"I'll do it," Kekoja said. "I'll be your runner."
Duran frowned, shook his head. Help the sort the boy offered—that was always out of reach for him. And even for a good reason, with the best of thought behind it—he could not, he told himself, expect a fourteen-year-old Sabirn to take on the burden of community distrust. "There's some actual physical danger, the toughs that gave you trouble, for one. And people are bound to—say things, especially at first. Besides which, I can't pay much."
"I'm a damn sight cheaper than anyone else you could find."
"I thought you wanted to be out of here."
"That don't mean I never want to see you again. I like you."
Duran looked at the boy, found an unexpected longing in his heart. The house had not been so quiet these last few days; there had been a bright, quick wit to deal with—there had been someone . . . waiting for him at home. . . .
Besides which—the boy in the open was no threat to the neighborhood, the boy would quickly be like his grandfather, just a Sabirn who worked for someone . . . a Sabirn who had a place and a reason to be on the streets . . . for the boy's own sake, as much as his . . .
"Let's deal," he said to Kekoja. "What I can pay you is this: if I make a profit for a day from your running my medicines, I'll give you a third of it. Does that sound fair?"
Kekoja thought for a moment. "Aye. And if you don't make a profit, we both suffer. I'll work hard."
Duran drew a deep breath. Gods! Could this actually be happening to me? "You know Old Town at all?"
"Aye."
"Well enough to make deliveries and pick up orders at places you've never been before?"
"You tell me how to get there an' I'll do it."
"What about those thugs? What if you run into them?"
Kekoja stiffened; Duran could see the visible effort it took the boy to relax. "I'm not afraid. Was damn stupid of me to get caught like that in the first place."
"Remember, you'll be carrying money. Not a lot of it, but money that will pay me and you. Do you think you can skin out of a fight?"
"If I have to, I have to." Kekoja's shoulders squared. "When I'm on the job, I work for you, Duran. When I'm off the job, you don't hold anythin' over me."
Duran nodded slowly. "That sounds like a fair exchange. But if you aren't staying here—where will you be staying?"
He hoped Kekoja would say—I'd rather stay here. But Kekoja glanced away. "I got places," Kekoja said. "Don't worry 'bout me, Duran. I lived on the street 'fore you found me in that alleyway."
The house would be empty again. So. One settled for half, if there was no hope of the whole. "I can't help but worry, but I won't ask you where those places are. But if I need you—if I do have to find you, what should I do?"
"Ask my grandfather. He'll know where I am."
"I'll also want to tell your grandfather what we've agreed to," Duran said. "I think he should know, don't you? I think he should agree."
"Aye."
Duran stood and faced the Sabirn boy. "Then let's strike our bargain, you and I."
Kekoja held out a hand and Duran placed both his around it.
"Hladyr witness: I promise to abide by my word, to give you a third of the profits you make for me in return for your services as my runner."
"Gods of my people witness: I promise to work hard for you."
Duran grinned widely and pressed Kekoja's hand. "Done, boy! We're in business together now."
"When you want me to start?"
"Tomorrow. This afternoon, I'll tell you where my customers live, I've got medicines to mix. You'll help me."
"Will you teach me herbs?"
"Aye, if you've a mind to learn it." Duran walked over to the bed and put Kekoja's plate and empty mug into the basket. "I've got to open my shop. Someone might need something. Will you be all right up here?"
Kekoja sat down on the bed and lifted a book. "I can always look at the pictures," he said with a lopsided grin.
Duran smiled, picked up the basket, and went downstairs, where Dog was waiting to be let out. The rain was still falling heavily when Duran opened the door.
Duran leaned up against the opened door and stared at the rain-hazed street.
Now that he had done it—now that he had actually hired Kekoja—a chill of misgiving knotted in his gut. He hoped he understood his neighbors. He most sincerely hoped that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Duran!"
Duran looked up from the alembic he was heating: Kekoja stood before the counter, soaked to the skin, a growing puddle spreading beneath him on the floor.
"I've got orders, Duran! People actually gave me orders!"
Duran set aside his book and smiled widely—so a little talk up and down the neighborhood had worked, his customers did have faith in him—
"Anyone seriously ill?"
"No."
"Good." Duran remembered the alembic, picked the head up in thick rags, poured out his decoction from the cucurbit, wrinkling his nose. "Who ordered what? You remember them all, I hope?"
"Aye." Kekoja closed his eyes and cocked his head. "Young Filland's teeth are bothering him again. Says he needs what you usually give him."
"That would be watercress," Duran said, taking a jar from the shelves behind him. "Who else?'
"Sora Mitti's son's got a toothache. She says it hurts him real bad."
"All right. What she needs is clove seeds." Duran got out another jar. "And she'd better have him to Heimid, get that seen to. Are you paying attention to what I'm giving them? You said you wanted to learn herbs."
"Aye, I'm listening. Cardilla says you know what you give her."
Another jar came off the shelves. "Hemp tea for Cardilla."
"And Mother Garan's headache's back."
"Poor woman." Duran shook his head. "Willow tea for headache. Any more?"
"No. That's all." Kekoja's dark eyes looked suddenly worried. "But it's a start, isn't it?"
"It certainly is. You did marvelously. You have an honest face. Now pay attention to how much I'm giving to each of these people." Duran started making heavy paper packets into which he inserted the various remedies. As he worked, he briefly named off the dosages and how to figure, while Kekoja watched every move. "You are a help," Duran said. "None of these folk would have come in today. They'd have suffered. Especially Mother Garan."
"Why don't you sell the old lady a big lot? She says she's got it all the time."
"Because—she only affords a bit. And I'll tell you a secret: I'd give it to her at cost—except she'd take too much, she'd take it all the time—and willow tea hurts the stomach if you take too much, too long: and she'd be worse off."
"She says she really hurts."
"If it doesn't clear up—if it gets worse—there are stronger things. You give them—if you have to. If there's nothing else can be done. And they'll ease the pain—but that's all they'll do."
"You mean she'll die. . . ."
"People do." He finished wrapping the last of the packets, and carefully placed them in the small waxed basket he used when gathering herbs. "Try to stay as dry as you can," he said, handing Kekoja the basket. "And take your time. Don't slip on the cobblestones."
Kekoja grinned. "If I do, I know a good 'pothecary to treat me." He drew his cloak over the basket held tight under one arm. "Don't worry, Duran. I won't get into trouble."
Duran watched the boy step back out into the rain and disappear down the street. Dog lay by the opened door, his tail thumping against the wall.
"Dog," Duran said, "if this works, I might see a comfortable living."
Dog whuffled once, and settled down for a nap, unconcerned whether Duran made a profit or not.
* * *
Two more days of storm and rain. The first day, Kekoja returned with twenty-five coppers off his orders; the second day, it was twenty-two. Duran immediately paid the boy his share: eight -coppers—a couple of good meals at an inn like the "Cat."
Now, sitting on his s
tool and watching the afternoon sunlight break through the clouds, Duran congratulated himself. The deep dark secret was out on the streets—no wizard, a bright-eyed, cheerful boy: folk relaxed, he had given the boy a chance to do more than . . . gods only knew what Kekoja had done before Duran had rescued him from the thugs.
And, gods, if his business continued to hold—if having Kekoja's healthy legs to run for him could bring orders in from streets up and down Old Town—he had always lived so frugally and saved every copper he could; he kept his small hoard hidden beneath one of the boards in the floor upstairs. If he continued to make the profits he had seen in the past two days, he might—
A scratching at his door brought Duran out of his daydreaming. He looked up at the skirted shadow in his doorway.
"Afternoon, Duran," Zeldezia said, stepping into the shop. Dog lifted his head, sniffed twice, and the beat of his tail stopped. "Never seen the like of this weather."
Duran put on a polite expression and nodded. He had not seen much of Zeldezia lately, a state of affairs he considered most fortunate. He had not talked to her since the boy had taken to the streets, he was sure she had that on her mind, and he vowed he would not let her make him lose his temper, that he would be polite to her no matter what she said.
"Sure been strange," she said. "All them storms comin' in. More like spring."
"Aye. It certainly has," Duran replied. "I hope you're doing well."
"Pfft." Zeldezia waved a hand. "It'd take more'n rain to keep business from my door. Folks got to have clothes to wear." She walked over to the counter and leaned up against it. "See that Sabirn lad up and down the street. He stayin' here?"
Duran drew a deep breath. "He isn't staying here anymore, Zeldezia. I promise you."
"Then where's he livin'? He stole anything?"
"No."
"He's taking medicines to people." Zeldezia's dark eyes narrowed. "Who knows what he's pilferin'. Duran, where's your good sense? How, by all the gods, can you trust 'im?"
"I trust him. He's a good runner, and an honest one."
"Ha! Honesty an' Sabirn ain't even in the same world with each other. I bet some o' your stuff ain't ever gettin' to your customers. You ever checked?"
"He hasn't done anything of the kind." Duran shifted on his stool, determined not to be angry. "I know how much I charge, and he's returned with every copper of it. I know my doses, I sell exactly what's required, and it gets there."
"But how you know he's been tellin' you the truth? How you know he ain't got more orders than he tells you? That he ain't takin' money for 'em and not givin' it to you?"
"I'd find out."
Zeldezia snorted something under her breath. "You're a damned trustin' man, Duran, if you think that kid ain't stealin' from you. An' what do you think he's doin' for your reputation? It's a little uppity of a Sab, runnin' medicines! Ain't never heard the like."
"Uptown shops use Sabirn all the time," Duran said. "As for my reputation—my good customers take care of that."
"Huh. Next you'll have 'im mixin' and boilin'.—You don't let him, do you?"
It hit too close. Morally he hated the lie. "Of course not." He arched an eyebrow in her direction. "And he saves people time . . . which most of us who work don't have in abundance." As usual, Zeldezia did not rise to his pointed remark. Duran doubted she understood him. "You know how it is. Old folk needing medicines and can't get out in the bad weather; and I can mix or I can be running up and down the streets getting soaked."
"Huhn." She straightened her skirts. "I still say you're out of your mind, Duran. An' I don't like havin' that kid runnin' in and out of your shop. Some of my uptown customers might see 'im."
"So? Your uptown customers wouldn't blink. They're used to Sabirn. And you certainly haven't been shy about telling everyone you know I'm responsible for the boy's presence. What's to keep you from telling your customers the same thing?"
An odd look passed across Zeldezia's face. "Do you honestly think I'm nothin' but a gossipy busybody? That I don't care what happens to you?"
"I don't know what to think," he said sternly. Gods, could Zeldezia be softening?
"Believe me. I am concerned."
"You certainly have a strange way of showing it. I'd far rather be left alone."
"—I'm concerned for your soul, Duran. . . ."
"Listen, what I do is between the Shining One and myself . . . not all the neighbors!"
"But Vadami. . . ."
"He's already talked with me," Duran said, keeping his voice even. "At your instigation, no doubt. Zeldezia, I wish you'd let it lie! Trust me to know whether my soul's mine or not!"
Zeldezia's face darkened. "I talked to him about you, aye, I did, an' I told you so. An' I told you what Vadami said to me." She drew a sharp breath. "I been outright and plain, everythin' I done. I care about you! But nothin' I've said, an' nothin' he's said, seems to've made any difference."
"Gods! Is that how you care? Who made you that way?"
"An' what do you mean by that?" she asked, drawing herself up and crossing her arms on her chest.
"Just what I said. Someone must have been damned nasty to you for you to be so bitter. And it wasn't Sabirn. I doubt you ever knew any Sabirn. Why can't you leave people alone, Zeldezia? Why can't you keep your nose out of other folk's business?" He lifted a hand. "Before you say the Sabirn lad I hired is your business, too, let me remind you he doesn't come into your shop. He doesn't even pause by your door. And as for you . . . you don't have to come over here and talk with me. You don't have to associate with someone who's obviously a damned soul!"
"That's not fair!" she cried. "Not fair at all. I done fair with you—"
"Even the Sabirn?"
Zeldezia's dark eyes glittered. "Them folk ain't got no souls! They sold 'em to demons and other crawlin' things of darkness in exchange for their nefarious powers!"
Hardly Zeldezia's own words. He saw Vadami in that. "And do you know that for a fact, Zeldezia?"
"Don't have to know it: Vadami told me so."
"If Vadami told you a country pig would be our next duke, would you believe him?"
"You be careful, Duran." Zeldezia's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You're comin' close to heresy. Vadami's a priest! You should have respect!"
"I won't dispute that. I talked with him that night . . . we quoted scripture. He quotes at me, I can cite him holy words that say the exact opposite of what he says."
"You a priest, too, you an' your uptown ways?' Zeldezia looked ready to be impressed. A lie tempted him; a dangerous lie, but:
"No." Duran allowed a small smile to touch his face; and he remembered Old Town had no sense of humor about the Temple. "But I had a fine education in my father's house. Surely you know that."
For some reason Zeldezia's face went red. "Oh, aye, Duran . . . lord it over the rest of us, you bein' Ancar and noble. Well, you're poor as us, now, ain't you? An' as for bein' Ancar . . . if I remember what the priest told me, it was Ancar destroyed the Sabirn empire and put them demons down! That's why there's the Duke, Hladyr bless 'im! Don't you snigger at prayin' an' tell me you know more'n Hladyr's own priest!"
Duran nodded toward Dog, who lay asleep by the doorway. "Once all dogs were wolves. They preyed on man's livestock, and man himself when they were pushed to it. Now some of them live with us, guard us, and are our friends. Just because two of Hladyr's creatures were enemies once doesn't mean dogs were demons. Or that old enemies can't change. Hladyr can change them. Maybe Hladyr has. Would you hate his creation? Because he put the Sabirn here. Would you say demons are powerful as Hladyr? I don't. So what happens is his doing, isn't it?"
Zeldezia snorted. "Very pretty, Duran. You're even tryin' to sound like a priest." She turned toward the doorway. "Mark my words, you're huntin' for trouble keepin' that boy workin' for you. One of these days it's all goin' to come home to you, your jokin' an' your lookin' down your nose at folk an' you're sendin' this slinkin' Sab kid around so's poor sick folk got
no choice but deal with 'im, that's the respect you got for your neighbors. I tell you, some woman alone, she's got cause t'be scared of that kid, sure she's gon' t' pay 'im, sure she ain't gon' t' tell if he ask't more money than you said—she's scared!"
"Tell me when this happened! Name me names!"
Zeldezia would not meet his eyes. She flounced toward the door. "Any decent woman! Any poor old woman or ailin' old man, for that matter! You deal with your neighbors with that Sab kid, you go right on, and when it comes home, you remember what you done, 'cause not a one of your neighbors'll come to help you!"
She walked out of the shop, nearly stepping on Dog as she did so.
Dog scrambled out of the way, looked reproachfully at Duran, then shook himself and ambled outside. Kekoja was due back any time now, and Duran felt relieved the boy had not returned to find Zeldezia in the shop.
Duran shook his head. With people like Zeldezia in the world, it was no wonder one of mankind's favorite pastimes was war.
* * *
Thunder over Targheiden as Duran locked his door and ran across the street to the inn. The rain had started falling heavily just as he left his shop and, by the time he ducked inside the "Cat's" opened doorway, his cloak was wet.
"Good evening, Sor Duran," Old Man said from his place on the floor. "Do you think this rain will ever stop?"
Duran shook his head and gave Old Man a copper. "For your story tonight, if you're in the mood to tell one."
Old Man smiled and slipped the coin into his belt pouch. "I may tell one you've never heard before," he said.
Duran paused, looking at him. But Old Man looked elsewhere.
Duran walked to his table. The mood of the customers in the "Cat" was subdued tonight, the gloom of yet another day of rain, Duran thought. Tut came, took his order, and vanished back toward the kitchen without more than a few polite words.
During which Duran found himself the object of several furtive stares. Hladyr bless!
Then he thought sourly: Zeldezia.
Damn her.
He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and glanced up as a red-nosed Lalada brought him his ale.
"You don't look like you're feeling well," he said.
"Not," she sniffed. "Got a bad humor in my head."
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