"If you say so." Ithar looked at Duran for a moment, then selfconsciously grinned, reached across the table, and rested a hand on Duran's shoulder shook in comradely fashion. "You're all right, Duran . . . you really are. Twenty years I knowed you, an' you been honest. I just hope to hell what you're doin' here won't do you hurt."
"That I can't help. Zeldezia's doing the hurt."
"Feh!" Ithar waved a hand. "She talks too much. We don't believe everything she says. . . ."
"You believed this, didn't you? Didn't ask me?"
The smith nodded slowly. "Aye, that's so—but, dammit, ain't nobody took in a gods-cussed Sabirn. Sneaky bunch. None of us likes 'em. . . ."
Duran finished his fish and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Sneak is as sneak does. Some don't care who they hurt. Some don't care what the truth is."
"Zeldezia? Believe me, Duran . . . I'm going to let everyone know about it, too." His face grew serious. "But that boy give you any trouble, you tell me. Givin' you any trouble?"
"No. For one thing, Old Man's talked to him, and told him to mind his manners."
"Dandro's hells . . . you do be careful. You been lucky in the past dealin' with Sabirn. Hope your luck's still with you."
"Come over and meet the boy yourself, if it'd make you feel better. He's a kid. See for yourself. He won't bite."
The smith's eyes wavered. "Not me, Duran. You can keep that kid in your house long's you want to, by me, but don't be tryin' to get me to be friendly to 'im."
"All right. But don't worry, Ithar. Your tools will be where you leave them—same as always. If anything is missing in this neighborhood, I'd look to the gang that beat this lad. Sure won't be him taking anything. I promise."
"That's all I can ask." The smith finished off his ale, spat into the rushes on the floor, and stood. "Got to be goin'." Ithar lingered, said, on an apparent second thought: "You take care."
Duran watched Ithar return to his table and wondered if Ithar knew something.
Heads got together. By the hour Duran left "The Swimming Cat," a number of heads had gotten together, and the atmosphere in the common room of the inn had returned to near normal. A number of his neighbors still looked at him from the corners of their eyes—still, he felt sure, distrusted him, thanks to Zeldezia's spreading rumors. But Ithar, both honest and forceful, would set the neighbors right, and Duran thanked Hladyr he had known the smith as long as he had. Next to Tutadar, the smith was probably the most respected man in the neighborhood.
As (Duran smiled wryly, balancing the basket containing Kekoja's dinner in one hand, fumbling for his keys) he himself certainly was not.
He opened the door to his shop, set the food down on his counter. He was lighting the lamp when he heard Dog growl a warning.
The two young lords stood in the open doorway, cloaked as before.
"Come in," Duran said. He held on to Dog until both men had entered his shop, then ushered Dog out the door. The animal growled again, and refused to go any farther than the doorstep. "It's all right, Dog." Duran scratched Dog's ear, shut the door, faced the two men. "I have to take something upstairs. I'll be right back down."
The Duke's heir and his companion glanced around the shop. "See that you are," Brovor growled. "We don't have all night."
Arrogant young cock, Duran thought, and lit the lamp over the counter for his customers' benefit, keeping his chin down—gods, they had known each other as children, he and Brovor. And he was that much changed. . . .
He picked up the basket of food and the other lamp, and climbed the stairs, opened the door.
"Duran?"
Duran set the lamp down, giving light as the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"I've got a customer," he said, opening the basket and setting Kekoja's food on the bedside table. "I'll be back. It shouldn't take me long."
Kekoja's nose wrinkled. "Fish again?"
"Beef pie tomorrow. I promise you. Eat your food, lad, I'll be right back."
"How many more times do I have to come here?" Brovor asked, from behind a fold of his cloak.
Duran paid attention to his work. "The sore's started to disappear. The swellings gone down."
"How many times? I asked you a question."
"This will be your fourth treatment," he said. "With luck, ten more."
"Ten?" The prince's whole body jerked. "You damn quack, that's intolerable!"
"Lord." The heir's companion spoke from the corner. "It does take time."
"And if I don't come back?" Brovor asked, his voice edged with menace.
"You die," Duran said with a shrug, tossed the swab, got up, and wiped his hands. "Sooner or later, you die."
"Damn you!" Brovor took a long breath. "You—"
Someone knocked on the door.
"Who's that?" Brovor asked in a hoarse whisper, clutching his cloak about him, his hand reaching for the hilt of the short sword he wore.
"I have no idea." Duran had not heard Dog bark, so he assumed his visitor was someone Dog knew. He put the top on the jar and set the wand beside it. "It's probably a neighbor—"
"No one must know I'm here!"
"I suggest you and your friend go to the back of the shop where the shadows are deepest. I'll try to keep this brief as possible."
"Gods! I'll—"
The heir's companion took Brovor by the arm. "Come, lord. He's right. Patience. Please."
Brovor glared at the door a moment longer, then followed his friend to the rear of the shop.
Another knock.
"Just a moment," Duran called. He glanced once over his shoulder to be sure the two young lords were hidden, then opened the door halfway and stepped outside.
Vadami stood waiting in the street.
Hladyr bless! The priest! Not now! Duran resisted the urge to glance behind him as he held on to the door.
"Good evening, Duran," Vadami said. "Hladyr's blessing on you."
Dog sat a few paces away, tail dropped. He was not fond of Vadami, but he was too well mannered to growl at someone he recognized.
"Good evening, Priest," Duran said, stepped out past the priest, pulled the door shut. "Been boiling up medicines. It's a warm night. Pleasanter air out here, I assure you, Father.—What may I do for you?"
"Just a social call. How are things going here in your neighborhood? Are you and your neighbors in good health?"
Like hell, Duran thought, a social call. Where was Vadami going with these questions, at this hour—
With the prince in the shop. And Zeldezia's going to him about the boy—
"Everyone's doing fine, thank you. Aside from normal complaints, headaches and such, no one's been sick."
"That's good to hear. Summer can bring on bad fevers."
"True, but I haven't seen the fever so far this year. My business isn't doing all that well, but I don't mind if it means folk are healthy."
Vadami rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. "I haven't seen you at Temple in some time. . . ."
"Difficult to close my shop—folk do need medicines. I've no help."
"I saw Zeldezia there," the priest said, his voice holding mild reproof. "She manages."
"That may be true, but Zeldezia makes better money than I do. And her clients can wait. A sick youngster—"
"Of course, of course." Vadami dismissed the subject with a brief gesture. "But I thought you had help. A Sabirn."
Duran bit his lip. "A boy. A boy beaten and left in the alley. He's not help, Father, far from it. His family's poor, the boy might have died. A work of charity."
"Charity to someone who deals with the dark powers. Do you understand that? You're putting your soul in peril."