Then Old Man spoke of the Empire itself.
Sabis was the capital of that empire, and the center of the once thriving trade that had made the Sabirn wealthy, drawing substances and goods from all around the Inner Sea. Sabirn ships, far more advanced than those of other nations, carried Sabirn trade into all the surrounding world, bringing back wonders from other countries—arts, slaves, furs and silk and spices. The Sabirn had boasted banks, a class of traders with power in the imperial court, and a beginning guild of artisans. In short the level of their civilization had rivaled what existed today—in everything but the blessings the Temple provided, the knowledge of Scriptures, the work of Hladyr's priests—
There had been other gods.
"And wizardry?" Duran asked, as Old Man paused for a moment, "You had your wizards, didn't you?"
"Ah, wizards. Aye, we had our wizards, as you have yours. Their methods didn't vary much from yours."
"No more powerful?"
"No more powerful."
Duran found himself vaguely disappointed.
"But there was other knowledge," Old Man said.
"Alchemy?" A chill went down Duran's back. His hand paused, waiting.
"Alchemists . . . who were wizards. Wizards who were alchemists. That gave them the power. . . ."
Duran swallowed. "Did you ever hear of any of them who could turn base metals into gold?"
Kekoja ducked his head to hide his expression, but Old Man disdained such subterfuge. He laughed quietly.
"No." His dark eyes glittered in the lamplight as he looked up at Duran. "Can you?"
"No," Duran admitted, shaking his head. "Not I. And no one I know can—" Thinking of Ladirno and Wellhyrn this evening—and their claim of gold. "—despite what they say." He could hang for what he admitted. The Guild would see to it. "They're simple tricks."
"What we did have in the twilight of our empire was a man named Sulun, who called himself a 'natural philosopher'—and who came close to developing a weapon to drive the invaders out of Sabir."
"A weapon—of wizardry?"
"Of natural force. Sulun and other like-minded folk survived the downfall of the Empire, and went off into the wilderness, taking all their knowledge with them." Old Man smiled slightly. "They were known as wizards, Duran . . . and some of them were. But wizardry only gave them luck. Their wits gave them what they made."
"Then they could have saved the Empire—"
"Aye. But when an empire is falling, even philosophers find themselves dealing with time and fools. There was no time. And there was an abundance of fools. So Sulun and his followers took with them a knowledge of medicine, of shipbuilding, of manufacturing . . . of all kinds of things. We remember. We do remember."
"But remembering—" For a moment Duran was conscious of himself as Ancar, tall, fair, blue-eyed—themselves as Sabirn, the dark, ancient folk—who might want their Empire back—
Or want revenge for it . . .
"Your barbaric ancestors crushed Sabis like an overripe fruit," Old Man said, and clenched an uplifted hand. Let it fall. "Say nothing, Sor Duran. You are not your ancestors. We are not ours. Sabis was ready to fall . . . hollow from the inside out. Kingdoms and empires age. They have their lifespans. They breed descendants. Your ancestors happened to be the instrument."
Duran felt the flush on his cheeks. "Nevertheless, the waste of it all—"
"Nothing is wasted—nothing lost."
He stirred on his stool. "You know the priest, Vadami? He told me there was once a great Sabirn wizard named Siyuh—Ziya? Who made fire leap from his hands. Is that a true story?"
Old Man's smile never wavered; only his eyes became hooded, shut off, remote from Duran's questions. "Perhaps that's a story I can tell you one day. But not tonight. I've talked longer than I should."
"What would you do," Kekoja asked suddenly, leaning against Old Mans knee, "if you knew what we knew in the days of our empire?"
"Me?" Duran blinked in the lamplight. "I've never really thought about it. I'd try to make better medicines first, I suppose. When I see people die and I can't help them . . ."
"And being an alchemist," Old Man said, "you're interested in changing base metals to gold. What would you do if you could?"
Duran studied Old Man for a long moment, trying to guess why he and Kekoja were asking such seemingly unrelated questions. "I'm not denying I'd like to have more money. Money can buy many things, Old Man, and it can help people if it's used right. But consider this: if I was interested only in making money, I'd be up in the Duke's palace with the rest of the alchemists."
Old Man frowned and ducked his head. "I must be going," Old Man said, then, reaching for his walking stick. "At my age, sleep is something I value."
Kekoja stood, drew Old Man's cloak up, and helped him to his feet. The suddenness of this departure puzzled Duran, but he left Old Man's secrets alone. He stepped down from his stool, set his paper and charcoal stick on the counter, and faced the two Sabirn. Should he tell them about the necromancer who had been hanged, and warn Kekoja to keep very quiet? No. Tomorrow. It was quite obvious Old Man and his grandson wished to leave.
"When you come to work tomorrow, remind me to tell you something," Duran said to Kekoja. "It's important, but it will keep."
"Aye."
Duran watched from his doorstep as Old Man and Kekoja walked across the street. Then, just as he started to turn away, he noticed two men standing in the shelter of the building across the alleyway. Dog joined him at the doorway, growled softly, and sniffed in the newcomers' direction.
"Old Man," one of the men called out softly. "It's us."
Brovor, returned with his companion for another treatment.
Aside from the one time Brovor had let Duran know he recognized him, no one had mentioned names again. Duran's estimation of the heir had gone up; the young lord had not missed one night of coming for his medicine, though it meant going out in the rain and visiting a section of town he otherwise might never have frequented. It must have been difficult for Brovor to get away from the palace every night. But fear was a great motivator, and if getting the pox kept Brovor away from the whores, the lad might have learned a lesson.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Gods-cursed storms!" Wellhyrn snarled, flinging his sodden cloak to the floor of Ladirno's apartment. His light brown hair was plastered to his forehead where the hood of his cloak had not kept the rain out. Damp spots marked his expensive jerkin, and his hose were dark to the knee above soaked glove-leather boots. "I don't think I've ever seen the like! Has anyone told you about the river? It's flooding the lower areas of the Slough."
"Bah!" Ladirno waved a hand. "It could flood the Slough right into the sea, and the world would be a better place for it. What in the gods' names brings you out on a day like this?"
Wellhyrn's green eyes caught the light from the grey, rain-spattered window. "News, Ladir. News we can possibly turn to our benefit. Do you have something to drink?"
"Aye." Ladirno walked over to the sideboard, poured himself and Wellhyrn a glass of wine, then extended one of the glasses to his guest. "What is it now? Gods, you pick up more gossip than anyone I know."
"Duran," Wellhyrn said, dropping down into a chair and sipping at his wine. "I was out early this morning, before the downpour. I stopped for breakfast at the 'Shoe,' and who should drop by but your new friend, Vadami."
"Vadami? My friend?" Ladirno snorted. "That fellow's nobody's friend but his own. Well, what about him?"