Maybe.
The sword, the jewels, his father's notes—all that was -irreplaceable.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head. "You sleep on this one, hear? Take care of it."
Kekoja lifted his hands, received the basket—and the rope, this time.
Duran stood in the window after they had gone—realizing suddenly he was standing in a house bereft of everything he owned . . . everything that was valuable to him. All of it carried away to gods know what destination in the hands of the Sabirn. And he had to trust them. He had no choice. He was empty-handed now. They had everything.
Name-brothers, Old Man had said. Old Man had talked about trust. About friendship. But so had Tut. So had his neighbors—once.
He sighed and drew the shutters. There. It was done. He could not turn back now; he had committed himself to the most unsettling future he had ever chosen in his life.
"Oh, gods!" He rested his eyes against his hand in the dark, shook his head. Brovor. Brovor would have to seek another doctor to treat his pox. He had to do that. He had only a few treatments left, but it was vitally important he receive them. Brovor had to understand that—and he dared not, dared not send any message to him.
There was Mother Garan. Who would help her? Thunder rumbled distantly. The rain poured down outside the window, the sound of it hitting the roofs and pavement, unnatural, malevolently persistent.
At least Kekoja had gotten the baskets away. Duran thanked the gods for this one small favor.
And prayed for Brovor's good sense, and an old woman's comfort.
* * *
At this late hour, in this downpour, the few souls on the streets walked briskly to their destinations. A fool would be standing here in the rain: but Ladirno did—in the shadows of the alley across the street from Wellhyrn's rooms. He could not sleep. His instincts, his curiosity, had finally driven him out at this ungodly time of night to take up this watch—
All because of the threat Wellhyrn had made.
Ladirno had no idea what Wellhyrn proposed to do to Duran, but if it was against the law, he wanted to know. He had suspected Wellhyrn in the past of shady dealings he had never been able to prove—but in this, for various reasons—
This time if Wellhyrn was being a fool, he fully meant to disassociate himself—leave Wellhyrn to twist in the wind, if that was the case.
He froze, leaned closer against the wall: a man approached Wellhyrn's building, obviously taking his time and appearing slightly drunk. Ladirno glanced up at the doorway, and saw Wellhyrn step outside. Head bowed, a purposeful gait to his walk, Wellhyrn left the doorway and stepped directly into the other man's path. The two of them collided, and the drunk staggered, nearly knocked from his feet. Ladirno held his breath, hoping to hear something . . . anything.
But no words were exchanged, aside from a muffled curse or two. Wellhyrn reached out to steady the drunk and quickly dropped something into the man's hand. Ladirno drew a sharp breath. The lamps which burned at the doorway to Wellhyrn's apartments lent a fair amount of light to the street, and in this light he had seen the glint of gold.
The drunk snarled something at Wellhyrn, appeared to get his directions totally mixed up, then lurched off again, this time headed down the hill toward Old Town.
Wellhyrn glanced up and down the street, while Ladirno held his breath, plastered against the side of the building and praying his colleague would not look his way.
Some bored god must have heard his prayer, for Wellhyrn turned around and went back inside.
For a long moment, Ladirno stood shivering against the wall. What was it that Wellhyrn had paid this man for? He had seen the flash of at least one gold donahri, sufficient price for a murder in some quarters.
A sour taste filled Ladirno's mouth. Ladirno spat into the street, gathered his cloak tighter, and hurried off into the dark down the alley.
* * *
A bell rang somewhere. A distant bell, muffled and indistinct. The sound of it filtered into Duran's sleep and woke him from a dream of rain.
He sat up in bed, his heart pounding. He listened, unsure whether the bell had rung only in his mind, or in the real world.
No. There it was again—the "Cat's" bell—that only rang for theft and fire—
Duran sprang from bed, and ran toward the front window. Flinging open the shutters, he stared down into the street.
The rain had stopped. Torchlight from the "Cat" lit up the street, people running—
But not only that light—
"Fire!" someone called—Ithar, he thought. "Get buckets!"
Duran cursed aloud, lit his lamp with shaking hands, flung his clothes on, grabbed the lamp and rushed down his stairs—Dog was barking now, frantically. Duran set down the lamp, grabbed his cloak, unlocked the door with trembling fingers.
He stepped into a scene of chaotic motion. People ran here and there, searching for buckets. He could see the flames now, and his heart lurched. The fire burned up against the walls of Zeldezia's shop. Duran glanced around and found Tutadar. The innkeeper was standing in the center of the street, directing his fellow neighbors to various rain barrels, instructing them where buckets were kept.
"When did it start?" Duran yelled over the commotion.
"Don't know! But it's burnin' good!"
Duran stared at the fire. The blaze was impossible—in a puddle-filled alleyway, debris soaked and sodden—
"Dammit!" He ran to Tutadar's side. "Don't throw water on it, Tut! Call back the buckets!"
The innkeeper stared at Duran as if he were mad.
"It's an oil fire, Tut! For gods' sake, don't throw water on it! Can't you see? It's too damned wet for anything but oil to burn like that!"
Tutadar narrowed his eyes and looked back at the fire.
"Wait!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the yelling of the neighbors. "No water! You hear me? No water!"
"Get mud, get dirt. Flour! Something that will smother the flames!" Duran glanced around. "Find Bontido. He's got to have something like that around his shop!"
Several of the neighbors were beating at the fire with heavy blankets now. Someone ran off with Bontido toward the potter's shop. Zeldezia stood in the street, her hands clasped, wailing in a shrill voice. A man ran back from the inn, struggling under the weight of a heavy bag of flour.
"Hurry!" Tutadar hollered. "All of it! On the fire!"
The man approached Zeldezia's shop, held the bag firmly, one hand keeping it open, and began tossing flour onto the fire. The flames fell back some, but did not die.
"Move aside!"
Duran stepped back as Bontido and two other men pushed a manure wagon full of soaked stable-dirt toward the shop. One of the men grabbed a shovel and started tossing the dirt onto the flames. Duran watched, his heart pounding raggedly. How the hells had an oil fire got started?
Who would have done such a thing to Zeldezia?
A ragged cheer went up from the neighbors as the fire guttered and slowly began to die. Duran drew a deep breath, not surprised to find his knees shaking.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to face Tut. "That'n was set," Tut said grimly. "Ain't no accident."
Duran nodded, still shaking.
"Damn you, Duran!" Zeldezia's shrill voice penetrated the voices of the crowd. "This is all your fault! Sabirn-lover! They witched my shop, they tried to burn me in my house!"
"Gods," Tut murmured, holding tight to Duran's shoulder.
The seamstress elbowed her way through a crowd grown suddenly silent.
"You brought this here fire on me!" she raged. "You an' them damned Sabirn!"
"Calm down, Zeldezia," Ithar said, reaching out to take her arm.
She yanked away from the smith, her eyes narrowed to slits. "You think I don't know! That I can't guess! You—"
"Zeldezia, shut up!" Tut roared, leaving Duran to step between. "You shut your damned mouth! You been nothin' but trouble the past few days, an' now you're accusin' the man who had enough sense to know what that
damned fire was, and how to fight it!"
Zeldezia backed up a step. "What d'you mean—he knowed what it was?"
"It ain't sorcery! It's an oil fire. If we'd poured water on it, we'd've made it worse. You got Duran t' thank we saw it in time!"
"He knowed what it was! How'd he know? Oil don't get on the side of a body's building by fallin' from the sky!"
"For the gods' sake, Zeldezia, if he'd started that damned fire, he wouldn't've tried to stop it—"
Zeldezia spat at Tut's feet. "The Sabs started that fire—-probably that damn boy's skulked back t' get me, near burned the block down! An' you, Duran, you're guilty along with 'em! Ever since I started tryin' to change your ways, you been settin' 'em on me—They wanted to burn me out, that's what, they know what I know—that they been witchin' the weather, that it's them plottin' agin us—"
Duran kept silent. Anything he said at this point would only make matters worse.
Tears were running down Zeldezia's cheeks now. "You low-down scum . . . you Sabirn-lover! I hate you for this! An' you'll pay, Duran! You'll pay!"
She spun around, ran into her shop, and slammed the door.
For a long moment the street was silent, so silent Duran could hear the water dripping from the eaves.
"She's crazy," someone muttered. "Damned woman's crazy."
"Maybe not," somebody else said.
Tut gripped Duran's shoulder. "Duran, I think you'd best go back inside. Hear?"
Duran nodded, turned, and walked slowly to his shop. Dog stood in the lighted doorway, his tail wagging slowly now that the noise had died down.
Duran shut the door behind him, leaned up against the counter, staring off into the shadows.
Someone had deliberately started that fire.
Kekoja? Gods, no, no. Not Kekoja, not Old Man—not fire, that could have burned Zeldezia alive.
Who would do such a thing? Who in the world would do a thing like that?
A jar was out of place on the counter. It weighted a paper.
It said, in a boy's uneven letters, The river gate. Tomorrow sundown. Fire not ours.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It came down to waiting now—only waiting—wondering over and over again where Old Man was, why they waited at all—
Duran sat on his stool and listened to the work going on next door. Since morning, people had been over at Zeldezia's shop, removing the burned and scorched manure and flour, and washing down the wall with—the gods knew—no shortage of water.
He stayed to his shop, kept the door cracked—indecisive between the pretense of being open for business and the fear of his neighbors.
Mother Garan was the only visitor, desperate, on the edge of one of her headaches.
He gave her the whole pot of willow-tea, he held her gnarled hands and impressed on her as gravely as he could the danger of too much use.
He scared her, perhaps. She looked as if he had.
He wanted not to charge her, wanted to give her some money to go to an uptown doctor—but he knew her pride; and he feared she might spread that story.
Zeldezia had spent little time in her shop. Duran had seen her wandering up and down the street, whispering to various people, and throwing hateful looks in the direction of his door. Gods alone knew what she was telling everyone, what charges she was making.
He could not believe that Zeldezia had any enemies who would take the time and the risk to set a fire.
Could it have been someone after him, confusing his shop with Zeldezia's? He shuddered at the thought. Whoever had been the target—
If it had a bit more time to burn, it might have caught the second story on fire, and then gods help everyone up and down the block.
Now, seated on his stool, waiting as the day drifted on to afternoon—waiting, and not knowing—he simply hoped.
Tonight—he and Dog would take a walk. Lock the door to delay anyone finding him gone—
And just walk away.
* * *
"Have you seen the priest today?" Wellhyrn asked, swirling the wine around in his glass, his legs stretched comfortably before him. It was Ladirno's apartment. It was mid-afternoon.
"No. And neither have you, I suppose."
Wellhyrn shook his head. There was a curious expression on the younger man's face this afternoon, a look of smug, predatory satisfaction. Ladirno had heard the news from Old Town already, and it took no great wit to add things up.
"I know what you did last night," Ladirno said.
A look of surprise widened Wellhyrn's eyes.
"What—do you mean?"
"There was a fire at the seamstress's shop. A very suspicious fire."
"Bad luck, I suppose."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. You're very smart, Hyrn—but not smart enough, not smart enough to cover your tracks—not smart enough to know me. I'm not as stupid as you think I am."
"I never thought you stupid," Wellhyrn protested.
"You made mistakes. You said yesterday you were going to make Duran suffer. As happens—you've pushed a situation already about to move. But let me tell you, friend, there's someone knows how that fire started. Your reputation is in those hands. That's a fool, Wellhyrn. And I'm not a fool. I won't stand for it."
For a long moment, Wellhyrn stared at Ladirno. He blinked twice and then smiled. "You did that with remarkably few clues, Ladir. I'm amazed."
"You aren't upset. You aren't even upset."
Wellhyrn lifted a velvet shoulder. Gold chain glinted in the light.
"Fool," Ladirno said. "You're brilliant, Hyrn, in your work, but leave politics alone. In that you are most definitely a fool."
"Ladir, Ladir." Wellhyrn's voice warmed to a companionable tone. There was just the slightest hint of patronization in it. "I turn your statement around . . . do you think me that stupid? The fellow I hired is a lackwit—"
"Wonderful."
"I made sure he left town," Wellhyrn said, lifting an eyebrow. "I had someone follow him this morning. It'll be taken care of—"
"And where does it stop, Wellhyrn?"
"It stops. It will stop." The assurance was gone from Wellhyrn's face. His lips made a thin line.
"You listen to me. We may fool people out of money now and again, the Duke being no exception, but by the gods! We haven't robbed them of it. And we don't murder."
"Getting soft, aren't you?" Wellhyrn sneered.
Ladirno got up, walked up to Wellhyrn, reached out, and grasped Wellhyrn by the front of his tunic. "You listen to me," he hissed. "I made you at court. I took you on as my apprentice. And I can just as easily dump you right back where you came from. Of the two of us, you tell me who the Duke respects most!"
Wellhyrn reached up and removed Ladirno's hand from his tunic. His face was white.
"You keep that in mind, boy," Ladirno said, standing over him. "And don't try to get back at me in any way. By now, I know your tricks. And, if you try to take revenge, I'll go to the Duke with what I know. You might be surprised just how much that is."
A hint of genuine fear crossed Wellhyrn's face.
"You listen to me, and listen well. The Duke won't stand for your kind of goings-on. You may think you can deny it, but I caution you again. Do you want to face up to the Duke's wizards? They can get the truth out of you."
Wellhyrn shook his head slightly.
"We can go far, you and I," Ladirno said, letting warmth re-enter his voice. "But you need to learn to control your ambition. You're a damned fine alchemist. You could be one of the best. Don't ruin your chances by overstepping yourself. Or by underestimating others. Do you understand me?'
For a moment, Wellhyrn held Ladirno's gaze. Then he seemed to shake himself from his fear: his smile came back. "Ah, well. There won't be need—once Duran's gone. Will there?"
* * *
Vadami looked at the crowd which had gathered before him. A sidelong glance at Zeldezia sent a cold chill down his spine: the woman seemed utterly changed since they had met last. Her fa
ce was stony, her eyes narrowed, and when she spoke, there was a terrible violence in her voice.
He supposed it was to be expected, having lived through the attempted burning of her shop last night.
That was what things had gotten to—the Sabirn knew there was movement against them—and they struck.
And they all had cause for fear.
He had tried to calm Zeldezia, he had attempted to keep her on the path of Hladyr's will—keep her from the sin of hate in what she did—
"Do you understand what we're to do?" he asked of the gathered men and women. No one answered, but he saw several nods. "And you understand that we do the will of Hladyr. What we do we do for his sake—for the sake of souls' salvation—drive away the sin of hate, drive out the demons—"
"Who else but the Sabirn would do something like that to me?" Zeldezia cried above his voice. "Who else but Duran, who shelters 'em?"
"Tut ain't going to like this," one man warned. "He's a friend o' Duran's."
"Aye," added another. "Him an' Duran sit together all the time at the 'Cat.' He won't go for this."
"What Tutadar thinks isn't important now," Vadami said quickly, before other members of the crowd could agree with the speaker. "What's important is saving this neighborhood! Fire and flood! And Hladyr only knows what next?"
"The Duke," a woman shouted, "he let Duran off when 'e 'ad 'im—"
"Duran witched 'im!" someone shouted.
"Demon worshippers!"
"Maybe if we asked 'im to leave," another man said, "he'd—"
"No. We don't want him coming back. And he would, once the furor dies down." Vadami drew himself up. "Forget all the good things Duran did for you in the past. He's not the same man anymore. He hired a Sabirn to work for him. He even had that same Sabirn live with him! What does that tell you?"
Suddenly, Zeldezia stepped forward. "Father Vadami ain't tellin' you all! I seen—I seen them Sabirn look at Duran like he's some kind of a lord of theirs. I seen that old man hangin' 'round his shop. I seen Duran talkin' to any Sabirn he can lay a hand on. He's a wizard! Ain't nobody can tell me otherwise."
"Zeldezia—"
"I heard that damned Sab boy playin' his flute! Music gave me the creeps! It was demon music, on my soul it was! I seen him look at me, that kid, with nothin' in his eyes but darkness."
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