"Shit!"
Duran glanced around just as the boy wobbled and fell sidelong onto the bed, slid halfway to the floor.
He hauled the Sabirn lad up to his knees, trying to be careful of the ribs—helped him lie down then. The boy-'s eyes were slightly glazed and his face had turned decidedly pale, broken out in sweat. But he shoved the help away.
"Boy?"
Kekoja was breathing hard. He wiped his face, glassy-eyed, said, thickly, "Lost my balance."
"Lie still," Duran commanded, despite the boy's hazed objections lightly running his fingertips over the boy's skull.
"Yeow!"
Duran jerked his hand back. "You've got a lump on the back of your head the size of an egg. Where else did they hit you?"
"Don't remember." The Sabirn lad took a deep breath. "I'm dizzy."
"I'd expect. People who get lumps that size on their heads don't feel especially wonderful afterward.—Does it feel better when you lie down?"
"Not as dizzy . . ."
"Listen, son. You stay put in that bed until you can stand up and not fall all over yourself. Head wounds aren't anything to treat lightly."
Kekoja nodded slowly, eased his head back on the pillow, and looked at Duran, his eyes still glassy. Duran ignored him, used the chamber pot himself, took it toward the door.
"Stay put!" he ordered the boy.
The Sabirn lad nodded.
"I mean it. Don't try to get up. You'll do yourself lasting harm. Do you understand?"
"Aye." Faintly.
"Good." Duran started down the stairs. "Remember it.—I'll go get us something to eat."
Dog stood waiting at the doorway, excited and turning around in circles.
"Poor fellow," Duran said, opening the door and letting the dog outside. "Don't have your own convenience, do you?"
He set the chamber pot on his doorstep, stood up and stretched, with a deep breath of the morning air, paused for a glance up the street. Zeldezia had opened her shop and was now busily sweeping around her front door. Efdin, the baker, had already started his day: the sluggish air carried a scent of fresh bread. There was the rattle of chains as Ithar opened his smithy. Apprentices began to gather at the doorways of the other shops on the street, laughing and calling out to one another.
Duran thought of Kekoja waiting upstairs on the bed, with not a little worry, having the lad alone with his shelves, his medicines, his personal things—
Damn it all, anyway. Here he, who had always been courteous and kind to the Sabirn, was worried about robbery—on the part of an injured boy. With an ankle like his, and that knot on his head, he'd be lucky if he could make it down the stairs.
He closed the door behind him, locked it, and crossed the street to the "Cat." The door stood open, food was cooking. Old Man had stirred out of his night-time place on the floor inside to sit on the wide doorstep, a bowl of food in his hands.
Duran nodded at Old Man in passing, and entered the common room of the inn. This early in the morning, there were no people at the tables. Tutadar stood behind the bar, going over last night's take, arranging the coins in neat rows before him.
"Morning, Duran," Tutadar said, glancing up from his work. "Want your usual today?"
"Aye. A double portion. I'll take it with me if I can."
Tutadar shot Duran a questioning look but said nothing, and walked back toward the kitchen. Duran leaned up against the bar, keeping his eyes to the street outside. Should he tell Tutadar about his unusual guest, or not? Double portions alone of his breakfast would serve as a clue that something odd was going on.
"Got company?" Tutadar asked casually, returning from the kitchen, carrying two covered metal plates. He set the plates on the bar, and filled two mugs with wine.
"Aye." Duran glanced around the common room. He and Tutadar were still alone. "Last night three toughs beat up a boy in the alleyway. I chased them off, but the boy's in a bad way. Won't be able to move for a couple of days."
Tutadar snorted something under his breath. "Damned punk kids are startin' to make life miserable. Himself the Duke better do somethin' about it. Bad for business." He met Duran's eyes. "Got any idea whose kid? Some 'prentice?"
"No." Duran risked it all. "He's Sabirn, Tut. About fourteen. Nice looking boy, smart—"
"You left that kid in your house? Alone?" Tutadar leaned forward on the bar. "I know you don't mind workin' with them Sabirn, Duran, but don't let 'em fool you. Once your back's turned, they'll take you for everythin' you got."
Duran signed for quieter voices. "This one's in no condition to do that right now. Those toughs really knocked him around. Hit him hard enough on the head, he's still dizzy. On top of that, he's got an ankle sprained bad enough to keep him from walking for at least another day or two."
"And what're you going to get from this, Duran? 'Sides another mouth you can't afford to feed."
"I couldn't leave him out in that alley, Tut. And I don't think you would have, either. I thought of Old Man—"
"No!" Tut said, waving his hand. "No! Old Man I don't mind, Old Man's got his place here, he's our Sab, all right? He's old, he knows his place, he don't make no trouble. But there ain't no kid comin' in here, no. You've got too good a heart in you, Duran. One of these days, it's going to cause you trouble."
"Tut,—keep it quiet, will you? He's just a lad."
Tutadar set the covered plates and two mugs in a well-worn basket. "Just a kid," he muttered. "Listen," he said, then, leaning forward on the bar, his eyes locked with Duran's. "You ain't helpin' yourself by keepin' company with them Sabirn. I know you're too damned good-hearted, but—tongues is going to wag, Duran. They already do. It's one thing, hirin' some Sab to dig herbs, port baskets and all, but there's a limit, man. There's a limit t'what folk will understan'. You get my drift? Ain't me, you know that . . . but you know you can't keep that kid in there much longer without everybody findin' out."
Duran nodded. What Tutadar said was all too true. Because of his uptown ways, because of the . . . odd smells from the apothecary shop, lights at all hours, the occasional midnight customer, his neighbors already considered him peculiar. There were apothecaries who dabbled in . . . elimination of persons unwanted; there were those who sold things . . . unapproved by the clergy and against the law, as murder was. . . .
A man who dealt with harbor trade, who treated whores, a large part of whose trade was harborside, in diseases law-abiding folk disdained to name—
"I hear what you're saying." He dug in his belt pouch and set out four coppers on the bar. "I'll bring the plates and basket back after I'm done," he promised.
"Keep your eyes on that kid," Tutadar warned, setting Duran's money aside for the first of his morning sales. His voice grew gruff. "Don't want anythin' to happen to you. You're a good neighbor."
Duran smiled sadly, lifted the basket, and went outside. Old Man was finishing his breakfast, his dark eyes roving up and down the street. Duran nodded again in passing, nothing said, and crossed over to his shop, where Dog sat waiting on the doorstep. Duran juggled the basket in one arm, took out his keys, and opened the door—
While the seamstress, Zeldezia, stood leaning on her broom, her sharp eyes watching his every movement. Duran nodded a dour good morning to her as he went inside. Damned nosy woman. Before the hour was out, she would have told all the neighbors that Duran was eating in his house this morning, rather than at the tavern, and probably know exactly what he had for breakfast. . . .