Another hesitation. "Easy now, take it easy." He insisted, brought the boy to the bedside, let him slide from his arm to sit on the bed. Duran set his lamp down on the table close by, looked down at the Sabirn youth. "Well, now. Let's take a look at you. . . ."
The boy flinched as Duran brushed his long black hair back from his forehead. His gaze flicked back and forth across the room, toward the window—
"Dammit, lad, I won't hurt you. Don't fight me now. Mehciya, understand? I'm trying to help."
The boy murmured something inaudible, but sat silent as Duran inspected the cut. That was not as bad as it looked, just bloody. Duran knelt and looked at the youth's ankle: sprained and swelling—if it was not broken. The ribs—the gods knew. The boy had no inclination to let him see.
"All right." He stood and walked across the room to a small cabinet. "I'm going to get you something that should make you feel better." He glanced over his shoulder. "For Hladyr's sake, boy . . . I'm not your enemy. Relax."
Duran always kept a few essential herbs and poultices upstairs in case he found the need for them. He came back with a splinter of kindling, lit it from the lamp, moved his current project off the stove and set on a clean pot, from the stores on the shelf, wormwood mixed in wine. He waited patiently while the mixture heated, then dipped a clean rag into the steaming solution.
"This may sting some at first," he said, "but it will take away the pain." He met the youth's eyes. "Amegi?"
The boy nodded, and Duran set to work on the lad's cut forehead. The boy's hands clenched on the edge of the bed.
"I'm almost done . . . There. Now. You want to let me see the ribs? Mmmn?"
The youth frowned, hesitated—then untied his belt, and set aside a small wooden flute he had kept bound at his waist. Gingerly lifting his tunic, he revealed bruises that had already darkened his thin torso.
"Huhn. Wrap in the sheet. I'll mix something stronger." He went back to his shelves and took out another jar, filled this time with white vinegar and a stronger tincture of wormwood. This, too, he heated a little, poured half into a pan he set to heat, then returned to the boy. "I'll be gentle as I can."
The youth shut his eyes and nodded. Duran generously swabbed the bruised areas of the boy's chest, side and back, then with strips of rag tied the soaked cloth against the lad's bruises.
"That should do it for now," he said as the youth lowered his tunic. "The ankle's what worries me." The water on the stove had begun to steam: Duran brought the pan back, encouraged the lad to slip off his ragged shoe and put his foot into the water.
The boy winced at the heat. Slowly, keeping his eyes closed and his jaw clamped tight, he lowered his foot into the water.
"Ahh!"
"I know," Duran said. "Hurts like Dandro's hells, doesn't it? Patience, lad. The pain will start to go away."
Dark eyes followed Duran as he went back to the stove. "Why're you doing this?" the boy asked.
Duran shrugged. "Why not?"
"I'm Sabirn."
"Aye, that you are." Duran came back to the bedside.
"You're Ancar."
"That I am. I'm also an apothecary. Sometimes a doctor."
"Nobody else'd help me." The boy's eyes were steady. "Why're you different?"
Duran cocked his head. "I'm me," he said. "And I don't like to see folks hurt. How'd you end up in that alley anyway?"
The boy frowned. He remained silent.
"Don't answer if you don't want to. Have you ever seen those three toughs before?"
"No."
"Chase you far?"
The boy nodded. "Chochi. My fault." He wiggled his toes in the water. "Damn stupid to get caught like that."
Duran fetched the chair from against the wall, and set it by the bedside. He lowered himself down and crossed his legs. "Have you got any family? Anyone who will worry where you are?"
The boy stared at Duran in sudden, stark suspicion.
"All right. You've scores and scores of relatives. All of them formidable. What's your name?"
After a long pause, the boy replied, "Kekoja."
Duran waited, but that was all. Kekoja. "I'm Duran," he said. "Is that ankle feeling any better?"
The youth frowned, looked at him sidelong. "Doctor, huh?"
"Of sorts. A herbalist and an apothecary. An alchemist, by profession—Mmmn, you don't trust me, do you?"
The boy kept his gaze level. "Why're you doing this?" he asked for a second time.
Why indeed? Duran asked himself the same question. He had always been kind to the Sabirn, but he had never had one of them in his house. He thought of the neighbors. . . .
And felt just the least apprehension.
"Why're you doing this?" the boy insisted to know.
"Humanity," Duran said. "Was I to leave you lying in an alley?"
"I'm Sabirn," the boy repeated as if that explained it all.
CHAPTER THREE
Duran woke, the morning sun just slanting through the shutter-slats. He stretched—gods, he was stiff; and ached in more places than he thought possible. He grimaced, rubbed his eyes, rolled over on the pallet, and glanced over to his bed.
The boy was still asleep; curled up in a little ball, he had kicked the rest of Duran's blankets down toward the end of the bed. Duran snorted softly. From the still air, the lack of draft from the window, there would be small need of those coverings tonight. Warm, moist air, no morning wind from the sea—it promised a muggy, nasty day.
Duran sat up, arms on knees, and stared at his sleeping charge. The boy had had his suspicions—extreme suspicions—for which Duran did not blame him. Hence the night on the floor—but only one night, damn the young fool. And what in hell could he do with the boy? Turn him out on the streets? Good as Duran knew his medicines to be, that ankle would take several days to heal, maybe need more than wormwood. Maybe need rest—else the boy would limp his way through life: and a Sabirn lad had no prospects but portage and a hand-to-mouth existence. Lame, he had no hope but beggary.
He wiped the hair back from his face and sighed, feeling all the indiscretions of last night. Maybe he was getting too old to be fighting in alleyways. Forty-five. He shook his head, remembering his youth, when he thought anyone who was forty-five had one foot in the grave, and the other one slipping in behind it.
But he did not feel old. Inside, he was still in his twenties, still at the prime of his life. He scratched his beard, raked a hand through his hair, and levered himself to his feet, by degrees.
He nudged the table, grabbed after the edge, for balance. Kekoja stirred, stretched his legs out, and groaned softly.
"Hladyr bless," Duran said in morning greeting. "You're better?"
Kekoja rubbed his eyes, sat up in bed, and yawned. He glanced at Duran, then eased his foot out to the side of the bed and looked at it. It was spectacularly puffed, red, and angry.
In addition to which, the boy looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Chamber pot?" Duran asked, feeling the need for the same.
Kekoja squirmed his way to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered his feet to the floor. He winced, his eyes narrowed in pain.
Duran knelt and drew the pot out from under the bed. He held out an arm and helped the boy to his feet. "I won't look, if it makes you feel better," he said.
The boy shook off the help, turned his back, balanced gingerly against that foot. . . .
No trust of him. No.
Traffic was beginning to stir in the streets below. Duran kept his eyes fixed across the room as Kekoja performed his duty, thinking if they did not both hurry, the slop gatherers would be come and gone—not a pleasant prospect for an upstairs bedroom on a hot day. . . .