"Oh, good gods, Zeldezia!"
"Vadami was shocked. He was real shocked."
"Did you tell him the boy was injured? Did you tell him that, or only what you wanted him to hear?"
Zeldezia's chin lifted. "I told him. Vadami says that don't make no difference. You're still comin' close to corruptin' your soul. You don't even know that kid's hurt. He can make you think he's hurt. An' this a 'pothecary's shop, with all these drugs and such—who knows what he can do with hands on stuff like this? He could put it in the public well—"
Duran drew a short and furious breath. "He's not putting anything anywhere, Zeldezia. He can't walk! He can't stand up! Now I have business to attend to, as do you, I should think. And from now on, I wish you'd keep your nose out of my business, and your damn mouth shut!"
"Go on and treat me like this, Duran, but I'll still pray for you. Blessed Hladyr will bring you to your senses." She spun on her heel and stalked to the door. "You lissen to yourself, Duran, swearin' at you neighbors, bad-talkin' a priest, bad-talkin' me for prayin' for you—what's that sound like, hey?"
She left.
"Oh, damn, damn, damn!" Duran slammed a fist down on the countertop. "What's she done to me?"
A priest. A simple district priest, Vadami might be—but he had the ears of higher placed brethren, some of whom frequented the court.
Duran leaned his head on his hand and rubbed his eyes.
Vadami sat at a small table toward the front of "The Golden Shoe," a High City tavern frequented by well-to-do merchants, an occasional petty lord or two, and lower placed dignitaries of the Duke's court. He sipped his ale, and met the eyes of his companion, another priest—his immediate superior.
Priest Sorgun returned the stare, his eyes calm as the expression on his face. Vadami had chosen the inn as a place to talk because he felt comfortable here, and it was neutral territory, where neighbors paid little attention to him and his companion: priests from the Temple often came here in the afternoon or evening.
"You wanted advice, Vadami."
"Aye." It was the ale—Vadami knew, in some distant part of his mind, that he had imbibed more than he should. It was the Duke's heir's name-day.
"What is it you want to talk about?"
"My feelings, Superior."
"What feelings?"
"Rebellious thoughts, Superior. Discontent. Envy. I—know that's unworthy of me."
Sorgun lifted an eyebrow. "What—kind of thoughts?"
Vadami glanced over his shoulder. Several fellow priests sat at a table toward the back of the room: ducal favorites, those priests, whose parishes incorporated the better sections of town.
"Do you see those men, Superior?" he asked, indicating the priests with a motion of his head. "I've served Hladyr from an early age. I gave up what could have been a promising career as a merchant. I'm no less a priest than those court favorites, and yet what do I have to show for it? My parish is Old Town, where donations—while sincere—are next to nothing."
"Each according to their means—"
Vadami set his mug to one side, and leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "But why have I been allotted such a position in life, Superior? I'm smarter than any priests I know, and I love the Shining One with equal fervor. Why have I been doomed to minister to Old Town?"
"Ah, Vadami . . . not everyone gets what he wants from life. Hladyr must test some of us more than others."
"But, why me?" Vadami straightened in his chair. "Why not someone else?"
"Patience," Sorgun said quietly. "We all have to start out somewhere. You're young, Vadami, only twenty-five, you have years of ministering before you. Many chances."
"I know, Superior." Vadami lowered his head. "But there are times. . . ." His voice trailed off, and he looked up at his companion. "Patience is difficult."
"Be strong. This is but a test put before you." A faint smile touched Sorgun's face. "And, whether you believe it or not, it's a test other priests have faced."
Loud laughter rode over Sorgun's words. Vadami heard a group of men at the table next to his discussing the near riot that had taken place in the Slough the day before. Vadami made a sign of aversion, turning that fate far from his life. Gods bless! Worse than ministering to Old Town was the saving of souls in the Slough.
"A wizard," the men were saving. "A Sabirn wizard, bold as brass."
Vadami took another gulp of ale. Sabirn. Warlocks! Traffickers in the dark arts! He hated the Sabirn nearly as much as he feared them. And now, from what the seamstress Zeldezia had told him, it was not only the Slough that harbored them. . . .
It was not only the Slough where sedition and riot threatened good folk.
A dismal future. If the temple blamed him—
"You do a good work, Vadami."
Vadami's face went hot. "One tries, Superior. One desperately tries. But there are deaf ears."
"Specifically?"
"Have I ever told you about Duran?"
"The nobleman."
"Ex-noble. He's poor as his Old Town neighbors now. But—"
"Is he a problem?" Sorgun asked.
"His shop is a focus for—midnight visitors. Whores. Persons with—" Vadami felt his face go hot. "Disease."
"He's an apothecary, isn't he?"
Vadami squared his shoulders. "He deals with Sabirn. Trades with them. Harbors them."
Sorgun's face went very still. "Have you advised him?"
"Aye. More than once. Duran listens; then—"
"He still sees them?"
"Aye. There's this old man who begs at the tavern across the street, a hanger-on, sweeps up—"
"Sabirn, you mean?" Sorgun's gaze had grown uncomfortably direct.
Vadami chose his next words with care. "A true daughter, a woman named Zeldezia: she's very pious, very reliable, always at temple. I saw her today. She asked for intercession, for—prayers for the neighborhood. She told me Duran actually has a Sabirn boy living in his house."
"Go on."
"Zeldezia said there was some kind of attack. Duran beat off the attackers, drove them off, took the boy into his shop—" Vadami stammered, looked at the table. "Into—" he coughed. "Into his bed, by what this good woman says."
Sorgun said, "Tell me about this—resident at the tavern."
Vadami blinked, felt his face still over-warm. Sorgun's question was hardly the shocked response he expected. "Everyone calls him 'Old Man,' and he lives inside the door of the tavern. 'The Swimming Cat.' He's a storyteller. A menial. Aside from that, I don't know much about him."
"How long has he lived there?"
"Years." Vadami shrugged. "No one pays much attention to him. He's obviously harmless—but this boy—"
Sorgun nodded slowly. "Vadami . . . I want you to feel you can talk to me like this at any time, for any reason. That's what I'm here for. Isn't it?
"Yes, Superior."
"Keep an eye on this Duran." Sorgun lifted his mug of ale. "I do want you to keep careful watch on this Old Man."
"The old man's no problem. He's been there for—"
"Just watch him. I want you to tell me if you see him talking to anyone who doesn't live in Old Town."
"Aye." Vadami drained his mug to cover his confusion. If Sorgun was concerned about Old Man, then—then, all things considered, it certainly would do him well to be equally concerned.
Ladirno flung open the windows to catch what breeze blew in from the harbor, but there was little of it: the air even in this large room was stifling in its closeness. He sat down in his chair, loosened the collar of his tunic, and stretched his feet out before him. Temple bells had just rung out, announcing the tenth hour, well into afternoon, but Wellhyrn had not appeared yet.