"I haven't heard any complaints from my customers," Duran pointed out, flinching at another loud boom of thunder overhead. "If they thought the boy was a devil worshipper, they wouldn't be letting him deliver their medicines."
"Any of 'em stopped by your shop to talk since he been takin' your physics to people?"
"No. But the weather's been too bad for most people to be out. I haven't seen more than six or seven people a day in my shop lately. Why should they walk in? It's convenient for them to have the stuff delivered, that's why I hired the kid, Tut, convenience!"
"What do the folk who have stopped by your shop think 'bout your boy?"
"They don't seem to mind."
"Huhn. Where's the boy now?"
"I told him I was going to sit a while after my meal. I don't know where he went. But he'll be there when I get back." He sat up straighter in his chair. "In fact, I'd probably better go. Not that I expect to have all kinds of people waiting at my door, but there's—"
The door to the inn opened. Duran lifted his head and Tutadar turned in his chair.
Two men stood at the edge of the common room. Lamplight glittered on their helms and mail; their bearded faces were expressionless, their eyes shadowed.
Tutadar rose quickly and went to greet them. Duran stared. The Duke's own Guard. Two of them. In Old Town. His chest tightened. Why, in Hladyr's name, had they come to Old Town and, more specifically, "The Swimming Cat"?
He shoved his mug to one side and watched the two men brush by Tutadar and come toward his table.
"Duran Ancahar?" one of the guards asked.
"I'm Duran," Duran said, amazed his voice was steady. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"The Duke requests your presence at court," the other guard said. "Sor."
Duran's mouth went dry. He glanced at Tutadar, but Tut seemed speechless. The other customers were watching with unveiled curiosity.
"I'll come," Duran said, standing and pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
The two guards turned, walked across the common room, and waited by the doorway. Duran took a deep breath, fastened his cloak, and followed.
"Please tell the boy I've gone to the palace," he said to Tutadar. "I shouldn't be long."
Tutadar nodded, his eyes gone very wide. "Hladyr bless, Duran," he said. "I'll watch your shop."
Duran nodded, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door where the Duke's Guard waited.
No sooner had Hajun sent two of his Guard to Old Town to bring Duran back he had regretted the decision. He glanced around the hall now, saw the two alchemists over by the edge of the room, deep in conversation with two of his courtiers. His wizards had retired to their side of the hall, and stood silent, watching everything that went on around them with hooded eyes.
Damn! he thought. It's like a battle. One side draws up their troops over here, and the other army deploys its lines over there. He disliked the image that had come to mind. During his reign, he had put more than a moderate effort into keeping factionalism at a minimum. The last thing he needed now was for there to be "war" between his alchemists, his wizards, and his priests.
With the chance of a wizard-war mixed in with it.
He remembered Duran, the Duran he had known as a very young child, the boy with whom his eldest son had studied, played, and learned rudimentary arms. Duran had never seemed anything but forthrightly honest, honest as his father—so much so that one had feared even then that honesty would not stand him well in the future. Politics was the air Hajun had breathed—even in those days; not that he liked it . . . Hajun had much rather return to the fabled past when a man's word was a man's word, and the fine shading of meaning did not overlay everything a man said.
But Duran's father, Hajun's friend, had been banished from court and had his title stripped from him, Hajun frankly had never understood why. The old duke had counseled his son, saying this is what a duke must do sometimes, even when he doesn't like what he's doing. . . .
By which Hajun had taken it that his friend had powerful enemies at court, and knew that placating those enemies had been more beneficial to the duchy at the time than protecting a longtime ally.
Politics stank.
And now Hajun was embroiled in his own politics, maneuverings which, in an odd way, mirrored those of his father—hoping his friend's son had not gotten himself involved in something—-irredeemable.
Dabble in the dark arts himself? Gods, no. Duran was like his father, a kindred soul of sorts, a throwback into the earlier days of Ancar rule, when a man proved himself, rather than talked himself into power. One could admire a soul like that. One had.
And here Hajun sat, about to look down from his high seat at the son of his friend, and make decisions he might not like, or even—personally—believe in.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Hladyr keep him from making hasty judgment, from letting himself be maneuvered into something, or argued out of justice—or into it—
He glanced at his wife, found her eyes on him, and grimaced. This was not going to be an entertaining afternoon.
Somewhere, in the depths of his heart, he prayed it would not be a tragic one, either.
Duran let the guards lead the way into the ducal palace, shaking the water from his cloak as he walked. He was dressed in his work clothes, threadbare but serviceable—hardly the attire he would have chosen to attend his duke.
But if the need for his presence at court was so demanding that guards had been sent to escort him, Hajun would have to take what he got.
The guards stopped outside a heavy wooden door, one of them rapping on it with a heavy fist. Duran's knees had started to tremble. He had no idea what was going to happen to him on the other side of that door, but had a notion what it was about.
His father's shade stood to one side, ghostly against the stucco wall. You are Ancar, his father's voice whispering in Duran's mind. Remember that. Whatever happens to you, remember your pride.
The doors opened. Duran followed the guards into the hall, keeping his pace even with theirs. Let no one say Duran Ancahar had been a coward—or flinched from a meeting with his duke.
And there, over to the far side of the room: Ladirno and Wellhyrn. Duran nearly broke stride when he saw them, their presence here throwing his thoughts into disarray.
Nor was Brovor present, and Duran thanked every god he knew he did not have to cope with that complication while he spoke to Brovor's father.
"Your Grace," one of the guards said, saluting with his fist on the center of his chest. "Before you stands Duran Ancahar, come with no delay from Old Town to do you honor."
Duke Hajun's eyes met Duran's, his fingers moved slightly, and the two guards stepped back in unison, then turned with a smart clash of metal and each took up a position slightly to the left of the high seat.
"Come forward, Duran," Hajun said, motioning to the foot of the dais.
Duran swallowed, stepped forward, and stopped, looking up into the Duke's expressionless face.
"I apologize for bringing you here on such short notice," Hajun said, and Duran heard only sincerity behind the words. "But you've been accused of certain things that must not go unanswered."
Perhaps he was expected to reply. Duran kept silent.
The Duke cleared his throat. "What do you know of the dark arts?"
"With regard to what, Your Grace?"
"Have you ever had anything to do with use of the dark arts?"