"I'm a damn sight cheaper than anyone else you could find."
"I thought you wanted to be out of here."
"That don't mean I never want to see you again. I like you."
Duran looked at the boy, found an unexpected longing in his heart. The house had not been so quiet these last few days; there had been a bright, quick wit to deal with—there had been someone . . . waiting for him at home. . . .
Besides which—the boy in the open was no threat to the neighborhood, the boy would quickly be like his grandfather, just a Sabirn who worked for someone . . . a Sabirn who had a place and a reason to be on the streets . . . for the boy's own sake, as much as his . . .
"Let's deal," he said to Kekoja. "What I can pay you is this: if I make a profit for a day from your running my medicines, I'll give you a third of it. Does that sound fair?"
Kekoja thought for a moment. "Aye. And if you don't make a profit, we both suffer. I'll work hard."
Duran drew a deep breath. Gods! Could this actually be happening to me? "You know Old Town at all?"
"Aye."
"Well enough to make deliveries and pick up orders at places you've never been before?"
"You tell me how to get there an' I'll do it."
"What about those thugs? What if you run into them?"
Kekoja stiffened; Duran could see the visible effort it took the boy to relax. "I'm not afraid. Was damn stupid of me to get caught like that in the first place."
"Remember, you'll be carrying money. Not a lot of it, but money that will pay me and you. Do you think you can skin out of a fight?"
"If I have to, I have to." Kekoja's shoulders squared. "When I'm on the job, I work for you, Duran. When I'm off the job, you don't hold anythin' over me."
Duran nodded slowly. "That sounds like a fair exchange. But if you aren't staying here—where will you be staying?"
He hoped Kekoja would say—I'd rather stay here. But Kekoja glanced away. "I got places," Kekoja said. "Don't worry 'bout me, Duran. I lived on the street 'fore you found me in that alleyway."
The house would be empty again. So. One settled for half, if there was no hope of the whole. "I can't help but worry, but I won't ask you where those places are. But if I need you—if I do have to find you, what should I do?"
"Ask my grandfather. He'll know where I am."
"I'll also want to tell your grandfather what we've agreed to," Duran said. "I think he should know, don't you? I think he should agree."
"Aye."
Duran stood and faced the Sabirn boy. "Then let's strike our bargain, you and I."
Kekoja held out a hand and Duran placed both his around it.
"Hladyr witness: I promise to abide by my word, to give you a third of the profits you make for me in return for your services as my runner."
"Gods of my people witness: I promise to work hard for you."
Duran grinned widely and pressed Kekoja's hand. "Done, boy! We're in business together now."
"When you want me to start?"
"Tomorrow. This afternoon, I'll tell you where my customers live, I've got medicines to mix. You'll help me."
"Will you teach me herbs?"
"Aye, if you've a mind to learn it." Duran walked over to the bed and put Kekoja's plate and empty mug into the basket. "I've got to open my shop. Someone might need something. Will you be all right up here?"
Kekoja sat down on the bed and lifted a book. "I can always look at the pictures," he said with a lopsided grin.
Duran smiled, picked up the basket, and went downstairs, where Dog was waiting to be let out. The rain was still falling heavily when Duran opened the door.
Duran leaned up against the opened door and stared at the rain-hazed street.
Now that he had done it—now that he had actually hired Kekoja—a chill of misgiving knotted in his gut. He hoped he understood his neighbors. He most sincerely hoped that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Duran!"
Duran looked up from the alembic he was heating: Kekoja stood before the counter, soaked to the skin, a growing puddle spreading beneath him on the floor.
"I've got orders, Duran! People actually gave me orders!"
Duran set aside his book and smiled widely—so a little talk up and down the neighborhood had worked, his customers did have faith in him—
"Anyone seriously ill?"
"No."
"Good." Duran remembered the alembic, picked the head up in thick rags, poured out his decoction from the cucurbit, wrinkling his nose. "Who ordered what? You remember them all, I hope?"
"Aye." Kekoja closed his eyes and cocked his head. "Young Filland's teeth are bothering him again. Says he needs what you usually give him."
"That would be watercress," Duran said, taking a jar from the shelves behind him. "Who else?'
"Sora Mitti's son's got a toothache. She says it hurts him real bad."
"All right. What she needs is clove seeds." Duran got out another jar. "And she'd better have him to Heimid, get that seen to. Are you paying attention to what I'm giving them? You said you wanted to learn herbs."
"Aye, I'm listening. Cardilla says you know what you give her."
Another jar came off the shelves. "Hemp tea for Cardilla."
"And Mother Garan's headache's back."
"Poor woman." Duran shook his head. "Willow tea for headache. Any more?"
"No. That's all." Kekoja's dark eyes looked suddenly worried. "But it's a start, isn't it?"
"It certainly is. You did marvelously. You have an honest face. Now pay attention to how much I'm giving to each of these people." Duran started making heavy paper packets into which he inserted the various remedies. As he worked, he briefly named off the dosages and how to figure, while Kekoja watched every move. "You are a help," Duran said. "None of these folk would have come in today. They'd have suffered. Especially Mother Garan."
"Why don't you sell the old lady a big lot? She says she's got it all the time."
"Because—she only affords a bit. And I'll tell you a secret: I'd give it to her at cost—except she'd take too much, she'd take it all the time—and willow tea hurts the stomach if you take too much, too long: and she'd be worse off."
"She says she really hurts."
"If it doesn't clear up—if it gets worse—there are stronger things. You give them—if you have to. If there's nothing else can be done. And they'll ease the pain—but that's all they'll do."
"You mean she'll die. . . ."
"People do." He finished wrapping the last of the packets, and carefully placed them in the small waxed basket he used when gathering herbs. "Try to stay as dry as you can," he said, handing Kekoja the basket. "And take your time. Don't slip on the cobblestones."
Kekoja grinned. "If I do, I know a good 'pothecary to treat me." He drew his cloak over the basket held tight under one arm. "Don't worry, Duran. I won't get into trouble."
Duran watched the boy step back out into the rain and disappear down the street. Dog lay by the opened door, his tail thumping against the wall.
"Dog," Duran said, "if this works, I might see a comfortable living."
Dog whuffled once, and settled down for a nap, unconcerned whether Duran made a profit or not.