"Then I can go?" Kekoja asked, his face lighting up.
"Where?" Duran waved a hand to the storm outside. "You want to go outside in this?"
"Well, maybe not now. But you think I can walk good enough to let me go?"
Duran sighed softly. "Aye. But I wouldn't go anywhere until the storm lets up." He came and picked up the chamber pot. "I've got to get our breakfast and let Dog out. Are you hungry?"
"Not very." Kekoja sat back down on the edge of the bed. "You go on an' eat at the inn, if you want. Bring me back some of what you have."
"All right." Duran picked up the lamp, too, and started toward the steps. "If you're interested, you can look at any of the books I have up here." He glanced over his shoulder at the Sabirn boy. "Some even have pictures in them."
"Duran," Kekoja said, "I'm sorry I lied to you. You been good to me, and I shouldn't have done it."
"Well, don't lie again. You don't need to be afraid of me."
"I learned that." Kekoja smiled slightly. "You can tell when I'm lying anyway. You got a good eye on you. And, Duran?"
Duran paused on the first step. "Ask Grandfather if he wants to look at me walk. Even if you decide I can leave, he's the one who'll have the final word."
Duran nodded and descended the stairway to his shop. Thunder boomed again and Dog whined as Duran walked toward the front door.
"Sorry, Dog," Duran said, unlocking the door one-handed. "You stay close to the building, or you'll float away."
Dog stood on the doorstep, sniffing the rain-soaked wind, unsure whether to go out or stay inside. Duran leaned out the door, set the chamber pot on the doorstep, and ducked back. The gutters were deep underwater already, and a steady stream of rain poured down from the second story overhang.
"In or out, Dog," Duran said, reaching behind the door to get his cloak. "I can't wait forever."
Dog wagged his tail, and stepped out into the street, shook his head at the rain and trotted off around the corner. Duran pulled his cloak on, and cursed the weather, for it told him he would suffer another day with few customers. He leaned up against the doorjamb, and watched the rain fall. Quicker than he would have guessed, Dog was back, dripping with rain and anxious to be inside.
"Bad day for all of us," Duran said, stepping aside to let Dog in. Dog wagged his tail, distributing rain outside of the puddle he was dripping on the boards, sat down, and began to lick the water from his coat. "Stay here like a good boy. I'll be back."
Lifting the hood of his cloak up, Duran stepped outside, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Drawing a deep breath, he turned and ran across the street where the door to "The Swimming Cat" stood cracked. Duran entered, stood for a moment dripping in the doorway, and flipped the hood back from his face. Thunder rumbled overhead.
"Morning, Sor Duran," said Old Man from his place inside. "Bad storm again today."
"Aye. I'm drenched from crossing the street. Your grandson wanted you to watch him walk today. He said you're the one who'll tell him if he's well enough to leave."
"You think he is?"
"He's a lot better, aye. He's not dizzy anymore, and I think that ankle of his has healed."
Old Man's eyes sparkled in the lamplight. "I'll come," he promised, "when the rain lets up."
Duran nodded and looked up as Tutadar walked in behind the bar, taking his usual morning position. "You're brave," Tut said, looking up from his money-counting.
"No. Hungry." Duran came to lean on the bar and glanced around. "No one else in here yet?"
"Not likely till the storm lets up. You eatin' here this mornin' or takin' out?"
"Here." Thunder raided the windows. "Hladyr grant it'll slack. I'm not anxious to go back out in that."
"Who would be?" Tutadar walked to the kitchen and bellowed something at his cook. "Can't remember havin' such bad weather at this time of summer," he said, returning to the bar and pouring Duran a glass of wine. He shoved the mug across the bar and leaned forward, his arms crossed. "Trade's gone to hell—'nother ship gone."
Duran took a drink, wiped his moustache. "Another?"
"Word is, I hear it from Efdin, the Duke's got one well overdue. The Gull's Pride comin' out of Padis loaded down with spice—likely straight to the bottom in that big storm last week."
Duran frowned. Efdin the baker would know news having anything to do with spices. Last week. That must have been the storm that roared into Targheiden the same day the thugs had chased Kekoja into the alleyway.
"Hladyr bless the crew. I'll bet the Duke's not pleased. The price of clove will go up now for sure."
"Gull's Pride ain't the only ship out of Targheiden might be in trouble. From what some of the folk stayin' here in the upstairs say, weather's been foul at sea for the last fifteen days." The door to the kitchen cracked open and the cook stuck his head out, hailed Tut. "Sit," Tut said, "I'll bring you your breakfast. Might join you myself."
Duran picked up his mug and sought his table. Lalada the serving-girl came out from the kitchen, nodded dourly his way, too early for cheer, and began setting up the mugs behind the bar for the morning crowd. Thunder rumbled again, and Duran wondered if there would be much traffic in and out of the "Cat" as long as the rain kept up.
Two men came down the stairs from their rooms and entered the common room; they paused for a moment, as if checking to see who was present, then took a table close to the bar. Travelers, Duran noted, most likely traders from Fresa by the cut of their tunics. They talked quietly to each other and gave brief orders to Lalada, who disappeared back into the kitchen.
Tutadar came back into the common room carrying two plates, and set them down on Duran's table. He returned to the bar, poured three mugs of wine, and set two of them out before the travelers.
"Your food'll be out shortly, Sori," he said with a small bow. "Get you anythin' else?"
"Not unless you have good weather in your kitchen," one of the men said.
"'Fraid not. You come far?"
"From Fresa," the other man said. "Business with Porandi."
"Luck to you then," Tutadar replied. He turned away and joined Duran at his table.
Duran started cutting up his fish. Porandi was one of the more successful traders who had few ties to the noble houses. He wondered if any of Porandi's ships had suffered losses.
"Damned weather's bad for everyone," Tutadar said around a mouthful of fish. "Gets me by havin' few travelers in and out. Gets you by havin' fewer folk show up at your shop.—Heard you had a visit from Vadami last night."
"Aye." Duran lifted an eyebrow. "Was he here?"
"No. Efdin saw 'im when he was at bakin' last night."
"He would." Efdin again. The baker, like himself, kept night hours.
"So what'd Vadami want of you?" Tutadar asked. Then his expression changed; he glanced over his shoulder and back, lowered his voice. "Wasn't anything t'do with Zeldezia tellin' 'im about the Sabirn kid?"
Duran frowned. "He warned me." He finished his fish and lifted his mug. "I don't think I've ever done anything that's caused more of a stir than this, Tut. And all because I helped a boy in trouble."
"Ithar told me he'd talked with you, an' you'd told 'im what really happened. Don't like Zeldezia much, myself. Always got her nose stuck somewhere it don't belong." Tut leaned back in his chair, turned his head at another rumble of thunder, then looked back. "She used to be soft on you, Duran, back when she first took over that shop. Thought you was really somethin'."
Duran nearly choked on his wine. "She what? Me? You've got to be joking, Tut."
"Ain't." Tutadar leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I knowed you near as long's Ithar knowed you. 'Member when she bought that shop, near seventeen years back? She found out you were pure Ancar, an' thought you'd make a fine catch, her bein' a widow an' everythin'. You never paid much attention to her, and I think that took 'er down a notch or two."