He glanced at his wife, found her eyes on him, and grimaced. This was not going to be an entertaining afternoon.
Somewhere, in the depths of his heart, he prayed it would not be a tragic one, either.
* * *
Duran let the guards lead the way into the ducal palace, shaking the water from his cloak as he walked. He was dressed in his work clothes, threadbare but serviceable—hardly the attire he would have chosen to attend his duke.
But if the need for his presence at court was so demanding that guards had been sent to escort him, Hajun would have to take what he got.
The guards stopped outside a heavy wooden door, one of them rapping on it with a heavy fist. Duran's knees had started to tremble. He had no idea what was going to happen to him on the other side of that door, but had a notion what it was about.
His father's shade stood to one side, ghostly against the stucco wall. You are Ancar, his father's voice whispering in Duran's mind. Remember that. Whatever happens to you, remember your pride.
The doors opened. Duran followed the guards into the hall, keeping his pace even with theirs. Let no one say Duran Ancahar had been a coward—or flinched from a meeting with his duke.
And there, over to the far side of the room: Ladirno and Wellhyrn. Duran nearly broke stride when he saw them, their presence here throwing his thoughts into disarray.
Nor was Brovor present, and Duran thanked every god he knew he did not have to cope with that complication while he spoke to Brovor's father.
"Your Grace," one of the guards said, saluting with his fist on the center of his chest. "Before you stands Duran Ancahar, come with no delay from Old Town to do you honor."
Duke Hajun's eyes met Duran's, his fingers moved slightly, and the two guards stepped back in unison, then turned with a smart clash of metal and each took up a position slightly to the left of the high seat.
"Come forward, Duran," Hajun said, motioning to the foot of the dais.
Duran swallowed, stepped forward, and stopped, looking up into the Duke's expressionless face.
"I apologize for bringing you here on such short notice," Hajun said, and Duran heard only sincerity behind the words. "But you've been accused of certain things that must not go unanswered."
Perhaps he was expected to reply. Duran kept silent.
The Duke cleared his throat. "What do you know of the dark arts?"
"With regard to what, Your Grace?"
"Have you ever had anything to do with use of the dark arts?"
"No, Your Grace."
"Never?"
"Never, Your Grace."
The Duke drew a deep breath. "On your honor as an Ancar, you can assure me of this?"
"Aye, Your Grace. I do. I have no such dealings. Nor know of any."
The Duke leaned back in his high seat, rested his chin on his fist in silence. Duran shifted his weight, glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, in the direction the Duke himself was looking.
"Your Grace," Duran said softly.
"Aye?"
"Do I have the chance to know who has accused me?"
The Duke straightened in his chair. "Aye. You're Ancar. It's your right." He turned and gestured. "Ladirno. Wellhyrn. Attend me."
Duran's heart lurched. Why? Why had those two accused him of such idiocy? They knew him better than that. What in Dandro's hells did they think to prove?
The two alchemists stepped close to the high seat and bowed, neither of them meeting Duran's eyes.
"These are your accusers, Duran," the Duke said. "Would you question them?"
Duran smiled suddenly, recognizing one of the pivotal points of Ancar law. At a trial before his lord, the Ancar accused was not assumed guilty until it had been proved beyond a doubt—and as accused, he could question whoever had brought him before his lord's justice. He wondered if Wellhyrn and Ladirno—Torhyn themselves—were familiar enough with Ancar legalistic principles to know the old law, the rights of Ancar with Ancar lord. . . .
He turned toward his two colleagues of the Profession, folded his arms, and smiled at the sudden confusion on their faces.
"What gives you the right to accuse me?" he asked—not the accent of Old Town, not Duran the apothecary—not at all.
Ladirno glanced sidelong at Wellhyrn, a flush reddening his face.
"By report, Sor Duran," Wellhyrn said in his most urbane tones. "We've had reports about you that lead us to believe you're involved in the use of the dark arts—with utmost concern for your soul. . . ."
"A report. In other words, you have no personal proof of this. It's hearsay."
"Our source is impeccable."
"Who?"
"Your priest. Vadami."
"Vadami." Duran felt a tide of anger welling up inside: Vadami, aye, but urged on by Zeldezia, he had no doubt. He said, coldly, deliberately: "And by what right does Vadami, a Torhyn, accuse me?"
"By virtue of your continued association with the Sabirn. He's warned you, has he not, that dealing with the Sabirn is dangerous, that it puts your soul in peril? Yet you have ignored him, haven't you, and continued to deal with the Sabirn?"
Duran turned toward Duke Hajun. "My lord, what Wellhyrn says is true—up to a point. The priest Vadami did warn me to see less of the Sabirn."
"And did you follow his advice?" the Duke asked.
"No, Your Grace."
"Why not?"
"Because he couldn't prove to my satisfaction that the Sabirn were evil. All he could do was repeat the same, well-worn suspicions people hold concerning the Sabirn; and we do not, not, my lord duke, desert loyal servitors on simple hearsay."
"You've had dealings with the Sabirn for years now, haven't you?"
"Aye, Your Grace. And not once have I personally seen behavior that in the least indicated an interest in, or use of, the dark arts."
"Hladyr as your witness?"
"Hladyr as my witness, Your Grace. I will not lie, in any cause."
The Duke nodded slightly, then gestured one of the court priests forward. "Take note of this. Duran Ancahar, once Duran vro Ancahar, has sworn in Hladyr's name. As an Ancar, he has taken the oath against his soul."
The priest seemed only mildly interested, though Duran suspected otherwise. "It is so noted, Your Grace."
"Very well." The Duke turned back to Duran. "Your accusers also maintain that you habitually entertain the old man who frequents 'The Swimming Cat.' That you frequently take notes on this person's utterances. Tell me why."
Duran shot a glance at the two alchemists. "Someone must have nearly drowned himself to see that, Your Grace. I had no idea my humble life was interesting enough to draw an audience in a storm."
A low murmur of laughter ran through the crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. Both Wellhyrn and Ladirno frowned and drew themselves up straighter.
"As for taking notes, absolutely I do, Your Grace. For years, I've collected Sabirn legends and tales—a purely scholarly interest. They ruled a great empire. My hope is that, in some of their legends and stories, they've left behind truths that could help us in modern times."
"In what manner?" the Duke asked, a spark of genuine interest lighting his face.
"As Your Grace already knows, I deal in medicines. I dispense what help I can to poor folk in Old Town. It's been my hope to discover forgotten medicines in the Sabirn legends—medicines to ease suffering, medicines to equal what must have been in the old Empire."
For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The Duke leaned forward in his chair.
"But could we trust such medicines? The Sabirn are known to be demon worshippers, Duran. Necromancers! How can you deal with devils and do good?"
"To my observation, Your Grace, and on my honor, I have never seen, nor heard of, any Sabirn working the dark arts. The Sabirn I know are far too busy surviving, to be using the amount of time necessary to perform such draining tasks; and I would reject anything that came from such sources."
"And how do you know dark sorcery would
take such a great amount of time," asked Wellhyrn, a sly look on his face, "unless you've been involved in it?"
"Would you like to inform His Grace how long it takes for an alchemist to perform some of our simpler tasks? Or is it effortless? A snap of the fingers, perhaps?"
Wellhyrn dropped his eyes. "His Grace is already aware that we work very hard to produce what we give him."
"Then if you're working with nature and find things arduous and time-consuming, doesn't it make sense than any actions taken contrary to nature would be much harder?"
No one spoke. The Duke motioned one of his wizards -forward.
"Jorrino. Is what Duran said true?"
The wizard bowed slightly. "He makes an uneducated guess, Your Grace, but—naively close to the truth."
"But—" Wellhyrn said.
"Wellhyrn," the Duke said, his voice gone very cold. "You've not been asked to speak."
Wellhyrn subsided, his face gone white with shame.
"All of which is getting us nowhere," the Duke said, leaning back in his high seat. "Wellhyrn, Ladirno. You told me you fear Duran may be involved in the dark arts. The key words here are 'may be.' You've no proof beyond hearsay. Is this true or false?"
"To our own concern, Your Grace—" Ladirno said. Wellhyrn seemed to have lost the faculty of speech.
"The priest Vadami has spoken to Duran about consorting with the Sabirn, and Duran has—for his own reasons, reiterated here—refused to comply. This is the central substance of your accusations. True or false?"
"True, Your Grace.—But—"
"None of you has proven that Duran is guilty of anything more than speaking with the Sabirn, and that in the course of master to servant. True or false?"
"On the surface, true, Your Grace, but his writing—"
The Duke turned to his wizard and his priest. "I find no guilt in this man, either of performing the dark arts, or of lying. Do you concur?"
"We find no cause, Your Grace," the priest said. "We have ways of seeing such things. He's telling the truth as he sees it."
The wizard nodded. "I don't sense he has ever dabbled in the dark arts, Your Grace, and we wizards have ways of seeing that, too."
Duran let loose his pent-up breath, his eyes fixed on the Duke's face.
"Then hear my judgment," the Duke said. "I find Duran innocent of all charges of dealing in the dark arts. I find Ladirno and Wellhyrn guilty of bringing unfounded charges against him. As for the priest, Vadami, I suspect him of being overzealous."
The two alchemists stiffened in their finery, their faces gone pale and still.
"Duran Ancahar."
Duran stepped closer to the dais.
"I urge you to keep your dealings with the Sabirn to a minimum. They are not well-liked in Targheiden, and are—rightly or wrongly—suspect of nefarious dealings. I pass no judgment with present associations, but beware new relationships. Do you hear me?"
"I do hear you, Your Grace."
"Wellhyrn. Ladirno.—I assume you thought you had reason. But consider: bringing accusations against another citizen without adequate cause can be slander. By holy Scripture, slander is perilous to one's soul. Both of you are banned from attending court for the next ten days, during which time you may meditate on this. Do you hear me?"
"We hear you, Your Grace," Ladirno said faintly.
"Good," Hajun said. "You have my leave, gentlemen."
Duran's knees were shaking again, only this time from relief. His two colleagues bowed to the Duke, turned, and stalked off down the hall, neither of them affording Duran so much as a glance.
Duran stood his ground and caught Hajun's eyes.
"Duran?" the Duke said, lifting one eyebrow. "You have something else to say?"
"Yes, Your Grace. It's good to see that Ancar justice has not died with the past. My thanks, Your Grace."
With which he bowed deeply, and turned away.
* * *
"That gods-be-damned, no-good, lying bastard!"
Ladirno sank back in one of the chairs in his apartment and let Wellhyrn rage, pacing up and down the room, his face livid with anger.
"Do you realize what he's done to us?" Wellhyrn howled, turning to face Ladirno. "He's disgraced us in the Duke's eyes, that's what he's done! We've been banned from attending court for ten days, Ladir! Ten days!"
"He certainly has," Ladirno said acidly. "Thank the gods it's nothing worse."
"I'll see Duran Ancahar damned before he gets away with this! I'm twenty times the alchemist he is! If he thinks Ancar blood can ingratiate him into the Duke's favor by disgracing us, he's got horseshit for brains!"
Ladirno gazed out the window at an overcast sky, some -disconnected portion of his brain marveling that all Targheiden had not begun to flood yet.
"Dammit, Ladir! Pay attention to me!" Wellhyrn stopped in front of Ladirno. "If I hadn't listened to you about taking our suspicions to the Duke—"
"Now you wait just a damned moment," Ladirno snapped, rising. "Don't you try laying the blame on me. It was your idea!"
Wellhyrn glared.
"Thank Hladyr's mercy our banishment wasn't permanent," Ladirno said, doggedly keeping his tone mild. "The Duke's not known for his sweet temper—no more than his father was."
"How did we know we'd get ourselves involved in some kind of damned Ancar trial?" Wellhyrn raged, pacing again, periodically slamming a fist into his open hand. "And Duran . . . can you believe it? He talked his way out of everything!—sweet as one of the Duke's own courtiers!"
"You forget," Ladirno said, still in the same mild tone, "that Duran's father used to be the Duke's companion and, as such, he was Ancar of the Ancar. What do you think that name means? Ancahar. That's aristocracy, man—blue-blood, to the utmost."
Wellhyrn's face grew red, and Ladirno allowed himself a small smile. He had always suspected that Wellhyrn hated Duran for once having thrown aside what he would give his soul to be—an Ancar lord of the highest degree. Title aside—Torhyn were Torhyn—and Duran had been born a noble.
Wellhyrn seized a book from Ladirno's table and threw it against the wall. Ladirno winced, but kept silent, afraid of Wellhyrn's violence.
Wellhyrn spun around and faced Ladirno, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm not going to take this lying down," he snarled. "I'll get that son of a dog for this. I swear it!"
"And what are you going to do?" Ladirno asked, watching Wellhyrn pace.
"There's got to be a way we can get back at him without anyone knowing. And, by all the gods, I'll come up with one." Wellhyrn halted abruptly. "I've got it! By all that's holy! We'll set our wizards at him!"
Ladirno sighed heavily. "Would you get control of yourself, Hyrn? Stop raging and think! We can't afford to set our wizards at him. We have enough enemies of our own; diverting our wizards from them could be disastrous!"
"No more disastrous than letting Duran get away with what he's done!"
"He's done no more than defend himself," Ladirno said, "as you or I would have in like circumstances. He accused us of nothing more than inaccuracy—"
"Which could have gotten us banished for good! What's the matter with you? How can you speak in his defense."
"I'm trying to get through to you. Now . . . sit down!"
Ladirno had seldom used that particular tone of voice with Wellhyrn: in shock, the younger man drew a deep breath, then sat down in the matching chair.
"I don't mind hiring someone to set on Duran," Ladirno said, most reasonably, he thought. "But our resources are limited. And if ours are—his certainly are."
"Maybe you're right." Wellhyrn brightened. "He couldn't afford it. Gods, he couldn't hire a junior apprentice—and if we bought even an hour from a second-rate wizard—"
"Now you're thinking."
The old, malicious smile was back on Wellhyrn's face. "Then let's do it," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Tomorrow morning." He laughed coldly. "We'll ill-wish that bastard. If Duran is treating the heir for the pox, maybe we'll get luc
ky and he'll fumble the treatment."
"Dammit, Hyrn! I don't care what you do to Duran, but don't even think of misfortune on the Duke's son! I won't stand for that."
"Take a joke, Ladir!"
Ladirno held Wellhyrn's gaze until Wellhyrn looked away. "Do you want to contact the wizards, or shall I?"
"You do it." Wellhyrn's eyes glittered coldly in the lamplight. "I'll think of other ways we can get to this problem of ours. And believe me, I'll think of something!"
CHAPTER TEN
"Duran."
Duran turned from his shelves to Kekoja, who was already spreading out the coppers he had earned on the countertop.
"Good day?" Duran asked.
"Oh, aye." The Sabirn boy grinned widely. "You hear about that warehouse fire, next block over? Boom!"
"I heard. So waterlogged it wouldn't burn, thank the gods. Rain's to some advantage. . . . Well!" Duran counted up the coppers and shook his head in wonder. Thirty-one coins lay on his counter.
"Best yet," Kekoja said pridefully
"Here, lad." He gave the boy his percentage, and deposited the rest in his belt pouch. "You did a damned fine job."
"Guess so.—Had many people in here today?"
"No." He knocked into a pot, grabbed after it before it went off the edge. "Damn! I've been so clumsy today!" He gestured at the waste-bin. "Two pots, two! I've broken."
Kekoja lifted an eyebrow. "Not like you," he said, not smiling in response to Duran's tale.
Duran looked at him with a sudden, cold thought.
Kekoja dropped his pay into his belt pouch. "You be careful," the boy said, wiping the dark hair back from his eyes. "Don't you do anything risky for a while. Nothing with the furnace—"
"The way my luck's running? Nothing dangerous today, I promise you."
"You 'bout ready to close up?"
"Aye. Pretty soon."
"Then I'll see you in the morning.—Duran? You do be -careful—"
Duran waved him out: Kekoja left; and with a sigh, Duran sat down on his doorstep, content to simply sit, doing nothing.
Could it be someone had hired a wizard to ill-wish him?
One could guess who.
And if so, there was little he could do about it: he could afford no protection.
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