"A petty priest."
"A very zealous priest. Duran's human. What's human has soft spots. There are things he cares for, things he cares about—that's where we can get him. That's where this priest can get him. We don't have to touch the situation. Whatever black arts are behind him—they'll lose him. They'll lose the only reason they could possibly have to pay attention to us, do you follow me, Wellhyrn? Have you thought—if Duran is protected like this—what he could do if he turned those wizards' attention on us?"
Wellhyrn's eyes glinted in the lamplight. "So we use the priest, the priest uses the woman, the woman—runs that whoreson Duran right out of town. And his notion of who's responsible has to be his own neighbors."
"Exactly. You see—I do think of things. Slowly, but I do think."
"Gods! I'd give a lot to be there."
"Which is precisely where we're not going to be. We want not the slightest hint that we had anything to do with this!"
"Aye, aye. But our wizards can do a little something to speed things up."
A cold shiver ran down Ladirno's spine. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing that can be traced back to us. I'll make sure of that. What I have in mind will simply make the neighbors a bit more—nervous about Duran."
"You're not going to do anything illegal, are you?"
"I won't answer that. This way, you won't know."
"Dammit, Hyrn! Think things through! Just give it time, let things work the way they will—let the priest handle it!"
"Because I want this nailed down," Wellhyrn said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And I want to make sure this works. Damn Duran and his airs. An Ancar noble. I'm five times the man he'll ever be."
Ladirno met and held his colleague's eyes. "Don't let revenge get you in trouble. Don't. Stay away from this!"
"Pfft. You're getting jumpy as an old woman. I won't have anything to do with it."
"You've got a cruel mind," Ladirno said, eyeing the smile on Wellhyrn's face. "Damned cruel."
Wellhyrn leaned back in his chair, and lifted his wineglass in a graceful hand. "Oh, aye, I do. And isn't it wonderful?"
* * *
The rain had momentarily stopped; the sound of it running from the eaves down into rainbarrels was loud in the comparative silence of Old Town.
Vadami walked slowly through the cloud-covered twilight, his eyes roving around the street. He was cloaked against more than the rain: it would do him no good to be noticed right now. He walked till he saw Zeldezia's sign swaying in the wind, and made for her door with all the stealth he could manage.
Duran's door was shut, which either meant he was sequestered inside, or that he had gone across the street to the inn. Good, Vadami thought. He wanted no contact with the man tonight—just a word with the good woman.
The evening weather was warm. Zeldezia's door stood cracked open, and lamplight spilled a gold sliver onto the wet cobbles.
"Zeldezia!" he called out softly, and rapped softly at the door. "It's Father Vadami. Are you there?"
He heard footsteps, and the door opened. Zeldezia opened it wider, swept her skirts out of his way, dropped an anxious little curtsy—pleased to see him, worshipful of his office: she always was. "Father! Come in, Father, please, an' get yourself out of the weather!"
Vadami entered the small shop. As always, he could have eaten off the floor. Everything shone, from the wooden floor to the tables laden with sewing, to the good brass lamps hanging from the ceiling.
"An' what can I do for you?" Zeldezia said, offering him one of two chairs that sat by a table. "Can I get you some cakes? Some wine?"
"No, no," he said, sitting down. With a rustle of her skirts, she took the chair opposite. "I've come to you out of concern, daughter—perhaps for a little help in a situation. I need someone—brave and committed to Hladyr's commandments. I think you're that woman."
Her dark eyes glittered. "Ask, an' if I can, I'll help. How could anyone turn you down, Father?"
"It's about Duran."
Her face hardened and her mouth curved down into a deep frown. "Duran! If I hadn't owned this shop long's I have, I'd move! I don't want no dealin's with 'im, Father, I truly don't, I avoid 'im as I can—"
Vadami leaned close briefly and patted Zeldezia's hand. "I know, I know, daughter. And surely you're not the only one. I fear—I fear there's worse than we thought."
"Oh?" she sat up straighter in her chair, her hands nervously playing with the tongue of her fine leather belt. Her eyes were frightened. "What could be worse?"
"Actual practice of the dark arts."
"Next door?" Zeldezia wailed.
He kept his voice calm, tried to assure her by his steady gaze that he was doing what he thought was best. "That's what we have to stop, Zeldezia. For your sake—for the sake of everyone involved."
"You know he sent that Sab kid somewheres?" she asked. "But, mind you, that kid'll be back, an' we don't know what devilment he's off to—or who he's dealin' with! Father, we got to do somethin'."
"I know. That's why we have to break up this Sabirn nest, Zeldezia. I don't want to hurt Duran, and I don't think you do. But for the safety of all concerned, for the souls of the folk hereabout—Duran's already lost, Zeldezia, and he's spreading his corruption. He's perverted holy Scripture. He's blasphemed. All these things he done—but what his Sabirn allies have done—"
Zeldezia signed herself nervously.
"They're aiming at the Duke himself, Zeldezia. It's power they want. They're using Duran's Ancar blood to find and curse things they couldn't touch. He's the canker that will spread, spread through all this town—"
"What can we do?"
"Get him out of this neighborhood! Out of Targheiden!"
She sniffed quietly, gnawed her lip, twisted at the fringes of her shawl. "I been thinkin' the same thing for a long time now, Father. I been worried, oh, I been worried! But Duran's got hisself some good friends. He got Tutadar and Ithar, two of the most respectable folk in this neighborhood. Gettin' them to go along with your plan ain't going to be easy."
"Maybe there are some we can't trust. Maybe there are some we shouldn't tell. But surely there are those that will do Hladyr's work. . . ."
Zeldezia nodded vigorously. "If you bless us, Father, if you tell them yourself that the Sabirn are behind all this wickedness, if you say it—aye!" She squared her shoulders. "Some of 'em may not like me, but I got a good reputation! I make more money than a lot of 'em. I'm a respectable woman. An' with you, Father—"
Vadami nodded. "Exactly. Exactly. Go to your neighbors. For their soul's sakes."
"I will! I will, Father! Bless us!"
"Hladyr bless you," Vadami said. "You're a good woman, and a pious soul. You have to be discreet."
"Aye, aye, I know who to talk to, an' I know what words to use. I done it before an' they listened. They only got to look around 'em and lissen to the thunder. I'll do it, Father, we'll see there ain't no more sneakin' Sabs among us. . . ."
* * *
Duran walked into the "Cat," ignoring the coldness from his neighbors; Tutadar was one of the few even to acknowledge his presence. Duran sighed softly and continued to his table.
He knew Tutadar had spread the word that he was going to send Kekoja off for a few days; he had hoped that would calm things.
It seemed they had miscalculated. Badly.
Several gloomy fellows sat in a far corner of the common room, merchants, by the cut of their tunics, harbor traffic—which could not be happy. They looked to be Sacarreans, most likely, from the looks of them. Probably in town to trade their spices for grain and metals mined to the north. If that was so, they had been marooned here in Targheiden for days now, unwilling to chance passage across a storm-ridden sea.
Damn the weather. Damn all this wretched summer, its storms, its ill humors, its frustrations and its angers: in any better season no one would have faulted him hiring Kekoja to serve as his runner. The customers Kekoja had taken physics to had not
complained. Several of Duran's neighbors—Ithar and Edfin the baker—had been happy to see Duran making a good profit.
That was the way life had always been in Old Town. When one of your neighbors was doing well, you wished him all the best of luck, hoping some of it would rub off on you. Good business in one trade had a habit of begetting good business in another.
But the weather had soured that. For good.
And changed everything.
He looked up as Lalada came to his table with a mug of ale. She did not meet his eyes; she merely set the mug down on the table, took his order for breaded fish, and walked away, dumb as a post. Duran watched her go, a sadness creeping into his heart. He had cured the bad humor that had afflicted her head, and she no longer sniffed and sneezed. That should have been enough to convince her she was safe in his presence. Obviously not.
Then the thought reached him that this might be the last evening he ever spent in "The Swimming Cat." Suddenly, everything took on a new importance. He stared at the old wooden tabletop, gouged here and there by knives. He heard the squeak of his chair as he changed position. Everything—the flickering lamplight, the sawdust spread on the floor, the two grey cats who slept in a far corner, the sound of muted conversation—seemed magnified. The relative calm of the common room, the friendly atmosphere that was usually present . . . all those things would dwell only in his memory.
He rubbed his eyes. He was growing old. He cheerfully admitted it. And, as the proverb assured him, it was far easier to teach a young dog new tricks than an old one set in his ways. A piece of his life—a major piece of his life was going away from him—or he was going from it—and he was less interested in looking to the future than in looking at what he was losing. . . .
Was that not the attribute of age? He was forty-five: that should have been still young. But it was late to be starting over. It was late to lose everything. There were not enough vital years left—to build a life on.
So what did one do? Exist. Exist was all, without a past, with only a dozen or so baskets holding his whole damn life—
And no interest in where he was after that.
Maybe it was better to stay, fight it out, die here, if that was what it came to—
Except the books—
"Duran."
He looked up. Tutadar had brought his breaded fish; the innkeeper set the plate out before Duran, then pulled out a chair to sit down facing him.
"Thanks, Tut." Duran began cutting up the fish, and lowered his voice. "I hoped the neighbors would at least be easier with the boy out of town. What's going on?"
"I don't know," Tutadar said, crossing his arms on the table. "Hail this morning. Warehouse roof collapsed, folk goin' about the Slough in boats, f' gods' sake. That's gettin' close to home, you know what I mean?" He nodded toward the front door. "Nobody been givin' Old Man a copper. Not a one. Maybe I misjudged everyone. I'm sorry. I did hope they'd look on you kinder. But folks is scared. Folks is scared an' mad an' they got nowhere to send it."
"Tut, I've lived here, I've dealt here, I've barely kept my head above water for years. I get the kid and I do—well—for the first time in my life. Is that evil? Is there any evil influence in that?"
Tut shrugged uncomfortably.
"Today I only had six customers—and them up from the harbor. Not my neighbors. I don't understand that, Tut."
Tut shrugged and never met his eyes. "Don't know. Don't know, it's what I said, folks is just nervous. I'm sorry about the kid. I am. You know it ain't me holds agin him. I don't want t' see you hurt, Duran!"
Duran stared at his friend. He hated pretending this night was like any other night. He wanted more than anything to confide in Tutadar, tell him where he was going, make some tie he could keep. . . .
But he dared not. For the first time in years, a hint of distrust had entered Duran's heart, even toward Tut. Even as he despised the feeling, he recognized prudence when he saw it.
"Well, so we keep our heads down. What happens next?"
"Hard tellin'." Tutadar looked ceilingward. "Long's the weather stays bad, I don't think you got a chance in Dandro's hells of keepin' 'em happy with you."
"Tut, I want you to listen to me carefully. If anything happens to me, I—"
"Don't you go talkin' like that, Duran!" the innkeeper interrupted. "Nothin' going to happen to you if I have anythin' to say 'bout it. Or Ithar, for that matter."
"Thank you, Tut. And I know you mean it. But hear me through, if for nothing else than amusement. If anything should happen to me, I want you to take care of Dog. He knows you and trusts you, and he makes a good guard. And sell what I own, down to the shop itself, and give the money to some young doctor who might want to make a few trips to Old Town."
"Duran." There was a warning in Tutadar's voice. "Don't you bring no bad luck on yourself by talkin' this way."
"All right." Duran let a smile touch his lips. "Just you and Ithar keep in mind that you've been good neighbors all these years. That I've been proud to know you."
Tutadar blinked rapidly. "That's somethin', ain't it, when an Ancar noble says he been proud to know Old Town rats like us."
"This Ancar noble's one of those rats, too, courtesy of the old duke."
Thunder rumbled loudly. Duran and Tutadar both flinched.
"I confess," Tutadar muttered, "I don't trust these storms no more. They been gettin' real nasty.—An' I know you ain't goin' to agree, an' I know you're going to hate me for sayin' it, but I still think Sabirn're involved somehow."
"I can't seem to convince you, can I?"
Tut shook his head. "Now, I will admit they ain't all bad. I never did mind Old Man. An' that kid who been workin' for you, he never been nothin' but polite to me. But that don't take into consideration the rest of 'em. I can't. I can't like 'em, I can't deal with 'em. . . ."
"I wish I could make you understand," Duran said. "I hope someday you'll find a reason to believe that because a man's different doesn't make him a bad fellow—just different."
"They're too different. They're spooky."
Duran smiled and took another sip of his ale. "Enough of this gloomy talk. I don't' want to go home with a bad taste in my mouth. I like you too much, Tut."
Thunder rumbled again. "Sounds like you're going to go home with rain on your head. 'Less you want to stay 'round here."
"I'm afraid not." Duran sighed, gulped down the rest of his ale. "I think I'll be going to bed early tonight."
"Probably not a bad idea." The innkeeper shoved his chair back from the table and stood. "You take care of yourself, hear? An' don't you go givin' me any money for your fish. The meal's on me."
* * *
The sound of a rock thrown against the shutter of his apartment woke Duran from a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and stood. Fully dressed, he walked through the darkness to the back window, and threw open the shutters.
It was raining again—which actually reassured him, for no one in his right mind would be out on the streets in this downpour.
"Hsst! Duran!"
Kekoja's voice. Duran could make out the Sabirn lad standing directly below the window, along with another man. Duran waved, and felt his way back across the room, while rain blew in on the gusts.
The last few small items were packed—everything in four remaining baskets. He lifted one, grunting slightly under its weight: the last of his books and writings, this one. Walking back to the opened window, he carefully balanced the basket on the sill, tying the rope about it for a sling.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head, hand held over his eyes to shield off the rain. "Heavy!"
Kekoja waved and Duran eased the basket out of the window, bracing himself against the wall below it with his knees and feet. Gently as he could, he lowered the basket into Kekoja's hands, then watched Kekoja untie the long rope. The other man took up the basket on his shoulder and trotted off into the darkness and falling rain.
Duran hauled up the rope, returned to his basket
s, and readied the next to be lowered—a lighter one: it contained all his clothes, his blankets, and what linen he possessed. He lowered the basket out of the window, Kekoja untied it, shouldered it and with a wave, disappeared around the corner into the deserted street. It would be some time before the two Sabirn returned, so Duran dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in the water-laden draft, and stared off into the darkness. Lightning flashed overhead, subdued, and the thunder that followed, a gentle rumble. Thank Hladyr. Conditions could not have been better for the task at hand. Maybe something was going right. Maybe the gods did not disapprove what he was doing.
They showed no lights: the bedroom was dark. Even so, he saw the long, narrow room in his mind's eye as if the sun were shining. It was his last night here. The last time he would sleep in his own bed. The last time he would listen to the homely creaks and groans of the building—his home, his shop—
A wave of sadness filled his heart. If only things had turned out differently. If only his neighbors could see that the Sabirn were little different than themselves.
If only. If only Hladyr could come down from heaven and walk among men again: it would take a miracle of the same magnitude to turn the hearts of his neighbors.
He heard the scuff of steps on wet cobble. He stood, looked out to see Kekoja and his companion returned from whatever hole they had nearby. He prepared the next basket, his alchemist's tools, mainly vials and beakers.
"Fragile!" he whispered down. "Glass!"
Kekoja received the basket: his partner took it. The last, then. Duran hauled the rope up, tied it to the last basket—and this was the hardest to see go—this contained his father's weapons, the sword, the daggers, all had been passed down from father to son for generations of Ancahar noblemen. Heirlooms of the heart—his mother's carefully wrapped jewelry: he had never sold them—no matter how desperate things became.
Maybe things would have been different if he had. With those jewels, he could have bought a far better shop and not lived so near to the edge of poverty.
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