The crowd murmured louder now. Vadami felt sweat break out.
"Kill that Sab-lover!" Zeldezia cried. "Ain't no pity—he never showed me no pity. I asked him to save his soul by givin' up seein' the Sabirn, an' look what 'e did to me!"
The crowd stirred now; their voices had grown deeper, had grown ugly.
"Ever since that Sabirn kid showed up, we ain't had nothin' but evil weather!" Her voice went shrill as she turned to the crowd. "You lost business? Your customers been stayin' away! It ain't your fault you been goin' hungry. Duran's done this to you, an' you know it! I say, let's go after him an' give 'im back some of what he's given us!"
"I hear you!" a few men called back. "Let's get that bastard!" others growled. "Burn 'im out!"
"Wait!" Vadami took a step toward the crowd and lifted both hands over his head. "Stop! Think what you're going to do! Don't start anything the Duke's Guard will have to deal with!"
"Duke won't care if we get ourselves a demon worshipper!" Zeldezia shouted. "'Less he's witched, too!"
"Get 'em all!" someone cried.
The crowd surged forward, their faces distorted with anger, following Zeldezia who had started off toward Duran's neighborhood.
"No! Stop!" Vadami was pushed aside. Sweat ran freely down his face now. Gods! It was getting away from him—totally out of his hands. He gulped down a huge breath, and sprinted off after the crowd. Maybe . . . Oh, Hladyr make it so . . . he could keep them from undirected violence—
Gods above and below! What had he done?
* * *
Duran stepped outside, turned, and locked the door behind him. Dog sat waiting close by, panting in the sultry heat. The storm still had not broken, but thunder muttered ominously in the distance.
The street was strangely deserted for this time of day. The men had stopped work at Zeldezia's shop, and he saw life at only a few of the neighboring buildings.
He shrugged. It would make it easier if he could leave without seeing any of his neighbors. He pocketed the key, aware of the uselessness of the act, took up his staff he had leaned against the wall, and started off down the street.
He had written Tut a short note, explaining he was leaving and why . . . that he did not hold anything against Tut or Ithar: they had been the truest friends, in good times as well as bad.
He reached the corner, paused, and turned around. His eyes misted slightly, and he blinked. That was your shop, he thought, your home. And now it's nobody's. You're done here, Duran, through. Leave it in the hands of the gods.
He sighed and started off down the street that ran perpendicular to his, headed east. He had a good half hour of walking before he reached the east side of town where Kekoja and Old Man would be waiting for him.
He quickened his pace, Dog running along ahead, anxious now, only for it to be over. . . .
* * *
The Great Hall was nearly empty at this hour—Duke Hajun himself had come from his dinner-table. He stared at the young guardsman who stood panting before him, having spilled out his news—
A mob—gods. . . .
Loose in Old Town?
"No idea what stirred them up?" he asked, and the Captain of the Guard, who had brought the boy—
"Sabirn, Your Grace."
"Damn.—Where are they headed?"
"South, Your Grace. Toward the harbor." The Captain licked his lips. "It's a small mob, Your Grace, and we—"
"I don't give a damn if it is a small mob! Get your butt moving! I want a squadron dispatched! Get it stopped!"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"Reasonable force! You hear me?"
The Captain saluted, the young officer saluted, and ran from the hall.
Hajun found himself shaking. A small mob? There was no such thing.
* * *
Duran kept to the center of the street, avoiding the standing pools of water, and quickened his pace to a fast walk. He did not want to be caught by darkness outside his own neighborhood. Strange streets always made him nervous, a good indication of how limited his world had grown.
He had not traveled this far east in a long time, but the streets and the buildings looked much like those in his own neighborhood. Dog seemed to think the walk to be a holiday of sorts. He frisked and danced down the street, his tail wagging, every once in a while barking for the sheer joy of it.
Duran calculated he had been walking close to a third of an hour now. The clouds had grown thicker and thunder rumbled incessantly. He noted people had begun to light lamps in their homes and shops, though they kept their doors and windows open in the heat.
He looked ahead and saw a slight figure waiting by the edge of a house, a shadow in the early twilight. His heart raced. A thief? He thought of his moneybelt, and tightened the grip on his staff.
Dog, however, had recognized the figure, and ran ahead, tail wagging. The person reached down and patted Dog's head, then straightened.
Kekoja!
Duran quickened his pace again. Why was Kekoja here, instead of waiting at the edge of town?
"Can you run far?" Kekoja asked with no preamble.
Duran blinked. "Why?"
"Because there's a mob after you, Sor Duran, an' it's an angry mob, an' I don't want to stay around an' see what happens."
A bolt of fear struck through Duran's heart. A mob? Who had raised it? After what had happened last night, he knew the answer even as he asked himself the question. "Let's go!" he said, and set out after Kekoja at a slow run.
Why, why, why? he asked himself in time to his running footsteps. Why couldn't they just let me go?
His breath came harder now, and he felt the sweat run down his sides. Dammit! He was getting too old for an all-out run like this. His heart beat raggedly. Maybe he would die of heart failure and save the mob its trouble.
He concentrated on Kekoja running before him, on the long thin legs pumping tirelessly up and down. There was more strength in that wiry body than many people could guess. Just stay with him, he urged himself. Don't fall too far behind!
The moneybelt felt like it weighed as much as a heavy stone, and bumped up and down on his waist. He was burning hot, and wished he could stop long enough to remove his cloak. Several passersby turned in amazement to watch the race, and a strange one it must have appeared to them: a large yellow dog far out in the lead, a dark-haired boy loping along, and a middle-aged man bringing up the rear. If Duran had not been running for his life, he would have found it amusing.
He heard a muted roar off to his left and chanced a hasty glance in that direction. His heart lurched. Coming down the street he and Kekoja were passing was the mob.
"Here they come!" he called out, his breath growing shorter. "I think . . . they've . . . seen us! Run! I'll make it . . . fast as I can!"
"Not far," Kekoja shouted back over his shoulder. "Three more blocks."
Three more blocks. Gods! He would die before then. He reached down inside himself to gather needed strength. You're Ancar, he told himself. An Ancar doesn't tire in a race. An Ancar will die on his feet rather than give up! Keep going! Make your ancestors proud!
He stumbled once, caught himself, and ran on. Dog had sensed his master's panic, and stretched out a dead run, ready to turn and fight if need be. Kekoja began to pull away, and Duran knew he would be left behind.
"Keep going!" Kekoja called over his shoulder. "I'll get the others ready!"
The others? Duran dimly wondered how many "others" there might be. As many as made up the mob? He doubted that.
As he very much doubted his ability to run those three blocks more.
* * *
Vadami had caught up to the head of the mob before they had gone very far, but that was all he had been able to accomplish. He had tried reasoning with them, but the men and women who stalked along after Zeldezia were beyond reasoning now.
He and Zeldezia had called the men and women together in a neighborhood far to the east of Duran's, so no casual observer could guess what was going on. They h
ad started off to the west, traveling a route that would bring them into Duran's neighborhood several streets to the north. Along the way, they had added a few more people to the mob, and Vadami estimated their numbers were now forty-five strong.
He did not understand how he had gotten into this position. He kept thinking of going off to the side and returning to the Temple. No one was listening to him. Everything was—
"There he is!"
The mob roared. Vadami could barely make out a distant figure several blocks south, down the street headed east.
"After him!" shouted the burly fellow who had been so vocal earlier. "Don't let him get away!"
"Wait," Vadami yelled in a very unpriestlike voice. "Listen to me!"
Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning lit the sky. People began to run, waving sticks, pausing to gather up loose cobbles.
Then Vadami heard another noise over the thunder, the noise of hooves. Several other people had heard the sound, too, and they broke stride as they ran to glance around.
Suddenly, the street that crossed directly in front of them was filled with horses, and on those horses sat the green-cloaked Guard of the Duke himself.
"Halt!" their commander bellowed over the thunder. "Stop where you are, in the name of His Grace, the Duke!"
The mob halted and began to mill around, some men and women looked frightened, while others seemed increasingly defiant.
"Down with the Sabirn!"
Zeldezia's screech split the heavy silence. She darted off to one side, somehow escaped the arms of a guard who leaned halfway off his horse to catch her, and pelted down the street.
Her action spurred the mob into unthinking motion. Several men charged at the guardsmen, brandishing rocks they had picked up in their hands.
"Swords out!" The Guard commander roared.
Even over the yelling and the rumble of thunder, Vadami heard the rasp of steel on steel as the guardsmen drew their weapons.
The mob howled.
"Death to the Sabirn!" someone yelled.
The commander brought his hand down. "Engage!"
Vadami closed his eyes at the sound of the first scream. Confusion reigned: horses neighed, people cursed and screeched. A body pitched into Vadami, a horse went down—Vadami started to run, heart pounding in his chest, in the direction Zeldezia had taken, fear giving him a speed he had not known he possessed. His legs ached, and he wondered how Zeldezia could keep up the pace: others did—men passed him, with sticks in hand—
Hladyr . . . Shining One! Help me to stop this!
Only the thunder answered him, thunder and the sound of Zeldezia's exhortations.
* * *
A large wagon stood in the center of the road. There were no buildings around Duran now, only the ancient arch of the river-gate, the harbor, and the fort built there to protect it. He ran—hearing the shouts closer and closer behind him—the pelting of stones—Dog loping, panting, beside him—
"Duran!"
Kekoja was with the wagon! The sight of the boy frantically beckoning him on gave Duran new energy: he ran, his ears ringing, and small black specks beginning to dot his vision. Behind him, he heard the shrill voice of a woman crying out for death to all unbelievers—
Zeldezia. He would have recognized that crow's voice anywhere.
He stumbled, staggered, caught himself painfully, and kept running—
"Duran! Hurry!"
Kekoja's voice. A stone hit to his left—he threw himself into final effort toward that wagon—ran and ran until he lost his vision, lost his footing entirely.
Strong hands lifted him up. He hung in their grip, limp.
"Get him into the wagon," another voice said. Old Man. Old Man had made it to safety, too.
"They're on us!" Kekoja cried.
"Aye, I see them."
Duran was half-dragged, half-carried over the side of the wagon—tried to help himself as men lifted him up and then unceremoniously dumped him down on his baskets—his -baskets—!
Dog landed in the middle of him—
Stones hailed about them, the shouts grew—Duran looked down the street, and his chest tightened: men running at the wagon, armed with knives and large stones. In the forefront ran Zeldezia, her dark hair come loose from its ribbons, streaming out behind her like a storm cloud.
And Vadami.
Duran closed his eyes. He had never particularly liked the priest, but he had not thought Vadami one to stoop to mob violence.
"Ready?" Old Man called.
"Aye," someone answered.
Three Sabirn men stood at the side of the wagon, long metal tubes held in their hands.
Old Man stood facing the mob, not moving, not saying a thing. Duran wanted to yell, to curse, to do anything but lie in a shivering heap in the wagon, waiting for the mob to take him.
"Now!" Old Man said.
Duran had been in situations of danger before, and knew that time could do one of two things: it could speed up so he had taken action before he knew it, or it could slow down so that each moment felt like an hour.
The thunder cracked close at hand: all of Dandro's hells seemed to explode from the tubes—smoke, and fire, and screams from the crowd. Smoke cleared on the wind—there were people on the ground—the crowd running in terror—
The men scrambled aboard, Kekoja and Old Man, too. The wagon jerked into motion, wheels rumbling on the cobbles, and Duran held on to Dog, held on to him for dear life.
He had finally seen true wizardry, he thought: he had seen it with his own eyes.
EPILOGUE
Not more than two leagues off from Targheiden, beneath a sky that poured cold rain, Old Man brought the wagon to a stop. Duran and Dog sat covered by a tarp in the rear among his baskets; Duran's head still spun, but his breath came evenly again.
"Will anyone follow us?" Kekoja asked Old Man.
"In this weather?" Old Man shook his head. "I doubt it. Not the mob and not the Guard. I don't think they'll dare. I only regret we had to let them see the weapons—"
"They'll call it sorcery," one said.
The other Sabirn standing alongside the wagon laughed. Duran stared at them in wonder. How casually they acted after having delivered fire from their hands—hard men, dangerous men. He shivered, held on to Dog's collar, sitting in his nest of baskets.
The rain slacked to a drizzle, and the thunder and lightning diminished. Even so, Duran agreed with Old Man: no one would come after them. No one in his right mind, at least.
"And now, Sor Duran," Old Man said, turning sideways on the wagon's seat, "we'll try to make amends to you." He glanced at the other Sabirn. "Hear me," he said, "this one is called Duran. He has my name and Kekoja's. You now have his. The only thing lacking is for you to tell him your names."
"Fenro," one of the men said.
"I'm Domano," another.
"Aladu!" called the third man from the other side of the wagon.
The woman who shared the wagon-seat with Old Man smiled in the rain, her black hair plastered to the sides of her face. "I'm Turchia," she said. Her voice was low-pitched for a woman's.
Duran remembered what he had told Dajhi, Old Man, what seemed a lifetime ago. "Your names are safe with me," he murmured, touching his heart.
He sensed the Sabirn relaxing, saw the sudden warmth in them—though he was certain Old Man had told them this Ancar was different from most.
"There's a small grove of trees down the road a ways," Aladu said. "Lets make camp there."
* * *
There were no more questions until Old Man stopped the wagon for the night. The men dragged out another tarp from the wagon and secured it to three long staffs of wood, making a tent of sorts out from the wagon. A third tarp they spread on the ground so everyone could sit in comfort.
With a minimum of fuss, Fenro had started a small fire. Duran and Dog settled: Kekoja scurried about on small errands—but among the first he brought Duran a cup of heated wine.
"My father," Kekoja cal
led him—"my second father—"
At which Duran found his eyes stinging, and his throat tight, and the wine most welcome to hide the fact.
"Now for questions," Old Man said. White teeth flashed in the firelight as Old Man smiled. "One of mine first. Then, I promise you, I'll answer anything you want."
Duran nodded. "Ask."
"Did you have any enemies who would have been able to hire wizards against you?"
Duran started to shake his head in denial, then nodded slowly, seeing Wellhyrn's face, and Ladirno's, in his mind.
Kekoja reached out and tapped Old Man's knee. "I told you."
Old Man smiled.
"But I was only clumsy for a day," Duran said, recalling everything he had dropped and tripped over. Suddenly, why things had returned to normal dawned on him. His skin tightened. "You knew," he said softly, his eyes holding Old Man's gaze, "and you counteracted the ill-wishes aimed at me. Who was the wizard and how did you afford him?"
Old Man smiled.
"But, Ladirno and Wellhyrn could afford some of Targheiden's best. . . ."
"Then I'm complimented," Old Man said. "Next question. Ask."
"What you did . . . back there . . . the mob." He looked from one dark face to the next. "What in Dandro's hells was it?"
"That wasn't wizardry," Old Man replied, "but just as well they think it was. You're an alchemist. You've seen things explode."
"Aye—"
"Explosion in an open-ended cylinder—" Old Man opened his fingers. "Boom! A pellet flies—"
"Set that damned mob running, that's for sure," Domano said.
"I'm sorry I had to do it, though." Old Man's voice was soft. "Now life for the Sabirn of Targheiden will be even more difficult. Perhaps impossible. There'll be blood. There already has been. It may shake a throne—"
"Was it you—the weather?"
Old Man had no expression. He only sipped his wine.
"Did you?" Duran demanded to know.
"Say that times change. Kingdoms end. This one—has run its course. All the accumulated magic—all the spells against it—call it nature. Call it a run of luck. No. I didn't. Their own -wizards—wished the luck on their enemies. They feared—and they hated; and they wished with all they had. And their enemies—are in the city: do you see? Their enemies—"
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