Damn them. He could not understand why he should threaten them—but they must see him as such: that was the only reason he could think of for them accusing him before the Duke.
And the prospect of some wizard's ill-wishing made him shudder. All sorts of things could go wrong in his business: a mistaken dosage and possibly kill a patient. He could drop acid on himself. A firing could explode. The house could burn down: in a neighborhood so closely, ramshackle-built—the whole of Old Town could go—
Or a nosy neighbor—might look out a window at the wrong time of night—
It needed so little—
All because he had saved a boy from a bad beating and possible death.
He sighed and closed his eyes. It was pleasant to sit here like this after such a muggy, tense day—unmoving. Breaking nothing. Making no disasters. Pedestrians passed him. He paid no attention.
"Duran."
Zeldezia.
Gods, some wizard was after him.
He opened his eyes: she stood there with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows in the heat, fists on hips.
"I heard you was called in to see the Duke."
He nodded.
She sniffed virtuously. "If you listened to folk—"
"So." Duran leaned his head against the doorjamb, and looked up at her. "Then I suppose you know everything about it. I wouldn't bore you with the details."
Not what she hoped for. She set her jaw. "The Duke let you go."
"Of course." Duran gave her nothing satisfying, willing her to lose interest and walk away. Obviously he had no wizardry: she did not move.
"Ain't you going to reply to that?" Zeldezia asked.
"Why should I?" Duran kept his voice calm. "You know all about it."
"Duran. Listen to me if you won't listen to Vadami: he says if you repent an' give up seein' them Sabirn, Hladyr will still forgive you—"
"Oh? And does Vadami now have a special conduit to the Shining One? I didn't realize he had become so exalted in the past few days."
"You're mockin' at me," she said, her voice going cold. "An' at a priest o' god. That's what they done to you. One of these days, Duran, you're going to be so sorry, an' there ain't no one goin' to help you."
He looked her straight in the eye. "Are you threatening me, Zeldezia?"
"I ain't doin' no such thing. I'm just warnin' you, that's all. Hopin' you'll change your stubborn mind an' see the right way to live."
"It's the right way because you think it's so," Duran said, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. "Anyone who dares believe differently than you is a heretic."
"That ain't so! Vadami thinks the same way, too. Ever' right-thinkin' person thinks so!"
Duran felt a wave of weariness wash over him. "Then go talk with the good priest, Zeldezia, and have the courtesy to leave me alone."
"Ain't you concerned for your soul?"
"As much as anyone else. Now are you going to leave, or do I have to get up and slam the door in your face?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't insult me, Duran, who's tryin' t' help you—"
"Get! Leave me alone!"
She drew herself up, puffed as if she would say something else, then spun on her heel and went, hips swaying, down the street and into her shop.
Duran shrugged. There was no hope for it. He did not see how he could continue to live his life the way he pleased and keep Zeldezia and the priest off his back. He had received some protection in the Duke's decision, but he dared not fool himself, trusting his luck would hold: luck in his case was in serious question.
Dog came back, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and walked into the shop. Duran heard him settle down in his accustomed spot by the counter. He reminded himself to pick up a bone or two from Tutadar for Dog's dinner, stirred on the doorstep, stood, and fished for his key.
Ah well. A good meal and a fresh mug of ale should lighten his mood. He drew the door closed, locked it, and crossed the street.
* * *
"The Swimming Cat" was only moderately full: it was early yet. Duran nodded to Tut and walked back to his table. The other customers watched him pass, a few nodding a greeting in his direction, but for the most part they were silent—as if he had walked in on some discussion his neighbors did not want him to hear.
Him, he thought. A man from Old Town did not make a forced visit to the Duke of Targheiden and return without comment.
Once Duran had seated himself, his neighbors began to talk again, but their conversation was muted, without its usual animation. Tut walked over, wiping his hands on his apron. "Fish tonight, Duran?"
"Aye. Breaded, if I can have it. And a mug of ale."
Tut nodded, went to the kitchen door, and shouted Duran's order to the cook. He brought a mug of ale back to Duran himself.
"Have a good day?" Tut asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down, as he would, in slack moments.
"Good enough," Duran said. Perhaps he was too apprehensive that he read more into this approach.
On the other hand, judging by the expression on Tutadar's face—
"Duke lost himself another ship today," Tut said quietly. "Word come."
"Dandro's hells."
The innkeeper shrugged. "Duke, he's lost a damned lot of goods. Folk got a lot of hard luck—lot of hard luck. People get desperate."
Duran took a swallow of ale, then leaned forward on the table. "Is this news aimed at me, Tut?"
Tutadar dropped his eyes. "S'pose it is. I ain't believing it, Duran, but—there's a lot of folks beginning to ask—where all this luck is comin' from. An' you can say it ain't Sabirn, but they ain't in the mood to listen. The Duke loses trade, Old Town loses business—hard times coming. Taxes'll increase to make up for the Duke's losses. We seen it before."
"They can't honestly believe any damn Sabirn has anything to do with the storms," Duran protested. Tutadar stared back. "Can they?"
"Startin' to seem that way. It ain't nature. It sure ain't any run of plain luck. Somethin's doin' it."
"Foreign enemies—"
"Sabirn are foreigners. Right among us. Here ever' day."
"Fools." Duran gripped his mug tightly. "Ignorant fools!"
"Then you're callin' me a fool, too, Duran," Tutadar said, lifting his eyes so he met Duran's gaze. "I know you ain't a demon worshipper, an' I know you wouldn't want to do anythin' that would bring bad luck down on you, but, dammit, man, you got a blind eye to them folk—an' I ain't sayin' it's you, I ain't sayin' it's that boy, but it ain't real discreet, you puttin' that kid up in ever'body's faces—you havin' him real conspicuous—you givin' him access to all sorts of shops an' places—he works for you, but who knows who else he knows, who knows who he talks to? Them folk all get together. They all talk—"
"How in all hells can you think that way, Tut? You know me. You know I'm no fool. The boy's honest; he doesn't bother people, and he's helping me make the best living I've ever seen."
"Money won't buy your life, Duran."
"Gods, what are you talking about?"
Tut murmured, tapping his head, "I know, up here, you ain't made no pacts with demons. But here—" He tapped his chest. "—here, I'm scared. You can't force folk, Duran. You can't force 'em overnight to change the way they been thinkin' for hundreds of years. Some say—you can't fire that kid. Some say he got a spell on you."
Duran stared, his heart chilling. "You're saying I have to fire this kid, is that it? I have to run my business the way Zeldezia's damn hate-mongering wants?"
"It ain't all Zeldezia. I'm sayin' you got yourself in big trouble, Duran, because I can't change the way folk think, and you can't change 'em either. Me and Ithar have kept tellin' everyone you ain't changed none . . . that you're the same man they've always knowed. But you ain't the same, deep down. You been actin' real odd. like this kid was real important." He took a deep breath. "It ain't natural, folks to mix. I dunno what this lad prays to. I don't want to know. I got me second thoughts about Old Man—"
"Listen to me, Tut." Duran struggled to put words to his thoughts. "I can't let the boy go now. I have a debt of honor, since I've taken him on. I made a vow to him; we sealed our agreement and swore by the gods. I can't back off an agreement because I'm scared, Tut. For better or worse, I'm Ancar. You know what an oath is worth to me."
"You swore an oath like that to a Sabirn kid?"
"I swore. Zeldezia says my soul's at risk. My soul's at risk if I break my word, Tut! I swore to that kid and I'm not backing off because of any threats! I can't! Maybe this neighborhood better damn well understand why I'm not going to fire that kid!"
"You never lied to me before," Tutadar admitted, "an', far as I know, you never lied to no one. Look, why don't you tell the boy to go off for a few days? Go somewhere no one can see 'im? That ain't firin' 'im—send 'im off to the hills, have him dig you some roots or somethin'—"
Duran ran a hand through his hair. "I'll think about it . . . I really will. I understand your worry. You think that would calm it down?"
"Chance it might. An' right now, if I was you, I'd take it. If the storms keep up—"
"I know where they're coming from!"
"Zeldezia. Aye."
"The Duke heard the whole question—someone accused me of association with warlocks! He threw the accusations out of court—and threw out the accusations against the Sabirn!"
Tut shook his head. "Some'd say the Duke was makin' a big mistake about that last. Duran, Zeldezia ain't agin you. She's scared you're close to bein' damned."
"As if she was the authority!"
"Some of your neighbors been listenin' to her, Duran. Listenin' to her real serious."
"All right." Duran leaned back as Lalada brought his fish to him and set it down on the table. His appetite had vanished. "I'll send the boy off, Tut. Maybe I can do without him for a handful of days." He met the innkeeper's eyes. "Now you tell me, what's going to happen if the weather suddenly turns good? Will that convince everyone they're right about the boy being a demon worshipper?"
"It ain't going to make 'em happy, that's for sure. Now, if he come back an' the weather stays good, that's another thing."
"Or if the weather stays bad and he's nowhere to be seen." Duran spread his hands. "Damn! It's crazed, Tut, it's no damn sense!"
"Don't seem it is, does it?"
"Tut—do you believe this crap?"
"Me? I trust you, Duran, an' I speak for you, do ever'thin' I can to keep the neighbors calm. But I'm only one person, an' Ithar's only one person. We can't do more'n what we can do."
"That's all I can ask for."
Tutadar shoved his chair back from the table. "You enjoy your meal, Duran, an' think 'bout what I said. At least it'd give the neighbors time to calm down."
Duran sighed, and began cutting up his fish. "I'll talk to the boy, Tut. I promise you."
* * *
Duran left the inn—heard the low rumble of conversation start up the moment he exited the door. He had stayed no longer than necessary. No. No. Not in that atmosphere.
Wind swept debris down the cobbles, rattled shutters. He turned his head from the blast, and blinked a wisp of hair blown in his eyes, blinked again, seeing a grey-wrapped lump sitting against the wall of his shop, beside the steps.
Old Man—like sin come home to roost.
Had the neighbors driven him from the "Cat"? Duran -wondered.
He fished out his key, opened the door as Old Man rose and stood beside him. "Come on in," Duran said—anxious to get him out of sight, quickly; and guilty and angry for that small, prudent cowardice. "I'll light the lamp."
He did that, turned, saw Dog had gone to stand by the doorway, his tail wagging uncertainly—held between duty and his usual foraging.
"Go, Dog," Duran said, waving a hand, "before it truly gets bad."
Dog obviously was of the same mind, for he trotted quickly off into the wind.
Duran shut the door. The air in the shop was close and still, smelling of shelves and shelves of herbs.
"Why weren't you at the 'Cat' tonight?" Duran asked.
Old Man said, "I may not be there much longer, Duran. I barely make enough to survive anymore."
Duran frowned. "No one pays you for your stories now?"
"No one but you. No one else asks to hear them."
"Ah." Duran was at a loss for words. "I—should have guessed."
Old Man smiled slightly, a mere movement of the lips. "Perhaps its just as well. You've too much else to account for with your neighbors—to be the only one giving money to a Sabirn."
Duran leaned back against his counter. "The neighbors aren't pleased with me on many counts, so I hear."
"You've heard right. They aren't. That's why I'm here."
Duran's shoulders stiffened.
"Your neighbors," Old Man said. "Your neighbors are talking about violence."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"I've heard them discussing it."
"Was Zeldezia the ringleader?"
"She and the priest Vadami."
Duran clenched his hands. "Before or after I was called to the ducal palace?"
"Before and after."
"Hladyr bless!" Duran slammed his hand on the counter.
"It was serious, Sor Duran. This weather—they seem to think—"
"I know. I heard all about it. Tut advised me to send Kekoja off somewhere for a few days. He seems to think that might calm everyone down."
"Tutadar is a good man," the Sabirn said, "and more open-minded than the rest. But even he has his blind spots. I think things have gone beyond sending Keko off and bringing him back a few days later. If you value my advice, Sor Duran, you should start thinking about leaving town, before your neighbors do you some harm."
Duran was trembling now, his stomach was a hard knot, and his hands shook. Leave Targheiden? Leave everything he had known for thirty-five years? An Ancar run in cowardice from the town his ancestors had built? A wave of anger swept through him. By Hladyr's light! He was Ancar . . . he was of a noble house! He could not evade a fight like this. . . . It was dishonorable . . . as dishonorable as negating the bargain he and Kekoja had struck.
O gods! Go off into the countryside—go back into exile. I had enough of that with my parents. Everything I know is here!
Everything I've built . . . all my work . . .
"Didn't you realize that this might happen?" Old Man asked.
"Maybe in my heart of hearts I thought it could," Duran said, "but I didn't . . ." He looked up at the ceiling, at the lamplight playing with the shadows across it. "It happened to my father. I never thought it would happen to me."
"You make them nervous, Sor Duran. You traffic with demon worshippers."
"Bah!" Duran began to pace up and down in front of his counter. He heard a faint whine, a scratch at the door. He stalked over and jerked it open, let Dog and a gust of wind inside. "Sorry, Dog. Curse me for a fool . . . I forgot to bring you your bones. Perhaps some cheese until morning, eh?"
He went and got that. Dog wagged his tail, took it—more grateful and more faithful than others he had helped.
"All right," he said to Old Man. "You think the neighbors are going to run me out of town. So where the hells do I go? What will I do to survive?"
"You're a doctor. Whatever you choose to call yourself, you're better than most poor folk ever see. You'll never be hungry. A traveling doctor is always welcome, no matter where he goes."
"To what end? Old on the road and starving? I'm not an active man. I've no knowledge how to survive—I want my food from the tavern, my supplies from a market, I want a bed at night—" I want my books. I want familiar things . . . I want to die somewhere I understand. . . .
"You want. It was no helpless man who rescued Keko from the thugs in the alleyway that night. And it's no helpless man who has the mind you have."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Keko tells me. Keko tells me how you make your medicines. How you have your little jars—your
little jars with the old bread, the cheese—how you cured the smith with a salve of herbs and mouldy bread—"
Duran shrugged, finding no hope in that, against the thought of exile.
"Our physicians understood moulds. In the Empire they did. We use such remedies. But no Sabirn told you."
"It cures cuts," Duran said glumly. "It can't cure human stupidity, Old Man, it can't cure hate!"
"You have a mind. You want proofs, you want substantiation of things. You don't think like your neighbors. You look past what seems. You think."
"It does me no good."
"Do you want learning? Come with us, and we'll give you what knowledge we have."
Duran stared. "Come with you where? And who is 'us'?"
Old Man leaned on his walking stick. "Not all the Sabirn you see in Targheiden have lived here all their lives. We come and we go. No one notices. You remember when I came to the 'Cat'—not all that many years ago? I suppose you, along with everyone else, thought I came from some other section of town."
"Aye."
"I didn't. I came from elsewhere . . . from beyond Targheiden."
"Why?"
"To serve as a gatherer of information. To find certain trade stuffs we need and can't easily obtain. Targheiden is, after all, a shipping capital."
"What—trade stuffs?"
"Sulfur. Niter."
"For what?"
"I'll tell you—once we're outside Targheiden."
"We."
"As I said—time I was traveling again. You've asked questions. I'll answer them. I'll tell you stories you don't imagine."
It was the storyteller's voice, that mesmerized, that stole a man's sense about what was real and not real. It was a spell in itself—a spell—that broke down the lines between possible and impossible.
"Once," Old Man said, softly, "we had a ship that sailed with no wind."
"With no wind?"
"And no sail. Think about that, Duran."
"But—"
"We digress," Old Man said: the voice became sharp, incisive—commanding. "We were talking about your neighbors—and my advice. Will you take it? Are you willing to come with us?"
"But . . . who is this 'us'?"
"Targheiden doesn't love Sabirn." Old Man shifted, taking some of his weight from his crippled leg, and leaned back against the wall. "We've become unwelcome here—those of us that have become . . . too visible."
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