"Gods," Duran murmured. "I'd sooner lie down with a spider!"
Tut laughed, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight. "Thought so. Me, too. Woman's got a tongue that'd cut stone. You should'a seen the looks she used to give you.—Ha! Maybe that's why she been so nasty to you. What she cain't have, she don't want nobody else havin' neither."
Duran shook his head and finished his drink. "Save us.—Could you get me another plate of fish and a mug of wine, Tut? The boy's probably starving by now."
"Sure." Tut waited as Duran set out four coppers for his meal and Kekoja's and swept them up in a practiced hand. "That kid healed by now?"
"Near back to normal as far as I can see."
"Good. Now, when he leaves, maybe things'll quiet down 'round here."
"Maybe." Duran watched Tut walk off toward the kitchen, and wondered.
The thunder still rolled. Ladirno sat in one of the chairs by the windows, and stared disconsolately at the downpour sheeting down the mullioned glass. Wellhyrn and he would have to wait at least another day to show the Duke their newest attempt at changing lesser metals into gold. Bad weather had always put the Duke in a foul mood; and now that Hajun had entered the shipping business, storms tended to worry him into depression.
So. Another day, then. Ladirno suspected Wellhyrn was equally disappointed at the turn of weather and the postponement of their demonstration. If there was anything Wellhyrn loved, it was being the center of attention. He probably lay buried beneath his covers in bed, cursing the bad luck—or the wizardry—that had brought another storm to Targheiden.
And since Wellhyrn would be foul company this morning, Ladirno either faced a lonely day in his rooms, or seeking company elsewhere—which meant going out in the downpour.
"Damned rain," Ladirno muttered. He left the depressing view and dressed, choosing dark colors for his hose and tunic that would not show the dampness—or the mud. He took down his cloak from a peg on the wall, blew out his lamp on the way out, and felt his way down the darkened hall.
Cheap landlord.
Ladirno's apartments were on the second floor of a building that housed a well-to-do merchant and several court functionaries. He wished he might have been able to buy the apartment on the first floor, but that place had been occupied for generations by the Farchendi, and—short of the entire family dying at once—they would never give up their rooms. All in all, Ladirno lived at a more than respectable address, only a few blocks from the palace and the Temple—and the damn skinflint Farchendi would not afford a nightlamp in the hall. . . .
The rain was falling in sheets when Ladirno opened the door onto the street. He considered where he might find company: two taverns sat within equal distance of his building, and his friends frequented both—both served good food. It was simply the direction of the wind that made up his mind; better to walk with the wind at one's back, and to hope the storm might lessen, than to face the driving rain.
Ladirno pulled the hood of his cloak up and dashed outside, ran down the street, hugging the building, protected somewhat by the wide overhangs of the upper stories. Water swept down in torrents: the cobblestones were treacherously slick, the gutters spilling well onto the walks. But Ladirno reached the doorway that led into "The Golden Shoe" with no incident, and shoved his way inside.
For a moment he stood at the entrance to the common room, dripping rainwater in puddles at his feet. His heart sank: not one acquaintance in the place: he should have guessed that the bad weather would have kept them indoors: the court functionaries would stay home later than normal given the Duke's mood in stormy weather—not for the first time, Ladirno wished he had a wife, a house of his own, and a gods-blessed cook to make his meals.
But he was well known in the "Shoe" and its ambiance was homey and warm. Sooner or later some crony would show up. Ladirno pulled the hood back from his cloak, unclasped it, and held it out to one of the serving-lads who stood close by.
"Breakfast, Sor Ladirno?" the fellow asked, holding the dripping garment at arm's length.
"No. I'm looking for company, not food. I will have a glass of wine. . . ."
Ladirno walked across the room: his shoes squished water between his toes as he walked.
Taking a chair at a table directly beneath a lamp, Ladirno leaned back and simply took to watching till the wine came—then he took a small book no larger than his hand from his belt pouch, opened it, and began to read.
All this, of course, was calculated to place him in the public eye. He had a reputation for being one of the ducal favorites, one of the alchemists who frequented court. Sitting as he did now beneath the lamp would show off his rich clothes, the gold chain he wore, and the fact he was always studying. Small matter that the book had nothing to do with alchemy . . . it looked impressive.
"Ladirno."
He glanced up: a prestigious senior colleague stood beside the table. "I didn't see you," Ladirno said, slipping his book back into his pouch. He hastily moved a chair. "Do sit down."
"I was in the back." Garvis gestured over his shoulder to the rear of the room. "I've already had my breakfast. I need to return to my laboratory."
"A few minutes won't hurt."
Garvis sat down. The waiter brought more wine; Ladirno paid twice the amount asked, letting the coins fall on the table with a flourish.
"So, Garvis," he said, turning to his companion. "What have you heard regarding the Sabirn plot?"
Garvis shrugged. "Not much more than you already know." He lowered his voice. "I'd say it's a genuine rumor though; the Duke's been set thoroughly on edge—"
"Have they found any other Sabirn who knows about the plot?"
"No. They've been staying out of sight. What with the bad weather, they know when it's best to stay hidden."
Ladirno nodded sagely, recollecting his discussion with Wellhyrn the day before—decided if Garvis saw some seriousness in the matter—
Mmmn. "You remember Duran, don't you?"
"That one!" Garvis drew in a breath. "Like his father. Stubborn. What's he to do with it?"
"Sabirn. He's searching for something. Sabirn alchemy."
"Sabirn alchemy! No such thing! They were sorcerers! Black sorcerers!"
Ladirno shrugged, not willing to seem—incorrect with this man.
"What have you heard?" Garvis asked.
"That he—has resentments against the court."
"The stiff-necked fool chooses Old Town. His father's -banishment—was ameliorated and his father left him sufficient, I hear, but Duran thumbed his nose at respectability, set up this shop—to 'pursue his father's studies.' So-named studies. The fabled notes."
"Do you honestly believe his father ever kept such notes?"
"I've heard he did a lot of experimentation . . . of what sorts no one knows." Garvis leaned forward, jabbed the table with a gaunt finger. "A few of those experiments went wrong. That's why the Old Duke banished him."
Ladirno's eyes widened. "Dark sorcery?"
"I'll lay odds—mark me, those notes had Duran's 'discovery' of the cure for the pox. He's nothing!" Garvis exhaled a heavy, wine-laden breath. "Sabirn, is it?"
"So the rumor goes. Digging in the hills. Going off with Sabirn hired help. For days."
"Looking for herbs."
"So they say."
"Being a fool, he'd immediately give all the knowledge away."
"A dangerous fool," Ladirno murmured.
"Dangerous indeed," Garvis said, looking to the front of the tavern. "The rain's slacked. I've a meeting. See me about this."