"Greetings, Sor Duran."
He glanced down, just inside the doorway, at the man who had addressed him. The fellow sat on the floor, a walking stick leaning on the wall of the tavern behind him. He was white-haired, clad in clothes patched, but quite clean. The dark eyes that looked up at Duran were full of intelligence and wit.
"Greetings, Old Man," Duran said. "Do we have another story from you tonight?"
The old man shrugged. "Perhaps. If I feel in the mood."
Duran smiled. Old Man was always in the mood. The locals in the tavern had heard all his stories time and again, but no one seemed to grow tired of them. For a few coppers, the old fellow would spin tales that kept his audience enthralled, despite their familiarity with the stories. But Old Man truly shone when the common room was full of travelers who had not heard his tales before. It was then that Duran could swear he was hearing new stories, not those he had listened to for years.
Old Man was Sabirn. But Tutadar had even allowed him inside the inn. Despite a few nervous glances from newcomers, Old Man had become such a fixture of the neighborhood that locals hardly took account of his race.
"So." Duran dug in his belt pouch and came up with a -copper . . . one of the three that Mother Garan had paid him for the willow tea. He placed the coin in Old Man's upheld hand. "For a story, then . . . if you're in the mood this evening."
Old Man's smile was most engaging. "For you, Sor Duran," he said. "I'll tell it for you."
Duran nodded and walked on into the common room—quiet at this hour, due to grow noisier after evening traffic had had a few cups. He saw a few of the tables occupied: Bontido, the potter, for one, who lived on the other side of the seamstress; Ithar, whose smithy neighbored the inn; a few rain-soaked, better-dressed passers-through from the harbor warming themselves . . .
"Your usual, Duran?" the innkeeper called out from across the room.
"Aye." Duran sat down at his accustomed table, shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders, and stretched out his feet. It was then that he got a look at the two well-dressed men who sat at a table a few paces away from his.
Ladirno and Wellhyrn! What, by all the gods, were those two doing in "The Swimming Cat"? Duran considered ignoring the two, thought, actually, of changing his table or coming back later, but that was a coward's choice, not to mention it would draw attention from his neighbors. The pair turned their heads to stare at him: he smiled, tight-lipped, nodded a perfunctory courtesy, intended thereafter to pay his attention elsewhere, deliberately.
But: "Ah, Duran." It was Ladirno who spoke, the older of the two. With silk-lined cloaks, softly woven tunics above supple hose and neatly shod feet, the two were totally out of place among the local trade. "We've heard this is where you spend your time."
Duran nodded again, jaw set.
Ladirno's companion lifted an elegant eyebrow—Wellhyrn, the younger, the more handsome of the pair (and he knew it, Duran thought). His clothes were that much richer, gods, velvet and silk in the somber colors of the Profession, and he bore himself with an easy arrogance. "Duran," Wellhyrn said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by the other customers. "What a surprise—in a seedy place like this—"
"I like it," Duran muttered.
"Really?" Wellhyrn turned to his tablemate. "Shall we be going, Ladir? The wine's sour, the storm's delayed the ship until at least tomorrow. We can certainly do better than this uptown. . . ."
Ladirno shrugged, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood, gathering up his cloak. "And when can we expect to see you at court again, Duran? Or in the guild meetings?"
"Sometime soon," Duran promised, making an effort to sound friendly.
Wellhyrn had risen to his feet. He swept his cloak up from the back of his chair and settled it around his shoulders. "I'm sure we'll all look forward to that day. And the guild fees. But that can't be in your way, can it?—Coming, Ladir?"
Duran watched the two men cross the room and saw the clink of the coins they tossed to the innkeeper. He could have lived on such extravagance for days.
Damn, damn! He knew he should not let them bother him, but by Hladyr the Shining he could not help it. Fellow alchemists. Ha! Ducal favorites, they spent their days at court, amusing the nobles with petty tricks . . . sleights of hand that kept gullible patrons interested in funding. Tricks of the Profession—all honorable, of course: research materials came dear, and one could hardly explain the real secrets. . . .
The hell. Duran took several deep breaths and settled back in his chair. He would not call the present elite of the Profession charlatans, but by his lights they came close. In his father's day—
In his father's laboratory—
Lalada, the cup girl, brought Duran his ale. He took the mug, smiled a silent thanks, and drank. The brew tasted bitter on his tongue, less the fault of the ale, he was sure, than of his mood. There was nothing wrong with what the "Cat" served, damn, there was not.
He took another drink, waiting for his supper—meat pie tonight, an extravagance: every fourth day, Duran allowed himself real meat . . . beef from the herds that grazed to the north of Targheiden—that much a one-time nobleman allowed himself, every fourth day, no oftener.
Tutadar himself brought Duran's supper to him. "Don't let them gilded donkey-butts get to you, Duran," he said, straightening and crossing his arms on his chest. "Bet them black crows never saved any lad like you did Sora Mitti's son. Think on that 'un, Duran. Them folk ain't' got nothin' on you."
"Thanks, Tut," Duran said, cutting open his pie and sniffing the sweet smell of beef. He glanced up, remembering the innkeeper's wife. "Is Anna's hand better tonight?"
"Aye, thanks. She wanted me to tell you that, Sor Duran. She's puttin' that salve on the cut like it'd save her, she is."
"If it flares up again, have her see me." Duran reached for his belt pouch to pay for the pie and ale, but Tutadar nudged his shoulder.
"No, no, this 'un's on Anha and me. For bein' a good neighbor." He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. "And for not bein' snot-nosed like them two. Enjoy your meal."
Duran stared for a moment, then nodded and smiled. He set to his pie, aware now that he had it before him just how hungry he was.
CHAPTER TWO
Well into dark, the warmer for beef pie and ale, Duran finally quit the inn. More of his neighbors had come to the "Cat" for their dinners, and their company had lightened his mood—after-dinner talk had flowed from table to table, warm friendly talk, for it was all Old Town in the tavern this evening: the few uptowners and harbor trade who had come in had returned to their rooms, or gone off uptown and down.
Duran fumbled for his keys and felt for the lock: hard to see, though the "Cat" had torches burning by its front door so long as they lasted. The key habitually stuck in the ancient lock. Duran cursed, jiggled the key, shoved the protesting door open.
Dog stood waiting by the door, uncomplaining as usual. He leaned up against Duran's leg, inviting a quick scratch on his head, then trotted off into the deepening night, about his own necessities. Duran lit his lamp, set it down on the counter, and hung his cloak behind the door. Full of meat pie and ale, he sat down on his stool to await Dog's return, so he could lock up his shop for the night.
Then his eyes fastened on a packet that lay on the floor: someone had slipped something under his door. He stared for a moment, got down from his stool, and picked the packet up. It was made of paper—a fine grade of paper, not the coarse stuff one purchased here in Old Town. He took it back to his lamp, leaned close, and opened it.