"A matter somewhat touching the Guild," Ladirno continued, leaning a bit forward in his chair. "Something—of great -delicacy—"
"So tell me, man. Don't let me die of old age before you get around to it."
This time a faint flush stole across Ladirno's face. Hajun chided himself for being snappish: Ladirno and Wellhyrn were hardly responsible for the vile weather. He smiled quickly, to pass off his words as levity.
"It involves the Sabirn, lord," Ladirno said, "and one of your court."
"Oh?" Hajun's quill stopped on its way to the inkwell. "One of my—court?"
Wellhyrn cleared his throat, attempted to whisper: "One of our colleagues—"
Hajun beckoned him up a step on the dais. Both advanced anxiously.
"One of our colleagues," Wellhyrn said, "a member of this court—at least—in entitlement, if not in fact."
Hajun felt his wife's eyes on him, and lowered his voice. "Who's involved?"
"Duran vro Ancahar."
Hajun let out his breath. "So. Duran's hardly one of the luminaries of this court," Hajun said. "In fact, it's been a long time since he's even darkened my door."
Ladirno nodded and gestured quickly. "That may be true, lord, but he has access here. As well as to the Guild."
"He's been known for years—to have contacts among the Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, keeping his voice as low as his companion's. "Being his colleagues, as Ladirno said, we have a professional -responsibility to report—" The young man glanced around, and lowered his voice further. "—possible involvement in the dark arts."
Hajun blinked. "Duran?"
"There's perhaps reason he keeps to Old Town, that he's—ignored your late father's generous restoration of his rights. He goes off into the hills with the Sabirn. He's taken a Sabirn into his house. There are rumors—" Wellhyrn coughed. "—of moral nature. He ignores his priest—his closest associates are Sabirn."
"Why?"
"Why indeed, Your Grace," Wellhyrn said. "In this most unusual summer—in this year of disasters—why these nightly visitors, why these strange associations, why this sudden distance from his priest?"
"Which is strange," Ladirno said. "Duran's always seemed to be religious in his own way."
"Huhn." Hajun studied the two alchemists. There was something going on here, something that lurked beneath the surface of their ready concern. He had not seen that concern evidenced so obviously before. Maybe there was a great deal going on he had not paid close attention to.
"Its a matter of concern," Wellhyrn said. "Understand: we know this man. We mark changes in him. And considering his discovery, his trade in—medicines certain individuals might have reason to want in extreme secret—there's such a chance for blackmail. Understand, Your Grace, we've no proof. But we've abundant witnesses of his Sabirn contacts. This boy—a storyteller at a certain tavern—whom he entertains late, behind closed doors—an Ancar nobleman, Your Grace. In these anxious times . . ."
"Your Grace," said Ladirno, spreading his hands, "it's well known that all Sabirn practice the dark arts in one way or another. Their very gods . . ."
Hajun nodded. He looked up at the windows—at the perpetual, unnatural spatter of rain.
Wellhyrn said softly: "I know you've been concerned, lord, by the weather. As have we all. Uncommon. Malicious. Flooding in the Slough."
"The necromancer they hanged," Ladirno said, softer still, "Your Grace, she was Sabirn. But not the only Sabirn."
"All Targheiden knows you've lost ships," Wellhyrn said. "If it were a plot—how better to undermine the duchy? Even the kingdom itself . . ."
Hajun stared at the two men, forcing his face expressionless.
"Why would Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, "woo someone like Duran? And why doesn't he return to court?"
"Jorrino, Chadalen," Hajun said, beckoning the two of his court wizards in the hall. "Master Jorrino. Master Chadalen. These two gentlemen have suggested Sabirn agency turning the weather against me. Is there any chance of this being true?"
Chadalen was a tall fellow, his dark blond hair and blue eyes speaking of mixed Ancar heritage. He bowed slightly. "Anything is possible, Your Grace."
Jorrino, the elder of the two wizards, shook his head. "We're aware of the hanging. But whether it's so—I can't answer. We simply don't know enough about them to say for sure. It's very difficult to locate a wizard by his effects—unless you know his motives, Your Grace."
Hajun leaned on the armrest of his chair and propped his chin in his hand. Everyone knew the Sabirn for demon worshippers, down to the last child of them. He remembered their dark, silent faces, seen from his remote viewpoint of royal carriage or shipboard. He remembered their soft, unintelligible language, the way they seemed to drift from shadow to shadow—servants, even in the highest houses, clinging to dark, ancient gods, even those who professed to convert—one always had to doubt—
"Lord?"
He looked up: the two wizards and the alchemists were watching him, waiting for some reaction.
"Could the Sabirn be responsible for the bad turn in the weather?" he asked.
"It's certainly possible." Jorrino shrugged. "They operate outside the jurisdiction of the Temple. We've thought mostly of foreign enemies. But—if there are secrets we've not yet met, I suppose—I suppose if one truly dealt in the dark arts, which we do not, Your Grace! Being gods-fearing men—one might indeed gather enough power to control the weather."
Hajun frowned. Gods above! If the rumor about the Sabirn wizards was true, could they be behind the bad luck that had been plaguing his trade fleet? Was it possible they were powerful enough to ill-wish him in such a fashion despite his wizards—who confessed to their own impotence against forbidden, ungodly magics—
The plot . . . always the plot.
When one of those little, dark people looked at him, he had always shuddered.
"Chadalen . . . if the Sabirn are ill-wishing this weather on Targheiden, can you and your colleagues deflect their power?"
Chadalen looked worried. "We can only try, Your Grace. -Perhaps—abandoning our concentration on foreign enemies, directing our attention much closer to home—may make us of more effect."
Hajun rubbed his eyes, looked again at the four men facing him: the two alchemists' faces betraying nothing of what passed in their thoughts; the two wizards, impressive in their dark robes, equally expressionless.
Damn! He felt forced into a corner, beset with maybe and might-be.
Duran was hardly a threat to Ladirno's position, or Wellhyrn's, for that matter. They had no reason for professional jealousy. Duran had bothered no one, never tried to ease his way back into favor.
But consorting with Sabirn, leaning toward use of the dark arts, and of possibly plotting the end of Ancar rule over Targheiden—could a son's bitterness over his father's exile go that far?
Hajun took a deep breath. "So be it," he said and sat up straight in his chair. "I'll bring Duran in for questioning."
CHAPTER NINE
The common room of "The Swimming Cat" stood almost empty; most of the customers were travelers marooned at the inn by the storm. The neighborhood folk had left a while ago, rain or no rain, to return to their shops and finish out their business day.
Duran sat at his table, taking longer than normal for his lunch. Lunch. He smiled to himself. Hiring Kekoja as his runner had given him enough of a profit that he had decided he could afford lunch. It was fish, to be sure, but it was warm, and the ale that had accompanied it tasted ever so much better than water.
Tut walked up, a mug of ale in his hands. He had finally finished setting out clean mugs behind the bar, and supervising the cleanup of the tables after his noontime customers had left. Now it was Tut's turn to sit for a while, to relax before preparing his staff for the dinner crowd.
"So," he said, sitting down at Duran's table. "That kid of yours doin' real fine for you, ain't he? I can't remember a time when you been in here for a meal other than breakfast or dinner."
&nb
sp; Duran nodded. "Aye, Tut. I can afford a mug of ale every noon now, a hot lunch now and again. And perhaps a meat pie for dinner, who knows?"
Tut took another swallow of ale and lowered his voice. "Keep your eyes on that Zeldezia. She been goin' around talkin' 'bout you again."
"Hladyr bless! Now what?"
"She been sayin' you're comin' close to demon-worship yourself. She says even the good priest ain't been able to change your mind."
"Gods, why doesn't she stay out of my business. That boy doesn't bother her at all—he's never been around when she's come to my shop. Why can't she leave me alone?"
Tutadar dipped one fingertip in a puddle of spilled ale, and drew an idle pattern on the tabletop. "'Cause you don't pay her no mind, Duran. She don't like people who pay her no mind. Now if you were to tell her you'd think 'bout what she been tellin' you, maybe she'd leave you alone."
"For a while."
"For a while," the innkeeper agreed. "But you don't tell her what she wants to hear, you see? You ignore her, an' go on 'bout livin' your life, fine as you please. That must be eatin' at her."
"Why can't she bother someone else?" Duran asked. "You'd think she'd grow bored with me."
A wide grin crossed Tut's face. "You're a challenge. I don't think she's ever met anyone who don't pay her no mind." He gestured briefly. "The rest of us . . . we just tell her what she wants to hear an' then go on 'bout our business. You tell her what she don't want to hear."
Life was an eternal compromise in Old Town. One compromised with what one bought, not having the money to afford better. Where one lived was a compromise, for the same reason. And, as Tut had said, dealing with people one met or had to deal with on a daily basis, was an eternal compromise.
Duran had learned many lessons living in Old Town, but compromising what he believed in was something he found the hardest. It galled him even more to give in on something when it made, or should have made, no difference to anyone else one way or the other.
"Maybe so," he admitted, "but, gods, Tut!"
"Hey," Tut said, "you want to shut her up, there's one way."
"What's that?"
"Sleep with 'er."
"Good gods, Tut!"
Tut shrugged. "'At's what she wants."
"And then I'd have her for good and all. Thank you, no!"
"Long as you don't—she's got nothin' to do but stew an' be religious. Mostly it's that Sabirn kid. I been tellin' you that, an' I thought you understood."
"I do understand, but, gods, she should be able to see the lad isn't driving her business away, that no one in the neighborhood has had anything stolen. None of the other neighbors are put out by his working for me—"
Tutadar looked down into his ale, swirled it a few times, and slowly lifted his eyes. "It ain't exactly that way, Duran."
A cold chill ran Duran's spine. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Guess I am," Tutadar said softly.
"By the gods! What is it that they're upset about now? I thought between me, you, and Ithar, they'd calmed down."
"They had," Tut said, shaking his head, "but Zeldezia been talkin' necromancy and demon worship. An' nobody's real comfortable with that—"
"Me either, Tut, and you know it."
Tutadar met Duran's eyes. "I know it. I knowed you for years and you never been into the dark arts that I could see, but them Sabirn dabble in demon worship all the time."
"I'm sure they have their own forms of wizardry. So do we. You use what works in this world, and wizardry works. Up to a point." He leaned his elbows on the table. "Beyond that point, it's only conjecture. Period. I've yet to see anyone use wizardry the way it's portrayed in the sagas and poems. That's storytellers' fables. If such things really could work, don't you think we'd see evidence of it all around us?"
"Well, you got a point. But most folk don't have your mind, Duran. We never been educated like you. We can only believe what we hear."
"Have you seen any wizardry lately . . . real wizardry, not street-seller wizardry?"
"No. Can't say I have. But Zeldezia, she been talkin' 'bout the dark arts, not somethin' you'd see everyday."
"Dandro's hells! Just because some people are different from others, does that mean they're evil?"
"I s'pose not. But, I still don't like them little people 'round my inn." The innkeeper lifted a hand. "An' before you start in on remindin' me I still let Old Man stay here, you know what I think 'bout that. He's old an' crippled, an' he don't bother no one. I'm talkin' the young ones, the ones who don't like us any more'n we like them. Who's to say they ain't using the dark arts?"
"You think the boy who works for me is a demon worshipper?"
Tutadar's gaze wavered. "Maybe not him . . . he always been polite and nice to me when I seen him. But that don't mean other Sabirn ain't makin' pacts with demons. You ain't forgotten that necromancer they hung outside town, are you?"
Duran sighed. "No. I haven't forgotten. And I've warned the boy what happened, told him to be very quiet and very polite—"
"He better be quiet, if he knows what's good for 'em. If the neighbors suspect he been involved in anythin' smackin' of sorcery, they'll take it out on you."
"I haven't heard any complaints from my customers," Duran pointed out, flinching at another loud boom of thunder overhead. "If they thought the boy was a devil worshipper, they wouldn't be letting him deliver their medicines."
"Any of 'em stopped by your shop to talk since he been takin' your physics to people?"
"No. But the weather's been too bad for most people to be out. I haven't seen more than six or seven people a day in my shop lately. Why should they walk in? It's convenient for them to have the stuff delivered, that's why I hired the kid, Tut, convenience!"
"What do the folk who have stopped by your shop think 'bout your boy?"
"They don't seem to mind."
"Huhn. Where's the boy now?"
"I told him I was going to sit a while after my meal. I don't know where he went. But he'll be there when I get back." He sat up straighter in his chair. "In fact, I'd probably better go. Not that I expect to have all kinds of people waiting at my door, but there's—"
The door to the inn opened. Duran lifted his head and Tutadar turned in his chair.
Two men stood at the edge of the common room. Lamplight glittered on their helms and mail; their bearded faces were expressionless, their eyes shadowed.
Tutadar rose quickly and went to greet them. Duran stared. The Duke's own Guard. Two of them. In Old Town. His chest tightened. Why, in Hladyr's name, had they come to Old Town and, more specifically, "The Swimming Cat"?
He shoved his mug to one side and watched the two men brush by Tutadar and come toward his table.
"Duran Ancahar?" one of the guards asked.
"I'm Duran," Duran said, amazed his voice was steady. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"The Duke requests your presence at court," the other guard said. "Sor."
Duran's mouth went dry. He glanced at Tutadar, but Tut seemed speechless. The other customers were watching with unveiled curiosity.
"I'll come," Duran said, standing and pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
The two guards turned, walked across the common room, and waited by the doorway. Duran took a deep breath, fastened his cloak, and followed.
"Please tell the boy I've gone to the palace," he said to Tutadar. "I shouldn't be long."
Tutadar nodded, his eyes gone very wide. "Hladyr bless, Duran," he said. "I'll watch your shop."
Duran nodded, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door where the Duke's Guard waited.
* * *
No sooner had Hajun sent two of his Guard to Old Town to bring Duran back he had regretted the decision. He glanced around the hall now, saw the two alchemists over by the edge of the room, deep in conversation with two of his courtiers. His wizards had retired to their side of the hall, and stood silent, watching everything that went on around them with hooded eyes.
Damn! he thought. It's like a battle. One side draws up their troops over here, and the other army deploys its lines over there. He disliked the image that had come to mind. During his reign, he had put more than a moderate effort into keeping factionalism at a minimum. The last thing he needed now was for there to be "war" between his alchemists, his wizards, and his priests.
With the chance of a wizard-war mixed in with it.
He remembered Duran, the Duran he had known as a very young child, the boy with whom his eldest son had studied, played, and learned rudimentary arms. Duran had never seemed anything but forthrightly honest, honest as his father—so much so that one had feared even then that honesty would not stand him well in the future. Politics was the air Hajun had breathed—even in those days; not that he liked it . . . Hajun had much rather return to the fabled past when a man's word was a man's word, and the fine shading of meaning did not overlay everything a man said.
But Duran's father, Hajun's friend, had been banished from court and had his title stripped from him, Hajun frankly had never understood why. The old duke had counseled his son, saying this is what a duke must do sometimes, even when he doesn't like what he's doing. . . .
By which Hajun had taken it that his friend had powerful enemies at court, and knew that placating those enemies had been more beneficial to the duchy at the time than protecting a longtime ally.
Politics stank.
And now Hajun was embroiled in his own politics, maneuverings which, in an odd way, mirrored those of his father—hoping his friend's son had not gotten himself involved in something—-irredeemable.
Dabble in the dark arts himself? Gods, no. Duran was like his father, a kindred soul of sorts, a throwback into the earlier days of Ancar rule, when a man proved himself, rather than talked himself into power. One could admire a soul like that. One had.
And here Hajun sat, about to look down from his high seat at the son of his friend, and make decisions he might not like, or even—personally—believe in.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Hladyr keep him from making hasty judgment, from letting himself be maneuvered into something, or argued out of justice—or into it—
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