"Dizzy," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. "Damned dizzy."
Duran sighed, glanced at what remained of his late wife's washbasin, and helped the boy to his feet.
"What were you trying to do? Climb out the window? I told you to stay in bed! Why did you disobey?"
The boy kept silent as Duran set him down on the bed; he rubbed his forehead and groaned softly.
"You don't want me here," Kekoja said at last, leaning back so he lay stretched out on the bed. "Thought I'd leave."
"By the window? Gods, boy! That lump on your head addled your brains. You could have killed yourself trying to go out the window. And who told you I—"
God. Zeldezia. Shrill voices carried.
"Nobody need to've told me. I know. I'm Sabirn. Nobody wants me." His eyes shimmered with tears; he angrily blinked them away. "Not even my grandfather!"
So there lay the crux of it. Duran propped the boy's head up on the pillows. "Don't talk like that. I'm sure your grandfather has a good reason for what he's doing. Does he, or is he not as kindhearted as I think he is? And I never said I didn't want you here." I'd much rather you'd gone with your grandfather, though. It would have made my life a damn sight easier. "Take a couple of deep breaths. You'll be all right."
Kekoja did as Duran instructed; after a few moments, he seemed calmer.
"Now listen to me. I don't want you out of this bed except to use the chamber pot, you hear? And until you're steadier on your feet, I want you to call me when you have to go."
"Aye."
"And stay away from the windows." Duran straightened the boy's hair gently. "Hear?"
The boy said nothing. Duran went to shut the window, pick up the pieces.
Perhaps if he found them all, he could barter Bontido the potter into fixing the basin.
No. The glaze had splintered. No hope that the basin could be reconstructed. The shards were too small.
He let the pieces fall. Another tie with the past . . . gone . . . shattered like his youth. . . .
"Can you fix it?" Kekoja asked.
Duran rose, looked down at the jagged pieces of the basin. "No. It's beyond repair."
The Sabirn lad bit his lower lip. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I know. It's just that . . ." Duran waved a hand full of broken porcelain. "It was my wife's, and she's been dead for . . ." His voice trailed off. He met Kekoja's dark eyes, "You stay in that bed, hear?"
"Aye," Kekoja said faintly.
Raindrops spattered against the roof, sudden gust of storm.
"I'm going back downstairs. You need anything, you call."
"I will." Kekoja stirred on the bed. "Sor Duran?—I won't break anything else. I promise."
Duran forced a smile to his lips. "See that you don't," he said, and turned toward the stairs.
The rain had slacked off to a drizzle. Duran sat on his stool, gazing out the opened door at passersby hurrying to drier destinations before the next spate. A ship must recently have made port: he had seen travelers entering "The Swimming Cat." One wondered . . . one dreamed . . . where those folk were from, what their business in Targheiden was, and where they were going.
One must have had a dream of voyages—of travel to far places—in one's golden youth, when such things were possible. . . .
But the farthest he ever went was to the country.
And, gods, that was not far enough for his troubles, not far enough for safety from a duke's son, his father's past, his own damnable stupidity—
He had made another ten coppers since his midday meal, which brought his total day's take to eighteen. It was not the most he had ever made in a day, but—considering the rain and the fact summertime brought fewer illnesses than winter—not bad. He had broken even and seen a modest profit.
But medicines did not happen by magic. Nor come out of moonfluff. Fees bought supplies. Customers did. And he was running low on both.
Ah, well.
Duran walked to the back of his shop, drew a large earthenware jug out from under a table, and lugged it back to the counter, poured white vinegar from the large jug into a smaller one, dropped wormwood leaves into the vinegar.
Now, for the next two months, those small jugs would sit high on his shelves, the wormwood steeping in the vinegar. Duran plugged the large jug, carried it back to rear of the shop—
The bang of a door down the way said, considering the direction and a familiar sound, that Zeldezia had returned from the Temple ceremony and was reopening her shop. Hladyr keep him from the woman's thoughts . . . a prayer, he knew, that would likely go unanswered. By now, she had probably told everyone she had met that her neighbor was harboring a Sabirn in his home, a wizard, no less, a practitioner of dark sorceries. . . .
He had known the risk he ran in taking Kekoja in: or at least he had thought he had known. His neighbors were good folk, all of them, working as did he simply to make a living in Old Town. But Tutadar's words came back to him: no! Absolutely not! Not here! Not in my tavern—
Damn. Why were people so fearful of what they did not understand or what was different? In all his years of dealing with Sabirn, Duran had not seen one genuine wizard. The Sabirn played a good game, some of them, and had people convinced they had far more powers than was true—any alchemist uptown knew those tricks; and any temple wizard could do sleight of hand, conjure doves—
Or fire.
"So, Duran. How's your afternoon been?"
He winced, turned from his search after alum he knew he had, and faced Zeldezia in his doorway. She wore a bright blue gown, graced with some of her finest embroidery, and her hair was neatly done up in braids and coif—a handsome, an impressive woman, in her temple finery: except the sour expression on her face had not changed from several hours back.
"Not bad," he said, keeping his voice light. "I've turned a profit, and the day's not over—not everyone went to temple."
She looked at him, then lifted her eyes toward the room upstairs. "Still got that Sabirn kid up there?"
Duran pursed his lips and wished he could say otherwise.
"S'pose I couldn't expect you to come to your senses," Zeldezia said, shaking her head. "You're a stubborn man, Duran . . . you don't listen to good sense. You been upstairs to see what he's thieved yet?"
"I doubt he's stolen anything," Duran replied, sitting down on his stool. "He's in no condition to do much but sit and soak his ankle. Leave it alone, Zeldezia. Leave it be. The boy'll go. He's just a kid with a sprained ankle. Let him be."
"I prayed for you," she said. "I did. Them Sabirn can corrupt you, taint your soul—they got charms can confuse a man, so's he's got to do what they want—and he don't even think anymore. . . ."
Duran snorted. "Now you're sounding like Priest Vadami," he muttered.
"I told him to pray for you, too."
Duran's heart constricted. "What . . . did you tell him?"
"That you was needing prayers. That this boy's moved hisself in—"
"Zeldezia!" Duran snapped, stepping down from his stool. "Can't you stay out of my business? Who gave you the right to prattle on to Vadami about what I do?"
Zeldezia stepped back a pace. "It's my business too. Damned kid'll drive customers away from all of us!"
"And who was to know if you hadn't told? He's not going to be here much longer. He's got a sprained ankle! He's not in anybody's sight!"
"Listen to me, Duran," she said, squaring her shoulders. "You can't even see what's goin' on under your own nose. The boy's bespelled you, that's what he's done. Them Sabirn can do it, turn your mind to helpin' him, then mixin' god knows what, gettin' 'im moonwort and them whore's babies—"