"Absolutely."
Garvis pushed back his chair, stood, and left the common room. Ladirno sipped at his wine. He was beginning to sound like Wellhyrn, talking about shadowy plots and Duran's possible connection with them. But connections with Garvis, Garvis whose favor with the Duke was—very sure . . .
Ladirno had never considered the Sabirn more than a nuisance; he discounted tales of their powers, their abilities to foretell the future and cast curses. Certainly they must have wizards: everyone had wizards, but—
Still. There was the unseasonable, the most unreasonable weather—
The rain slacked: other patrons began to filter in, rain-soaked. Ladirno took a long drink of his wine thinking of ducal favor . . . of funds that had nothing to do with Wellhyrn's inventions—of an apartment with well-tended lamps in the hallway—
He looked up from his glass. The priest Vadami passed his table, his grey robes dark with rain.
"Vadami," he said.
This priest he knew from his connections. This priest dealt with Old Town—
If anyone would know the gossip—
"Join me, Father?"
The priest looked mildly puzzled, drew out a chair, and sat down.
"May I buy you a glass of wine then?" Ladirno offered. At Vadami's nod, he lifted his glass, caught the waiter's eye, and held up his other hand with one finger extended.
"Thank you, Sor Ladirno." The priest kept silent until the waiter had brought the wine to the table, taken Ladirno's coins, and left. "You're very kind."
"Its nothing."
Vadami drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed. "Warms the insides, doesn't it? Excellent."
"It is that." Ladirno leaned back in his chair and studied Vadami. "Your district is Old Town, isn't it? You know 'The Swimming Cat'?"
"Aye."
"Do you know a man named Duran?"
Vadami's cup hesitated on the way to his mouth. "Aye."
Ladirno swirled the wine around in his glass. "One wonders—we've fallen—out of touch. I worry about him, being poor as he is. I'd like to help him."
"You may worry about his being poor, Sor Ladirno, but I worry more about his soul."
"In what regard?"
The priest frowned, a very troubled look passing over his face.
"Ah." Ladirno's heart lurched, but he kept his face only concerned. "Is he—in some difficulty?"
"His associations. With the Sabirn."
"He's always been friendly to the Sabirn. We twit him about it—his friends do."
"Are his friends aware—he has one living in his house."
Ladirno's eyes narrowed. "Really? How odd. A man or a woman?"
"A boy." Vadami's face colored. "I've warned him. I told him I was afraid for his soul. He quoted me scripture."
"Scripture?" Gods above and below! If Duran had a Sabirn living with him—
Was Wellhyrn onto something? Could this boy be involved with the plot? What if Duran—was dealing with—some ancient knowledge?
"Overmuch learning," the priest was saying, his voice pitched to quiet complaining, "can lead a man to pride, master alchemist."
Ladirno smoothed down his moustaches, hardly hearing a word the priest said on dogma. Damn! Interesting in the extreme—
The storm had decreased from a downpour to a steady rain. Gusts of wind still blew in off the harbor, several tiles from a roof near the "Cat" lay scattered and broken on the cobblestones.
"Hladyr bless," Duran murmured, glancing up at the dark sky. He tucked the basket containing Kekoja's breakfast under one arm and quickly crossed the street, hopping across its flooded edges. He made his front door, took out his keys, and let himself into the shop.
Dog got up, stood in the doorway, and inspected the lessened storm with canine disdain. Duran set the basket down on his counter. "Make up your mind, fellow," Duran said. "Inside or out. I want to go upstairs."
Dog wagged his tail, evidently decided another foray into the puddles was not worth it, and curled up in front of the counter.
Duran closed and locked the front door, and took breakfast upstairs.
Kekoja was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had lit the lamp, opened the shutters, and sat with a book open on the table.
"Breakfast," Duran said, leaving the stairs and crossing the room to Kekoja's side. "You're probably starving by now, aren't you?"
"No." Kekoja set the book aside and dug into the fish and bread. "You see my grandfather?"
"He says he'll come over and watch you walk soon as the rain stops."
"Way it's still raining, that'll be five days from now." He sipped the watered wine. "Thought the windows'd blow in."
"I know. If it happens again when I'm gone, close the shutters on the outside. Reach out and pull them." Duran walked over to his desk, sat down, and opened his belt pouch. He took from under the desk lid a small purse where he kept the shop money and spread the coins out on his desk. Twenty-one coppers. He opened a battered notebook, unstopped his inkwell, dipped his pen.
"Doin' your accounts?" Kekoja asked from across the room.
"Aye. And I didn't do too bad yesterday. Made a profit."
Kekoja took a drink of wine. "You as kind to all your customers as you been to me?"
Duran smiled. "I try to be. My job's different than most people's. I see folk at their worst . . . when they're sick. It never hurts to be kind to people who don't feel well."
"Grandfather says you're the only thing close to a doctor this part of Old Town ever sees. You could get more'n coppers."
"Maybe so." Duran wrote down the total of yesterday's take, returned the coins in their purse to his belt pouch, and capped the ink. "But Hladyr knows how much each item I sell costs me. I have to live with myself, lad, and overcharging people makes me angry. I take just enough to make a profit some days."
"Today'll hurt you, won't it?"
"Aye."
Kekoja stood up and walked to Duran's side, winecup in hand. "I could help you," he said, "if you'd trust me with your numbers. I've got a good head for doing sums."
Duran leaned back in his chair and looked up at the Sabirn boy's face. "Who taught you numbers, Kekoja? Old Man?"
"Aye."
"Five plus six, plus twelve, minus eight, plus two equals what?"
"Seventeen."
Duran lifted an eyebrow. "You are fast.—But you know what I could use more than someone helping me with my books? A runner."
"A runner?" Kekoja cocked his head. "For what?"
"I'm tied down to my shop all the time it's opened. If I had someone to take medicines to people too sick to come see me, or someone who would brave weather like today to go around to people's houses and take orders—this summer, that could mean something."
He watched the Sabirn boy think that through.
"Mother Garan, for example," Duran said. "She's old and she has a lot of headaches. I give her willow tea for them and that makes her feel better. But she can't get in if it's raining like it's been today. Do you see?"
"Aye," Kekoja answered, nodding his head. His eyes met Duran's. "But you couldn't pay much, could you?"
"No." Duran smiled. "That's why I'll probably never have a runner. No one would work that cheap."
"What'd people say if you had a Sabirn runner?'
Duran looked at him steadily. "People might get used to it. People might get used to the idea you're here. People might use their heads, instead of their mouths—maybe decide this isn't some great secret. It's secrets people are really afraid of—"
"I'll do it," Kekoja said. "I'll be your runner."
Duran frowned, shook his head. Help the sort the boy offered—that was always out of reach for him. And even for a good reason, with the best of thought behind it—he could not, he told himself, expect a fourteen-year-old Sabirn to take on the burden of community distrust. "There's some actual physical danger, the toughs that gave you trouble, for one. And people are bound to—say things, especially at first. Besides which, I can't pay much."