"No. Not that I can remember. But I'm not in Old Town every hour of every day. I certainly could keep an eye on things—"
"That would be appreciated. But don't worry too much. We'll see if we can talk some sense into him. Meanwhile, keep up your watch. We'd like to know how he's doing." He smiled and spread his hands. "Unfortunately, we don't see much of him at court. It's probably very embarrassing for him to attend, poor as he is."
"Perhaps we ought to help him again," Ladirno suggested.
"Aye. Perhaps."
"I—" Vadami hesitated, cleared his throat. "I did—observe the shop last night—out of concern, you understand. Attempting to be sure I understood before I—approached anyone with this information—"
"Did you see him leave the premises?"
"No. But I did see—other traffic that night."
"Be more clear."
"I can't be. Two heavily cloaked men—I'm sure they were men—went into Duran's shop. They—went uptown. I followed them—as far as the palace gate."
"And?"
This was frightening. Vadami wished he had more understanding what he had seen. Wellhyrn's eyes frightened him. "They went inside. The guards evidently knew them. They passed without question."
"Anything distinctive about them?"
"One very tall. Broad-shouldered. Both in black cloaks, wrapped up to here—" A measure at his nose. He swallowed heavily, wondering if he was in some danger. He searched his recollection frantically for detail. "One—the small one—had blue boots. Blue with silver piping down the side. . . ."
That got a reaction: both alchemists went very attentive and stared at him.
"Sori?" Vadami asked.
"And?"
"That's all. That's all I saw."
"Interesting." Wellhyrn reached into his belt pouch and pulled out two gold midonahri. "Take this as your donation for the day. And don't worry about Duran. We'll talk with him."
"And you'd best be off for Old Town," Ladirno said. "Just—be as discreet as you have been. This is important."
Vadami reached out and took the coins, trembling. Hladyr bless, it was more than he usually saw in a month for all of Old Town.
He pursed the coins, stood, took up his cloak. Ladirno and Wellhyrn nodded him a courtesy. "Father," Ladirno said by way of parting, as if he were somebody.
"The blessings of Hladyr," he murmured, signing them both. "I'll remember you in my prayers."
As the priest walked off to the door, Ladirno met Wellhyrn's eyes, said in a hushed vice, "You know who that was."
Wellhyrn's voice was unsteady. "What in Dandro's hells was he wanting with Duran?"
Ladirno's face shone pale in the lamplight. "Let's get out of here." And out on the street, in the downpour: "The duke's heir!" Ladirno hissed. "Gods, man, what's going on?"
"Knowing Brovor, Duran could have been selling him a love potion."
"Don't joke!"
"But we'd better hope it wasn't anything more than a love potion."
"What do you mean by that?"
Wellhyrn looked him in the eye, water streaming down a face paler than its wont. "There's another possibility. What's Duran best known for?"
"He's an herbalist—a part-time alchemist."
"Think, man! The famous cure for the pox! What if—"
"O gods above and below!" Ladirno felt his heart lurch in his chest. "You don't think he—the heir—good gods, Brovor's negotiating for Mavid's daughter—the alliance with—"
"Why else would he be visiting someone like Duran? If you were the Duke's son and had the pox, would you call in the court doctor to treat you?"
"Of course not. I'd . . ." Ladirno rubbed his eyes. "Gods! If Duran is treating Brovor, and he cures him—"
Wellhyrn smiled nastily. "He's either rich, or dead—when Brovor's the duke."
"Hells!" Ladirno shook his head. "But this Sabirn connection!"
"Worrisome. Damned worrisome." Wellhyrn gnawed at a hangnail and Ladirno stared helplessly at his younger companion, wishing his mind worked with the same speed as Wellhyrn's. He felt certain Wellhyrn had other things in mind, dangerous things—
"I think," Ladirno said, cautiously feeling his way forward, "if we mentioned that Duran's tied in with the Sabirn to the prince himself—just happen to mention it—"
Wellhyrn shot him a furious scowl. "Why would we just happen to mention Duran? Don't be a fool! That's a way to get both our throats cut!"
"But—"
Wellhyrn's smile dazzled. "But the Duke! His Grace has the rains to contend with, he has the suspicion of Sabirn -necromancers—if he finds out an Ancar, the son of a pardoned traitor—is dealing with Sabirn—"
"Talk about dangerous! Good gods, Wellhyrn!"
"No, no, if we phrase this exactly right, stressing Duran's Ancar heritage, the Duke might take it personally—personally enough to take action—and uncover this conspiracy. . . ."
A cold chill ran up Ladirno's spine. "What kind of action, Wellhyrn. We're talking about Duran's head!"
"Exile. Exile's what his father got, exile's the most likely thing."
"But what about Brovor?"
"There is the other possibility, you know."
"What?"
"That the heir's in on it—the wizardry—the Sabirn—"
"God, no! Not Brovor."
"Wouldn't be the first son wanted his inheritance early. Say the Sabirn knew that impatience. Say the Sabirn found a way to Duran—who has away to the heir . . . you know what we're talking abut here?"
"Hladyr save—"
"We just talk with His Grace, we just quietly—quietly handle all this. Tell him a non-Guild alchemist is . . . friendly with the Sabirn. With all this anxiousness about the situation—the Duke will be concerned, the Duke will move. . . ."
"Gods, this is dangerous."
"Steady. Steady. It's also profitable. For us, you understand. When you play at these levels—you take risks. Brovor's one. But one thing we know—he's not working with the Sabirn. If he's being double-crossed—he'll come to us to sound us out—and we can position ourselves—"
"I don't like this!"
"Easy. Easy. Let's go back in, have something to eat, calm ourselves. Gods only know how long we'll wait at the palace, and I'll be damned if I'm both hungry and wet."
The wind rattled the expensive glass windows of the Great Hall, and the Duke—in tedious and sparsely attended audience—winced at the noise. Another day of storms had swept down on Targheiden . . . another day of weather that could sink a ship and lose all its cargo: more complaints. A minstrel played something soothing in one corner, and the courtiers stood or sat together in small groups, their conversations low enough so that nothing could be heard.
"Damn soggy bore," Hajun muttered to his wife, who sat a few paces away with her daughter and their ladies, all of whom were busy with needlepoint. He had not been in the best of moods all day, and it was a wonder she was even speaking to him after he had snarled at her over breakfast.
His two sons sat with a group of friends their own age, other lords' sons, brought to Targheiden to learn manners of the court. They laughed, told jokes, and diced together, the weather preventing their usual summertime entertainments of hawking, arms practice, and hunting. Brover had been much out on the town lately. Granted he had not stayed out late, and had not returned drunken as he had so many times in the past—such partying worried Hajun: that was the fight at breakfast. His wife dismissed it as the last fling of a young man on the verge of state marriage and true adulthood, counseled him to ignore the late-night outings.