Wizard Spawn

by C. J. Cherryh

  "You've got a mean streak in you," Ladirno said. "Do what you want to. I won't stop you. But I still think you're expending a lot of energy on a problem that isn't a problem."

  "Yet."

  "Yet," Ladirno admitted. "Yet."

  * * *

  Duran counted his take for the day, came up with twenty-four coppers, and congratulated himself. Tonight he would be able to eat well, to have, yes! a second mug of ale.

  Dog stood up, shook himself, and ambled outside. The late afternoon shadows had darkened the street, and Dog knew his master's routine. Duran watched the animal turn down the street, nose to the ground, reading what only other dogs could read. Dog would be back before he shut his shop down for the night and crossed the street to "The Swimming Cat" for his nightly meal.

  He glanced upstairs, wondering what Kekoja was doing to pass the time. He had slipped up several times to look in on the boy, found the Sabirn lad asleep, or quietly staring off into nothing. He had shared his bread and cheese with the lad at midday, made up a new pan of hot salts, and instructed Kekoja to soak the ankle again. Kekoja had complied, saying little more than necessary.

  Duran rubbed his eyes, leaned back against his shelves. What in Hladyr's name had Zeldezia told people about the boy? Her talking with Vadami—gods! The priest would certainly be paying more attention to this street after today. . . .

  Duran cocked an ear—heard flute music, coming from upstairs; he remembered the small, wooden flute Kekoja kept in his belt. For a moment he let himself be carried along with the music, until the strangeness of the melody made him sit straighter on his stool.

  That was no Ancar melody the boy played, or Torhyn either. There was a haunting loneliness to the song, an alienness to it. Sabirn music. Music that spoke to Duran of twilight evenings, places with no names, and gods that had died with their worshippers.

  Duran felt the hair at the nape of his neck stir. He glanced out the door, afraid of who might be listening to that playing, and drew a deep breath. He could hear Zeldezia now, complaining to all the neighbors about Duran's Sabirn boy, who played music that trapped souls in darkness.

  But it was only twilight the boy played . . . twilight, and a loneliness that could not be comforted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days passed. Duran glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the street, but Zeldezia's door was shut. He had exchanged nothing more than brief greetings with her since their argument that day, and he frankly found her silence a blessing. Hladyr only knew what she was saying behind his back, but at least she had quit trying to get him to throw Kekoja out on the street.

  Old Man sat in his usual place by the doorway and, as Duran passed, smiled broadly. Duran smiled back, then carefully erased the expression from his face as he entered the common room. He did not know how far rumor might have spread the story of his guest, but it would not do to rub his neighbors' noses in the fact.

  Tutadar looked up from what he was doing at the bar, and lifted an eyebrow as Duran stopped. "Eating here, tonight?" he asked, setting a freshly drawn mug of ale on the counter. "That's a change." A lower voice. "Kid gone yet?"

  "No." Duran glanced around the common room, found it not all that busy, filled mostly with his neighbors, and kept his own voice down as he paid attention to the mug Tut offered. "A few more days should do it. His head's a lot better, and he doesn't lose his balance that often. That was a damned nasty sprain he suffered. Came close to breaking his ankle, I'd say."

  "You want your usual?" Tutadar asked.

  "Aye.—How's Anha's hand, by the by? Any better?"

  Tutadar's face broke into a smile. "Oh, aye. Think your medicines got her back to her old self. She been yellin' at me lately just like she used to."

  "Good." Duran turned and walked back to his table and sat down.

  And noticed a change.

  Slight, that change, but a change nonetheless in the atmosphere of the common room; though his neighbors had nodded to him as he passed by their tables, there had been none of the usual good-natured bantering back and forth with him that he was used to.

  He leaned back in his chair, cursing himself for seeing shadows where there probably were none. On the other hand, if Zeldezia had been as busy telling people about Kekoja as he feared she had, then there could be a damned good reason.

  The tavern girl, Lalada, came to his side carrying his plate. Duran smiled up at her as she set his dinner on his table, and felt his expression freeze: she had not returned the smile, and moved with an uncertainty he was not used to seeing in her—some days ago.

  Damn Zeldezia! She must have been in the "Cat" the last couple of days, spreading all lands of rumors about the Sabirn boy. Duran took up his ale, sipped at it, and pretended he noticed nothing amiss.

  The smith Ithar got up, came over to his table. That was encouraging. "Mind if I join you?"

  "No. Please, sit down. How's your arm doing?"

  Ithar pulled out a chair and sat. He extended his arm and, even in the lamplight, Duran could see that the cut was healing normally, new pink skin.

  "Feels lots better," Ithar said, letting his sleeve fall. He took a long drink from his mug. "Wanted to thank you for what you done."

  "No thanks needed. You just be careful in the future to wash any cut you get, never mind the mud, and you shouldn't have any more trouble."

  The smith nodded, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, leaned forward on the table. "Want to ask you a couple questions, Duran. Man to man."

  "Certainly." Duran's heart lurched. "What?"

  "You got yourself a Sabirn kid in your house?"

  Duran briefly shut his eyes. "Has Zeldezia been telling everyone in the neighborhood, or just a select few?"

  "Then you ain't denyin' it?"

  "No. Did she also tell you the boy had been hurt . . . badly?"

  Ithar's eyes wavered a bit. "No. She didn't."

  That figures, Duran thought. "It is true. He was beaten by three young toughs in the alleyway outside my house. I chased them off and I'm keeping him until he can walk again."

  "Chased them punks off?" Ithar asked. "With that stick of yours? Them as been hangin' round—"

  "Aye."

  "You could've been hurt bad, Duran. Any of 'em could have had a knife."

  "One did."

  Ithar drew a long breath and took another drink of his ale. "Why didn't you call for help? We would've come a-runnin'."

  "I was too busy.—Now, let me ask you a question. Did Zeldezia tell you the boy's Old Man's grandson?"

  The smith shook his head.

  "It seems to me that someone who's so free with other people's business could at least get the story right."

  "But, Duran . . ." Ithar shook his head. "The boy is Sabirn."

  "So's Old Man! I can't imagine you leaving an injured boy on the street just because he's Sabirn, Ithar. I truly can't."

  Ithar scratched his head. "Maybe not. But I wouldn't have let him into my house, f' the gods' blessed sake—"

  "Ithar, none of the Sabirn I've ever dealt with have stolen from me. That's the truth. None's ever done me an ill turn."

  Ithar stared at Duran for a long time. "Tut always said you got too kind a heart for your own good. I agree with him."

  "For Hladyr's sake, Ithar! The boy's no demon. He's just like you or me."

  "Look, Duran: Old Man . . . he don't worry me. He's old and he's crippled. But a young kid now, fast on his feet—"

  "Ithar." Duran reached out and set a hand on the smith's forearm. "A skinny, fourteen-year-old boy's no threat to you or anyone in the neighborhood. He's been here three days and nothing's happened. Has it? Tell me if it has."

  "You're an honest man, Duran, but you got a soft spot's going to do you hurt. You took in that dog when he was starvin' and you was little better. Now, you're taking in this Sabirn lad when you know better, and he ain't got no uses." Ithar's brown eyes were level. "You tell me: you going to stand surety for 'im? Pay us for anything he steals?
'S only fair. . . ."

  Duran leaned back in his chair. "He's not going to steal anything from you," he said, "and if he does, I'll be the first one to turn him in to the Guard."

  "You mean that?"

  "I swear to it."

  "Well . . . if you stand for 'im . . ." Ithar drank again. "But I'll tell you for damned sure, Duran . . . makes me nervous just thinkin" bout one of them little, dark folk livin' this close to me. Gives me the creeps."

  Duran chewed and swallowed and reached for his ale. "If you met the boy, Ithar, you'd change your mind. He's intelligent—a good lad . . . polite and smart. He's a kid, Ithar. Like any kid. What in hell's everybody spooked for?"

  "If you say so." Ithar looked at Duran for a moment, then selfconsciously grinned, reached across the table, and rested a hand on Duran's shoulder shook in comradely fashion. "You're all right, Duran . . . you really are. Twenty years I knowed you, an' you been honest. I just hope to hell what you're doin' here won't do you hurt."

  "That I can't help. Zeldezia's doing the hurt."

  "Feh!" Ithar waved a hand. "She talks too much. We don't believe everything she says. . . ."

  "You believed this, didn't you? Didn't ask me?"

  The smith nodded slowly. "Aye, that's so—but, dammit, ain't nobody took in a gods-cussed Sabirn. Sneaky bunch. None of us likes 'em. . . ."

  Duran finished his fish and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Sneak is as sneak does. Some don't care who they hurt. Some don't care what the truth is."

  "Zeldezia? Believe me, Duran . . . I'm going to let everyone know about it, too." His face grew serious. "But that boy give you any trouble, you tell me. Givin' you any trouble?"

  "No. For one thing, Old Man's talked to him, and told him to mind his manners."

  "Dandro's hells . . . you do be careful. You been lucky in the past dealin' with Sabirn. Hope your luck's still with you."

  "Come over and meet the boy yourself, if it'd make you feel better. He's a kid. See for yourself. He won't bite."

  The smith's eyes wavered. "Not me, Duran. You can keep that kid in your house long's you want to, by me, but don't be tryin' to get me to be friendly to 'im."

  "All right. But don't worry, Ithar. Your tools will be where you leave them—same as always. If anything is missing in this neighborhood, I'd look to the gang that beat this lad. Sure won't be him taking anything. I promise."

  "That's all I can ask." The smith finished off his ale, spat into the rushes on the floor, and stood. "Got to be goin'." Ithar lingered, said, on an apparent second thought: "You take care."

  Duran watched Ithar return to his table and wondered if Ithar knew something.

  * * *

  Heads got together. By the hour Duran left "The Swimming Cat," a number of heads had gotten together, and the atmosphere in the common room of the inn had returned to near normal. A number of his neighbors still looked at him from the corners of their eyes—still, he felt sure, distrusted him, thanks to Zeldezia's spreading rumors. But Ithar, both honest and forceful, would set the neighbors right, and Duran thanked Hladyr he had known the smith as long as he had. Next to Tutadar, the smith was probably the most respected man in the neighborhood.

  As (Duran smiled wryly, balancing the basket containing Kekoja's dinner in one hand, fumbling for his keys) he himself certainly was not.

  He opened the door to his shop, set the food down on his counter. He was lighting the lamp when he heard Dog growl a warning.

  The two young lords stood in the open doorway, cloaked as before.

  "Come in," Duran said. He held on to Dog until both men had entered his shop, then ushered Dog out the door. The animal growled again, and refused to go any farther than the doorstep. "It's all right, Dog." Duran scratched Dog's ear, shut the door, faced the two men. "I have to take something upstairs. I'll be right back down."

  The Duke's heir and his companion glanced around the shop. "See that you are," Brovor growled. "We don't have all night."

  Arrogant young cock, Duran thought, and lit the lamp over the counter for his customers' benefit, keeping his chin down—gods, they had known each other as children, he and Brovor. And he was that much changed. . . .

  He picked up the basket of food and the other lamp, and climbed the stairs, opened the door.

  "Duran?"

  Duran set the lamp down, giving light as the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  "I've got a customer," he said, opening the basket and setting Kekoja's food on the bedside table. "I'll be back. It shouldn't take me long."

  Kekoja's nose wrinkled. "Fish again?"

  "Beef pie tomorrow. I promise you. Eat your food, lad, I'll be right back."

  * * *

  "How many more times do I have to come here?" Brovor asked, from behind a fold of his cloak.

  Duran paid attention to his work. "The sore's started to disappear. The swellings gone down."

  "How many times? I asked you a question."

  "This will be your fourth treatment," he said. "With luck, ten more."

  "Ten?" The prince's whole body jerked. "You damn quack, that's intolerable!"

  "Lord." The heir's companion spoke from the corner. "It does take time."

  "And if I don't come back?" Brovor asked, his voice edged with menace.

  "You die," Duran said with a shrug, tossed the swab, got up, and wiped his hands. "Sooner or later, you die."

  "Damn you!" Brovor took a long breath. "You—"

  Someone knocked on the door.

  "Who's that?" Brovor asked in a hoarse whisper, clutching his cloak about him, his hand reaching for the hilt of the short sword he wore.

  "I have no idea." Duran had not heard Dog bark, so he assumed his visitor was someone Dog knew. He put the top on the jar and set the wand beside it. "It's probably a neighbor—"

  "No one must know I'm here!"

  "I suggest you and your friend go to the back of the shop where the shadows are deepest. I'll try to keep this brief as possible."

  "Gods! I'll—"

  The heir's companion took Brovor by the arm. "Come, lord. He's right. Patience. Please."

  Brovor glared at the door a moment longer, then followed his friend to the rear of the shop.

  Another knock.

  "Just a moment," Duran called. He glanced once over his shoulder to be sure the two young lords were hidden, then opened the door halfway and stepped outside.

  Vadami stood waiting in the street.

  Hladyr bless! The priest! Not now! Duran resisted the urge to glance behind him as he held on to the door.

  "Good evening, Duran," Vadami said. "Hladyr's blessing on you."

  Dog sat a few paces away, tail dropped. He was not fond of Vadami, but he was too well mannered to growl at someone he recognized.

  "Good evening, Priest," Duran said, stepped out past the priest, pulled the door shut. "Been boiling up medicines. It's a warm night. Pleasanter air out here, I assure you, Father.—What may I do for you?"

  "Just a social call. How are things going here in your neighborhood? Are you and your neighbors in good health?"

  Like hell, Duran thought, a social call. Where was Vadami going with these questions, at this hour—

  With the prince in the shop. And Zeldezia's going to him about the boy—

  "Everyone's doing fine, thank you. Aside from normal complaints, headaches and such, no one's been sick."

  "That's good to hear. Summer can bring on bad fevers."

  "True, but I haven't seen the fever so far this year. My business isn't doing all that well, but I don't mind if it means folk are healthy."

  Vadami rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. "I haven't seen you at Temple in some time. . . ."

  "Difficult to close my shop—folk do need medicines. I've no help."

  "I saw Zeldezia there," the priest said, his voice holding mild reproof. "She manages."

  "That may be true, but Zeldezia makes better money than I do. And her clients can wait. A sick youngster—"

  "Of course, of
course." Vadami dismissed the subject with a brief gesture. "But I thought you had help. A Sabirn."

  Duran bit his lip. "A boy. A boy beaten and left in the alley. He's not help, Father, far from it. His family's poor, the boy might have died. A work of charity."

  "Charity to someone who deals with the dark powers. Do you understand that? You're putting your soul in peril."

  "I doubt the boy has anything to do with powers—dark or light. He's a frightened kid—"

  "Duran. This boy—this boy sleeping in your house—is an agent of deception. Of temptations—"

  Duran snorted. "Why? Because they're dark, short, and speak a different language? This is a fourteen-year-old—"

  "They're wizards. Demon-worshippers. Dealers with the dark. They reject the worship of Hladyr."

  "Were they ever invited to worship him?" Duran asked.

  Vadami's face tightened. "They could come to the Temple if they wanted to . . . if they evidenced a sincere desire to change their ways. But none of them has ever done that. They've no souls. They can't repent."

  "That's for priests to say," Duran said, making a desperate effort to avoid controversy. "They're servants in all the noble houses. I see no difference in principle. . . ."

  "What's wrong with you, Duran? Of course there's a difference. They're servants. But you deal with them, you trade with them. . . ."

  Duran spread his hands. "They're the only help I can afford—when I can afford it at all."

  For a moment, Duran thought that he might have broken through the priest's narrow view of things, but Vadami's face hardened. "So you take this boy into your employ—"

  "Not my employ!"

  "They're already starting to bespell you, just like Zeldezia said. Duran, I'm warning you. Don't have anything to do with the Sabirn! If you do, you'll be denying Hladyr and all his works. You know the Book of the Shining One, where it says:

  "A fool is he who turns from Hladyr's face,

  For darkness shall rise to engulf him,