The slop gatherers had already been down his side of the street: the chamber pot sat empty by the steps. Later, Duran advised himself. Breakfast first. He waited for Dog to come into the shop, shut and locked the door, and went upstairs.
Kekoja sat propped up in bed, pillows stacked between his back and the wall, silently watching Duran lay out the two plates and set out mugs of watered wine on the table beside the bed. Duran noticed a glitter in the black eyes: hunger, most likely. He wondered how long it had been since the boy had eaten a good meal.
"Fish," Duran said, removing the covers from the plates. "Fresh fish. Straight up from harbor. The 'Cat' is fastidious. Are you still dizzy?"
The youth carefully shoved himself upright on the bed, his eyes moving from the dishes to Duran's face. The scowl persisted.
"What do you want?" Kekoja asked, turning to the edge of the bed, carefully putting his swollen ankle off the side.
"What do I want what? What kind of question is that?"
"You got something in mind, or you wouldn't be doing all this."
"Eat your food," Duran said, shoving a short knife across the table to the boy. "It's going to get cold."
Kekoja hesitated, then accepted the knife and began cutting up his fish, spearing small bites of it.
"Why do I have to want something from you to feed you?" Duran asked.
"Never had any Ancar treat me decent before." Kekoja took another bite, chewed hurriedly, and shot him a scowling look. "An' if they did, they'd want something."
"Well, I don't. So take your mind off it." Duran drank and set his mug down. "Now I'm going to ask you again—seriously: do you have any family or friends who will be worrying about you?"
The boy's black eyes measured Duran with a look too mature for his apparent youth. "Hundreds of 'em."
"Hladyr's Light, boy! You'd think I was out after—"
The boy stared at him, jaw clenched.
"I'd like to find your kin, boy, let them know where to find you, get you home, for Hladyr's sake, I've no other motives. Why would I go to this trouble? There's whores harborside. So what would I be after?"
Kekoja's eyes dropped. He speared another bite of fish. "I don't know," he said, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. "Sell me, maybe."
"Nothing worth the night on the floor.—Lad, I don't bother boys. And I don't sell them, either."
Kekoja looked at Duran again. "I got a grandfather," he said at last.
"A grandfather. Where does he live?"
"'Cross the street."
"Across the—You don't mean the old, white-haired man who sits in 'The Swimming Cat,' do you?"
A nod.
Duran leaned back in his chair and regarded the boy with renewed interest. Old Man's grandson? He had never thought of Old Man as anything but Old Man. That he had once been married and had a grandson . . .
Not here, Tut had said. . . .
"You want me to tell him you're here?" Duran asked. "He can't take you in, but, hell, wouldn't he like to know you're here?"
A brief flash of emotion passed behind the boy's black eyes. "Aye. If you'd do that . . ."
"After breakfast. And before I go, I'm taking another look at that ankle. Can you wiggle it? Wiggle the toes?"
Kekoja moved his foot carefully. Toes moved. "Hurts."
"Then we'll soak it again." Duran finished off his fish and drained his mug. "I have to run my shop," he said, leaning back in his chair as the boy ate the last of the fish. "I'll open up, heat up some compresses. Will you be all right up here?"
"Afraid I'll steal something?"
"Not really."
"Everyone else thinks so."
"I'm not everyone else," Duran said, putting his plate into the basket and following it with Kekoja's. "The sooner you realize that, the more comfortable you'll be. Besides, you try that window, lad, you'll break your neck. Hear me?"
Old Man sat on the doorstep, his face relaxed as he leaned his head back against the wall, outside, this warm morning. Duran looked all directions, saw no one he knew, hunkered down on his heels. "Greetings, Old Man."
"A good morning to you, Sor Duran." If Old Man was astonished at this behavior, he failed to show it.
"Last night three toughs beat up a boy in the alleyway next to my house. I ran them off and took him upstairs. He's got a sprained ankle, a knot on his head. . . ." Duran waited for a response, but Old Man kept silent, his gaze as placid as ever. "This lad says he's your grandson. Says his name is Kekoja."
Old Man's expression hardly changed. "Where is he?"
"In my upstairs. In my bed. Eating my breakfast. He's not fit to walk. I don't know where else to send him. Or how."
Old Man's black eyes strayed from Duran's face to the shop across the street. "That's who you took the food to this morning?" he asked.
Old Man missed nothing. "Aye. Where shall I take him?"
"Did he ask for me?"
"He said you were related. He didn't ask for anything."
"He's got his reasons."
"Do you want to see him?"
Old Man's black eyes scanned the street about. Came back to him. Old Man nodded faintly, reached after his stick.
Duran stood, took Old Man's walking stick from the wall, and gave it to him. Old Man rose walked walked beside him across the street.
Zeldezia's door opened. She shook a dusty rug into the street, stopped, mouth open. Duran cursed inwardly, fished out his keys, opened the door to his shop, and followed Old Man inside. Dog waited by the counter and ambled over to sniff Old Man over.
"Go, Dog. Lie down. You know Old Man. That's-a-boy." Duran shut the door and waved a hand at the stairway. "Upstairs."
Old Man nodded, limped to the stairs, slowly ascended them. Duran came behind, indicated the doorway, which Old Man opened.
"Grandfather!"
Kekoja sat on the edge of the bed, his foot soaking in water and salts. Old Man took another step forward, and spoke rapidly in Sabirn, of which Duran could understand only a few words, none significant to him: the boy responded with words equally swift.
"He says you helped him last night," Old Man said, turning to Duran, "that you don't want anything from him. Is this true?"
"I don't want anything from him." Old Man's look at him seemed too sharp, too careful. "Anybody would have done the same, if they'd heard the fight. No one in Old Town likes thugs."
Old Man squared his shoulders. "No one likes thugs, aye. But some of your neighbors, Sor Duran, like Sabirn even less. He says he ate your breakfast."
Duran shrugged.
"You fed him. Do you know what that means to us?"
More than he knew, by Old Man's stern look. Duran shook his head, embarrassed, confused.
"You're willing for him to have this food?"
"Of course I'm willing. He doesn't owe me anything."
"You are bound by that giving. He is bound. We Sabirn do not take other people's food willingly."
"I didn't know. And I don't feel that he's bound to me, if that makes any difference."
"What's done, is done," Old Man said. "Since you offered him food out of concern for him, and since you don't know our customs, I don't hold you to the rules we live by." He gestured briefly. "But the boy knows. He knows."
"Look, Old Man, debt or no debt—he's clear. He's free. Where shall I send him? Where's his father? Where's his mother?"
Old Man shrugged by way of answer.
"Where does he live?" Duran asked. "He comes from somewhere."
"He lives on the street. So do most of us Sabirn."
"He's not going to be using that ankle for the next few days. He's not going to be living on the street."