Old Man was astonished at this behavior, he failed to show it.
“Last night three toughs beat up a boy in the alleyway next to my house. I ran them off and took him upstairs. He’s got a sprained ankle, a knot on his head.…” Duran waited for a response, but Old Man kept silent, his gaze as placid as ever. “This lad says he’s your grandson. Says his name is Kekoja.”
Old Man’s expression hardly changed. “Where is he?”
“In my upstairs. In my bed. Eating my breakfast. He’s not fit to walk. I don’t know where else to send him. Or how.”
Old Man’s black eyes strayed from Duran’s face to the shop across the street. “That’s who you took the food to this morning?” he asked.
Old Man missed nothing. “Aye. Where shall I take him?”
“Did he ask for me?”
“He said you were related. He didn’t ask for anything.”
“He’s got his reasons.”
“Do you want to see him?”
Old Man’s black eyes scanned the street about. Came back to him. Old Man nodded faintly, reached after his stick.
Duran stood, took Old Man’s walking stick from the wall, and gave it to him. Old Man rose and walked beside him across the street.
Zeldezia’s door opened. She shook a dusty rug into the street, stopped, mouth open. Duran cursed inwardly, fished out his keys, opened the door to his shop, and followed Old Man inside. Dog waited by the counter and ambled over to sniff Old Man over.
“Go, Dog. Lie down. You know Old Man. That’s-a-boy.” Duran shut the door and waved a hand at the stairway. “Upstairs.”
Old Man nodded, limped to the stairs, slowly ascended them. Duran came behind, indicated the doorway, which Old Man opened.
“Grandfather!”
Kekoja sat on the edge of the bed, his foot soaking in water and salts. Old Man took another step forward, and spoke rapidly in Sabirn, of which Duran could understand only a few words, none significant to him: the boy responded with words equally swift.
“He says you helped him last night,” Old Man said, turning to Duran, “that you don’t want anything from him. Is this true?”
“I don’t want anything from him.” Old Man’s look at him seemed too sharp, too careful. “Anybody would have done the same, if they’d heard the fight. No one in Old Town likes thugs.”
Old Man squared his shoulders. “No one likes thugs, aye. But some of your neighbors, Sor Duran, like Sabirn even less. He says he ate your breakfast.”
Duran shrugged.
“You fed him. Do you know what that means to us?”
More than he knew, by Old Man’s stern look. Duran shook his head, embarrassed, confused.
“You’re willing for him to have this food?”
“Of course I’m willing. He doesn’t owe me anything.”
“You are bound by that giving. He is bound. We Sabirn do not take other people’s food willingly.”
“I didn’t know. And I don’t feel that he’s bound to me, if that makes any difference.”
“What’s done, is done,” Old Man said. “Since you offered him food out of concern for him, and since you don’t know our customs, I don’t hold you to the rules we live by.” He gestured briefly. “But the boy knows. He knows.”
“Look, Old Man, debt or no debt—he’s clear. He’s free. Where shall I send him? Where’s his father? Where’s his mother?”
Old Man shrugged by way of answer.
“Where does he live?” Duran asked. “He comes from somewhere.”
“He lives on the street. So do most of us Sabirn.”
“He’s not going to be using that ankle for the next few days. He’s not going to be living on the street.”
Old Man shrugged.
Duran stared.
“I’m all right,” Kekoja said from his place on the bed. “I can walk.”
“Be still,” Old Man muttered. “Pay your debts.”
The boy set his jaw. “But, I—”
“You know I can’t let you stay with me. Don’t argue.”
The lad’s face turned red, and he angrily launched into a rapid stream of Sabirn. Old Man replied in the same language, making a few cutting motions with his hands. Duran watched the exchange, wondering what in the hells he had managed to get himself mixed up in.
“My grandson,” Old Man said at last, turning away from Kekoja, “has a mind of his own… and a sharp tongue to go with it. I’m sorry, Sor Duran, but he must stay with you. He has no choice.”
“Grandfather—”
“No choice, Kekoja!”
The boy frowned, his shoulders still stiffened in anger.
“Since he’s staying here,” Old Man said, “I insist that you let me pay you something… at least for the food he eats.”
Duran drew a long breath. With what? he wondered. Aloud he said: “Can’t either of you understand that I’m trying to help? That I don’t expect anything in return?”
Old Man lifted his chin.
“All right,” Duran sighed. “Pay for his food, if that’s what bothers you.”
“You’re a very strange one for an Ancar,” Old Man said, leaning on his walking stick. “You always have been, as long as I’ve known you.” He looked Duran directly in the face—which no Sabirn did. “You’ve given more than you understand, Sor Duran. You don’t know our customs, but let me say that what I’ll give you in return means much to us.” He spread a hand over his heart and bowed. “My name is Dajhi.”
Duran reckoned suddenly—he knew fewer Sabirn names than he did Sabirn words. “Dajhi,” he repeated, and then, making a blind leap of logic: “Your name is safe with me. So is your grandson. Whatever his real name.”
Old Man’s eyes softened. “You are a strange one,” he said. He turned to Kekoja. “You’ve heard. Trust this one. Do what he says. Behave yourself, tehiji.”
The boy looked sullenly at his grandfather. “Aye.”
“You have your shop to run, Sor Duran,” Old Man said. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Take me downstairs and I’ll leave you.”
Duran nodded and led the way down the steps, stood by the doorway as Old Man left, thinking.
He dragged his mind back to his business. Hladyr sent him a few more customers today. The silver Wellhyrn had given him would only last so long.
# # #
The gods—even the Shining One—seemed to have better things to do than listen to one man’s prayers. All morning long Duran sat behind his counter, waiting for customers who never materialized. Mother Garan, alone, returned for another dose of willow tea, saying her head felt better. Duran charged her the usual three coppers, and sent her off with strict instructions. One worried. Like many others in Old Town, she could not afford a doctor of the kind that practiced uptown, Duran was the next best thing… affordable. Knowledgeable enough to worry about the old lady—to ease the pain as he could. To do as much as he could and refrain at least from doing harm.
Duran thought of Kekoja upstairs, and wondered what the Sabirn boy was doing to pass the time. He had not heard the lad leave the bed; his floor had several singing boards, and someone not knowing them would alert a listener downstairs.
“Duran,” Ithar said, entering the shop. “Got me a cut that don’t seem to heal.”
Duran got down from his stool. “Where?”
Ithar extended one burly arm. “There. Got cut t’other day… well, three, four days back, and it ain’t healed up like it should. Thought you might have somethin’ to help me.”
“I might.” Duran looked at the sore: it was red and swollen. “Did you wash it good after you got burned?”
“Hells, I didn’t have time. Had a man comin’ to pick up his goods and I was runnin’ late. I just smeared some mud on it.”
“Washing’s better.” Duran turned around and consulted the shelves of neatly labeled jars. He pulled one out and pushed it across the counter toward Ithar. “This ought to help.”
The smith eyed the jar. “How much d’you think I need?”
“Not the whole thing.” Duran looked at the cut again. “Maybe a quarter jar will do.”
“Just rub it on?”
“Aye. And when you’re working, keep the cut covered with a clean cloth. Does it hurt?”
“Sommat. Not as bad as when I did it… but it don’t seem to hurt any less lately.”
“Huh.” Duran stooped, reached under his counter, and pulled out a small earthen bowl and its lid. He carefully poured some of the oil from the larger jar into the bowl and set the lid in place—the tangy smell of cinnamon filled the air. “When you get back to your shop, heat some water hot as you can stand it. Soak the arm till the water cools. Then get a clean—clean! stick, drop some of this on.”
“Aye. Clean stick.” Ithar took the bowl. “What do I owe you, Duran?”
Duran calculated. “Five coppers should do. If you should have some oil left when you’re healed, keep it clean and sealed with wax, and it should keep.”
Ithar nodded, dug in his belt pouch one-handed, and set the copper coins on Duran’s counter. “You ain’t gettin’ rich doin’ this, Duran. I charge twice that to fix a broken anchor chain, and that don’t take no mixing with foreign stuffs.”
“Your customers can afford it,” Duran said, pocketing the coppers. “So.”
Ithar stared at Duran a moment, then grinned. “Hladyr bless,” he said, then turned and left the shop.
Duran sat down on his stool and looked down at Dog. “Eight coppers so far today. We might not do badly.”
Dog merely wagged his tail, turned around several times, and stretched out at the end of the counter.
Eight coppers. Duran remembered when he and other noble children spent more than that on sweetmeats at the market. He now lived on less than he could have ever conceived, and not all that badly, either—as poor went.
He caught movement out of the corner of one eye: Zeldezia stood in the doorway, holding her apron in hand.
“Better business today than yesterday,” she said, coming inside.
“Rain scared off all but the determined, or the desperate.”
Duran’s contentment vanished. “That’s true. You’re doing well today?”
“I should be,” the seamstress said, lifting one eyebrow. “After all, I am the best in this area.”
Duran nodded. Obnoxious as Zeldezia could be, she was justified in her pride: she was by far the most talented seamstress in this section of Old Town: people came to her from better sections of the city, knowing they could get a bargain; and went away happy, too.
But Zeldezia never was.
If she didn’t spend so damned much time telling everyone how good she is, Duran thought, someone might find a chance to tell her.
“You still got that boy in there?” Zeldezia asked bluntly.
Duran started. Damned if the woman had not seen him take the Sabirn lad upstairs last night. But he should have known… not much went on in the neighborhood that Zeldezia could not ferret out.
“Aye.”
“Got beat up bad, did he?”
Duran shrugged. “Bad enough.”
Zeldezia cocked her head and looked up at Duran. “Not very talkative today, are you? Who beat him up? You recognize ’em?”
“No. Three boys. Tut calls them ‘punk kids.’”
“Well, we don’t need them sort here in this neighborhood. If they move in, we’ll be no better than the Slough.”
The Slough… the roughest part of Old Town; lair of thieves, whores, and bullies. It lay to the west, by the marshy side of the river, a breeding place for vermin—human and otherwise.
“Hladyr forbid they move in,” Duran said, for once in total agreement with his neighbor.
“That boy is Sabirn, ain’t he?” Zeldezia asked, eyeing Duran closely. “That why you brung Old Man up?”
Duran nodded, knowing he could not deny what she had seen.
“Gods, Duran! Them folk ain’t no good. An’ you’ve got one in your house? In your bed? On your sheets?” Zeldezia’s lips thinned into a frown. “Lady bless, Duran! He’ll steal you blind. He’ll have all his friends comin’ in. You think about your neighbors? We don’t want no Sabirn hangin’ ’round here.”
“Old Man doesn’t steal,” Duran pointed out, trying to keep his temper.
“Old Man’s different. He don’t bother no one. Besides, he’s a cripple and he wouldn’t be able to steal nothin’ without someone noticin’.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Duran said, “the boy’s Old Man’s grandson.”
Zeldezia lifted both eyebrows at this news. A tidbit always excited her. He instantly regretted saying that. Especially as her face settled back into its angry expression. “They’re devils, them Sabirn. Necromancers. Demon worshippers. Ain’t no good come of ’em. I tell you, you’re a gods-fearin’ man, Duran, but you come close to damnin’ your soul, havin’ anything to do with ’em.”
“Now, Zeldezia…”
“You got to think! Think what could happen to your business… to my business if folk found out you’re hangin’ around with Sabirn, that you got one of ’em in your house, fer Hladyr’s sake! Think o’ my uptown clients! What’d they think? We hobnob around with them dirty Sabs? We could lose all our customers!”
“Well, we don’t have to worry, do we?” Duran interposed smoothly. “If you don’t tell anyone, and I don’t tell anyone, no one will know, will they?”
Zeldezia frowned the darker. “I’m tellin you, Duran, you’re makin’ a mistake. You can’t trust ’em. Nowhere. Nohow. They’ll get you so’s you like ’em, an’ then they’ll run off with everythin’ you own. Gods, drinkin’ out o’ your cups and eatin’ off your dishes—”
Duran got down from his stool and walked to the corner of the counter so he faced Zeldezia. “I’ve dealt with Sabirn for years now,” he said, “and not one of them has ever been anything but polite. Why do you hate them, Zeldezia? What have they ever done to you?”
“They’re wizard-spawn!”
“There’s nothing they do that the Temple wizards or the Duke’s wizards don’t do.”
“Oh, that’s what they want you to think! Them Sabirn wizards practice the dark arts.” She lowered her voice. “Priest says anyone who has anything to do with ’em is in peril of his soul!”
“Horseshit!” Duran exclaimed, hoping the vulgarity would chase Zeldezia off. As usual, it had no effect. Vadami. Damned snotnosed district priest. Always spreading his version of the Eternal Scheme of Things…
“Well, if you end up knifed in your bed one night, I won’t be surprised,” Zeldezia said. “An’ let me tell you, Duran… if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get rid of that boy ’fore folks find out he’s up there.”
“Not until he’s healed,” Duran countered, drawing himself up to his full height. “If anyone finds out, I’ll know who told them. And it won’t have been me!”
Zeldezia threw back her head so she could look Duran in the eyes, set fists on ample hips. “I can see I ain’t going to change your mind. Just think on what I said, Duran. Your business an’ mine could suffer for your stupidity! Folks ain’t going to take medicine you mix with no Sab kid slinking ’round this shop!”
Duran clamped his jaws together, afraid of what he would say if he spoke.
“So.” Zeldezia shifted her apron to her other hand, and straightened her dress. “I’m going to the Temple. The Duke’s going to be there, him an’ his family. It’s the Heir’s name-day.”
Duran’s heart went thump. The duke’s heir, resplendent at the ceremony—
Due, soon, for his next treatment for the pox.
Zeldezia turned to go, then looked back over her shoulder. “An’ while I’m at the Temple, I’ll pray Hladyr that he give you some good sense!”
With that, she swept out of the shop. Duran let loose his pent up breath and stared after her. Gods! He had told Tut about Kekoja, knowing the innkeeper would keep his mouth shut. How in hell had Zeldezia …
Duran glanced upstairs, hoping with any kind of luck, Kekoja had heard nothing. Damned woman. But she could be right.
Dammit all anyway. He had never flaunted his dealing with the Sabirn—the way Tut had said, one hired them—there were few people besides them he could afford to hire. Besides the stories—about which no one knew. He started pacing up and down in front of his counter. He would have to be less obvious in dealing with the Sabirn, possibly cease talking with them at all till this blew over. All of them except Old Man. Old Man was safe.…
People knew Old Man. They would surely take it better, if they knew the boy was Old Man’s grandson.