Old Man shrugged.
Duran stared.
"I'm all right," Kekoja said from his place on the bed. "I can walk."
"Be still," Old Man muttered. "Pay your debts."
The boy set his jaw. "But, I—"
"You know I can't let you stay with me. Don't argue."
The lad's face turned red, and he angrily launched into a rapid stream of Sabirn. Old Man replied in the same language, making a few cutting motions with his hands. Duran watched the exchange, wondering what in the hells he had managed to get himself mixed up in.
"My grandson," Old Man said at last, turning away from Kekoja, "has a mind of his own . . . and a sharp tongue to go with it. I'm sorry, Sor Duran, but he must stay with you. He has no choice."
"Grandfather—"
"No choice, Kekoja!"
The boy frowned, his shoulders still stiffened in anger.
"Since he's staying here," Old Man said, "I insist that you let me pay you something . . . at least for the food he eats."
Duran drew a long breath. With what? he wondered. Aloud he said: "Can't either of you understand that I'm trying to help? That I don't expect anything in return?"
Old Man lifted his chin.
"All right," Duran sighed. "Pay for his food, if that's what bothers you."
"You're a very strange one for an Ancar," Old Man said, leaning on his walking stick. "You always have been, as long as I've known you." He looked Duran directly in the face—which no Sabirn did. "You've given more than you understand, Sor Duran. You don't know our customs, but let me say that what I'll give you in return means much to us." He spread a hand over his heart and bowed. "My name is Dajhi."
Duran reckoned suddenly—he knew fewer Sabirn names than he did Sabirn words. "Dajhi," he repeated, and then, making a blind leap of logic: "Your name is safe with me. So is your grandson. Whatever his real name."
Old Man's eyes softened. "You are a strange one," he said. He turned to Kekoja. "You've heard. Trust this one. Do what he says. Behave yourself, tehiji."
The boy looked sullenly at his grandfather. "Aye."
"You have your shop to run, Sor Duran," Old Man said. "I've taken enough of your time. Take me downstairs and I'll leave you."
Duran nodded and led the way down the steps, stood by the doorway as Old Man left, thinking.
He dragged his mind back to his business. Hladyr sent him a few more customers today. The silver Wellhyrn had given him would only last so long.
The gods—even the Shining One—seemed to have better things to do than listen to one man's prayers. All morning long Duran sat behind his counter, waiting for customers who never materialized. Mother Garan, alone, returned for another dose of willow tea, saying her head felt better. Duran charged her the usual three coppers, and sent her off with strict instructions. One worried. Like many others in Old Town, she could not afford a doctor of the kind that practiced uptown. Duran was the next best thing . . . affordable. Knowledgeable enough to worry about the old lady—to ease the pain as he could. To do as much as he could and refrain at least from doing harm.
Duran thought of Kekoja upstairs, and wondered what the Sabirn boy was doing to pass the time. He had not heard the lad leave the bed; his floor had several singing boards, and someone not knowing them would alert a listener downstairs.
"Duran," Ithar said, entering the shop. "Got me a cut that don't seem to heal."
Duran got down from his stool. "Where?"
Ithar extended one burly arm. "There. Got cut t'other day . . . well, three, four days back, and it ain't healed up like it should. Thought you might have somethin' to help me."
"I might." Duran looked at the sore: it was red and swollen. "Did you wash it good after you got burned?"
"Hells, I didn't have time. Had a man comin' to pick up his goods and I was runnin' late. I just smeared some mud on it."
"Washing's better." Duran turned around and consulted the shelves of neatly labeled jars. He pulled one out and pushed it across the counter toward Ithar. "This ought to help."
The smith eyed the jar. "How much d'you think I need?"
"Not the whole thing." Duran looked at the cut again. "Maybe a quarter jar will do."
"Just rub it on?"
"Aye. And when you're working,—keep the cut covered with a clean cloth. Does it hurt?"
"Sommat. Not as bad as when I did it . . . but it don't seem to hurt any less lately."
"Huh." Duran stooped, reached under his counter, and pulled out a small earthen bowl and its lid. He carefully poured some of the oil from the larger jar into the bowl and set the lid in place—the tangy smell of cinnamon filled the air. "When you get back to your shop, heat some water hot as you can stand it. Soak the arm till the water cools. Then get a clean—clean! stick, drop some of this on."
"Aye. Clean stick." Ithar took the bowl. "What do I owe you, Duran?"
Duran calculated. "Five coppers should do. If you should have some oil left when you're healed, keep it clean and sealed with wax, and it should keep."
Ithar nodded, dug in his belt pouch one-handed, and set the copper coins on Duran's counter. "You ain't gettin' rich doin' this, Duran. I charge twice that to fix a broken anchor chain, and that don't take no mixing with foreign stuffs."
"Your customers can afford it," Duran said, pocketing the coppers. "So."
Ithar stared at Duran a moment, then grinned. "Hladyr bless," he said, then turned and left the shop.
Duran sat down on his stool and looked down at Dog. "Eight coppers so far today. We might not do badly."
Dog merely wagged his tail, turned around several times, and stretched out at the end of the counter.
Eight coppers. Duran remembered when he and other noble children spent more than that on sweetmeats at the market. He now lived on less than he could have ever conceived, and not all that badly, either—as poor went.
He caught movement out of the corner of one eye: Zeldezia stood in the doorway, holding her apron in hand.
"Better business today than yesterday," she said, coming inside. "Rain scared off all but the determined, or the desperate."
Duran's contentment vanished. "That's true. You're doing well today?"
"I should be," the seamstress said, lifting one eyebrow. "After all, I am the best in this area."
Duran nodded. Obnoxious as Zeldezia could be, she was justified in her pride: she was by far the most talented seamstress in this section of Old Town: people came to her from better sections of the city, knowing they could get a bargain; and went away happy, too.
But Zeldezia never was.
If she didn't spend so damned much time telling everyone how good she is, Duran thought, someone might find a chance to tell her.
"You still got that boy in there?" Zeldezia asked bluntly.
Duran started. Damned if the woman had not seen him take the Sabirn lad upstairs last night. But he should have known . . . not much went on in the neighborhood that Zeldezia could not ferret out.
"Aye."
"Got beat up bad, did he?"
Duran shrugged. "Bad enough."
Zeldezia cocked her head and looked up at Duran. "Not very talkative today, are you? Who beat him up? You recognize 'em?"
"No. Three boys. Tut calls them 'punk kids.'"
"Well, we don't need them sort here in this neighborhood. If they move in, we'll be no better than the Slough."
The Slough . . . the roughest part of Old Town; lair of thieves, whores, and bullies. It lay to the west, by the marshy side of the river, a breeding place for vermin—human and otherwise.