Duran rubbed his eyes, leaned back against his shelves. What in Hladyr's name had Zeldezia told people about the boy? Her talking with Vadami—gods! The priest would certainly be paying more attention to this street after today. . . .
Duran cocked an ear—heard flute music, coming from upstairs; he remembered the small, wooden flute Kekoja kept in his belt. For a moment he let himself be carried along with the music, until the strangeness of the melody made him sit straighter on his stool.
That was no Ancar melody the boy played, or Torhyn either. There was a haunting loneliness to the song, an alienness to it. Sabirn music. Music that spoke to Duran of twilight evenings, places with no names, and gods that had died with their worshippers.
Duran felt the hair at the nape of his neck stir. He glanced out the door, afraid of who might be listening to that playing, and drew a deep breath. He could hear Zeldezia now, complaining to all the neighbors about Duran's Sabirn boy, who played music that trapped souls in darkness.
But it was only twilight the boy played . . . twilight, and a loneliness that could not be comforted.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two days passed. Duran glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the street, but Zeldezia's door was shut. He had exchanged nothing more than brief greetings with her since their argument that day, and he frankly found her silence a blessing. Hladyr only knew what she was saying behind his back, but at least she had quit trying to get him to throw Kekoja out on the street.
Old Man sat in his usual place by the doorway and, as Duran passed, smiled broadly. Duran smiled back, then carefully erased the expression from his face as he entered the common room. He did not know how far rumor might have spread the story of his guest, but it would not do to rub his neighbors' noses in the fact.
Tutadar looked up from what he was doing at the bar, and lifted an eyebrow as Duran stopped. "Eating here, tonight?" he asked, setting a freshly drawn mug of ale on the counter. "That's a change." A lower voice. "Kid gone yet?"
"No." Duran glanced around the common room, found it not all that busy, filled mostly with his neighbors, and kept his own voice down as he paid attention to the mug Tut offered. "A few more days should do it. His head's a lot better, and he doesn't lose his balance that often. That was a damned nasty sprain he suffered. Came close to breaking his ankle, I'd say."
"You want your usual?" Tutadar asked.
"Aye.—How's Anha's hand, by the by? Any better?"
Tutadar's face broke into a smile. "Oh, aye. Think your medicines got her back to her old self. She been yellin' at me lately just like she used to."
"Good." Duran turned and walked back to his table and sat down.
And noticed a change.
Slight, that change, but a change nonetheless in the atmosphere of the common room; though his neighbors had nodded to him as he passed by their tables, there had been none of the usual good-natured bantering back and forth with him that he was used to.
He leaned back in his chair, cursing himself for seeing shadows where there probably were none. On the other hand, if Zeldezia had been as busy telling people about Kekoja as he feared she had, then there could be a damned good reason.
The tavern girl, Lalada, came to his side carrying his plate. Duran smiled up at her as she set his dinner on his table, and felt his expression freeze: she had not returned the smile, and moved with an uncertainty he was not used to seeing in her—some days ago.
Damn Zeldezia! She must have been in the "Cat" the last couple of days, spreading all lands of rumors about the Sabirn boy. Duran took up his ale, sipped at it, and pretended he noticed nothing amiss.
The smith Ithar got up, came over to his table. That was encouraging. "Mind if I join you?"
"No. Please, sit down. How's your arm doing?"
Ithar pulled out a chair and sat. He extended his arm and, even in the lamplight, Duran could see that the cut was healing normally, new pink skin.
"Feels lots better," Ithar said, letting his sleeve fall. He took a long drink from his mug. "Wanted to thank you for what you done."
"No thanks needed. You just be careful in the future to wash any cut you get, never mind the mud, and you shouldn't have any more trouble."
The smith nodded, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, leaned forward on the table. "Want to ask you a couple questions, Duran. Man to man."
"Certainly." Duran's heart lurched. "What?"
"You got yourself a Sabirn kid in your house?"
Duran briefly shut his eyes. "Has Zeldezia been telling everyone in the neighborhood, or just a select few?"
"Then you ain't denyin' it?"
"No. Did she also tell you the boy had been hurt . . . badly?"
Ithar's eyes wavered a bit. "No. She didn't."
That figures, Duran thought. "It is true. He was beaten by three young toughs in the alleyway outside my house. I chased them off and I'm keeping him until he can walk again."
"Chased them punks off?" Ithar asked. "With that stick of yours? Them as been hangin' round—"
"Aye."
"You could've been hurt bad, Duran. Any of 'em could have had a knife."
"One did."
Ithar drew a long breath and took another drink of his ale. "Why didn't you call for help? We would've come a-runnin'."
"I was too busy.—Now, let me ask you a question. Did Zeldezia tell you the boy's Old Man's grandson?"
The smith shook his head.
"It seems to me that someone who's so free with other people's business could at least get the story right."
"But, Duran . . ." Ithar shook his head. "The boy is Sabirn."
"So's Old Man! I can't imagine you leaving an injured boy on the street just because he's Sabirn, Ithar. I truly can't."
Ithar scratched his head. "Maybe not. But I wouldn't have let him into my house, f' the gods' blessed sake—"
"Ithar, none of the Sabirn I've ever dealt with have stolen from me. That's the truth. None's ever done me an ill turn."
Ithar stared at Duran for a long time. "Tut always said you got too kind a heart for your own good. I agree with him."
"For Hladyr's sake, Ithar! The boy's no demon. He's just like you or me."
"Look, Duran: Old Man . . . he don't worry me. He's old and he's crippled. But a young kid now, fast on his feet—"
"Ithar." Duran reached out and set a hand on the smith's forearm. "A skinny, fourteen-year-old boy's no threat to you or anyone in the neighborhood. He's been here three days and nothing's happened. Has it? Tell me if it has."
"You're an honest man, Duran, but you got a soft spot's going to do you hurt. You took in that dog when he was starvin' and you was little better. Now, you're taking in this Sabirn lad when you know better, and he ain't got no uses." Ithar's brown eyes were level. "You tell me: you going to stand surety for 'im? Pay us for anything he steals? 'S only fair. . . ."
Duran leaned back in his chair. "He's not going to steal anything from you," he said, "and if he does, I'll be the first one to turn him in to the Guard."
"You mean that?"
"I swear to it."
"Well . . . if you stand for 'im . . ." Ithar drank again. "But I'll tell you for damned sure, Duran . . . makes me nervous just thinkin" bout one of them little, dark folk livin' this close to me. Gives me the creeps."
Duran chewed and swallowed and reached for his ale. "If you met the boy, Ithar, you'd change your mind. He's intelligent—a good lad . . . polite and smart. He's a kid, Ithar. Like any kid. What in hell's everybody spooked for?"