"No, Your Grace."
"Never?"
"Never, Your Grace."
The Duke drew a deep breath. "On your honor as an Ancar, you can assure me of this?"
"Aye, Your Grace. I do. I have no such dealings. Nor know of any."
The Duke leaned back in his high seat, rested his chin on his fist in silence. Duran shifted his weight, glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, in the direction the Duke himself was looking.
"Your Grace," Duran said softly.
"Aye?"
"Do I have the chance to know who has accused me?"
The Duke straightened in his chair. "Aye. You're Ancar. It's your right." He turned and gestured. "Ladirno. Wellhyrn. Attend me."
Duran's heart lurched. Why? Why had those two accused him of such idiocy? They knew him better than that. What in Dandro's hells did they think to prove?
The two alchemists stepped close to the high seat and bowed, neither of them meeting Duran's eyes.
"These are your accusers, Duran," the Duke said. "Would you question them?"
Duran smiled suddenly, recognizing one of the pivotal points of Ancar law. At a trial before his lord, the Ancar accused was not assumed guilty until it had been proved beyond a doubt—and as accused, he could question whoever had brought him before his lord's justice. He wondered if Wellhyrn and Ladirno—Torhyn themselves—were familiar enough with Ancar legalistic principles to know the old law, the rights of Ancar with Ancar lord. . . .
He turned toward his two colleagues of the Profession, folded his arms, and smiled at the sudden confusion on their faces.
"What gives you the right to accuse me?" he asked—not the accent of Old Town, not Duran the apothecary—not at all.
Ladirno glanced sidelong at Wellhyrn, a flush reddening his face.
"By report, Sor Duran," Wellhyrn said in his most urbane tones. "We've had reports about you that lead us to believe you're involved in the use of the dark arts—with utmost concern for your soul. . . ."
"A report. In other words, you have no personal proof of this. It's hearsay."
"Our source is impeccable."
"Who?"
"Your priest. Vadami."
"Vadami." Duran felt a tide of anger welling up inside: Vadami, aye, but urged on by Zeldezia, he had no doubt. He said, coldly, deliberately: "And by what right does Vadami, a Torhyn, accuse me?"
"By virtue of your continued association with the Sabirn. He's warned you, has he not, that dealing with the Sabirn is dangerous, that it puts your soul in peril? Yet you have ignored him, haven't you, and continued to deal with the Sabirn?"
Duran turned toward Duke Hajun. "My lord, what Wellhyrn says is true—up to a point. The priest Vadami did warn me to see less of the Sabirn."
"And did you follow his advice?" the Duke asked.
"No, Your Grace."
"Why not?"
"Because he couldn't prove to my satisfaction that the Sabirn were evil. All he could do was repeat the same, well-worn suspicions people hold concerning the Sabirn; and we do not, not, my lord duke, desert loyal servitors on simple hearsay."
"You've had dealings with the Sabirn for years now, haven't you?"
"Aye, Your Grace. And not once have I personally seen behavior that in the least indicated an interest in, or use of, the dark arts."
"Hladyr as your witness?"
"Hladyr as my witness, Your Grace. I will not lie, in any cause."
The Duke nodded slightly, then gestured one of the court priests forward. "Take note of this. Duran Ancahar, once Duran vro Ancahar, has sworn in Hladyr's name. As an Ancar, he has taken the oath against his soul."
The priest seemed only mildly interested, though Duran suspected otherwise. "It is so noted, Your Grace."
"Very well." The Duke turned back to Duran. "Your accusers also maintain that you habitually entertain the old man who frequents 'The Swimming Cat.' That you frequently take notes on this person's utterances. Tell me why."
Duran shot a glance at the two alchemists. "Someone must have nearly drowned himself to see that, Your Grace. I had no idea my humble life was interesting enough to draw an audience in a storm."
A low murmur of laughter ran through the crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. Both Wellhyrn and Ladirno frowned and drew themselves up straighter.
"As for taking notes, absolutely I do, Your Grace. For years, I've collected Sabirn legends and tales—a purely scholarly interest. They ruled a great empire. My hope is that, in some of their legends and stories, they've left behind truths that could help us in modern times."
"In what manner?" the Duke asked, a spark of genuine interest lighting his face.
"As Your Grace already knows, I deal in medicines. I dispense what help I can to poor folk in Old Town. It's been my hope to discover forgotten medicines in the Sabirn legends—medicines to ease suffering, medicines to equal what must have been in the old Empire."
For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The Duke leaned forward in his chair.
"But could we trust such medicines? The Sabirn are known to be demon worshippers, Duran. Necromancers! How can you deal with devils and do good?"
"To my observation, Your Grace, and on my honor, I have never seen, nor heard of, any Sabirn working the dark arts. The Sabirn I know are far too busy surviving, to be using the amount of time necessary to perform such draining tasks; and I would reject anything that came from such sources."
"And how do you know dark sorcery would take such a great amount of time," asked Wellhyrn, a sly look on his face, "unless you've been involved in it?"
"Would you like to inform His Grace how long it takes for an alchemist to perform some of our simpler tasks? Or is it effortless? A snap of the fingers, perhaps?"
Wellhyrn dropped his eyes. "His Grace is already aware that we work very hard to produce what we give him."
"Then if you're working with nature and find things arduous and time-consuming, doesn't it make sense than any actions taken contrary to nature would be much harder?"
No one spoke. The Duke motioned one of his wizards -forward.
"Jorrino. Is what Duran said true?"
The wizard bowed slightly. "He makes an uneducated guess, Your Grace, but—naively close to the truth."
"But—" Wellhyrn said.
"Wellhyrn," the Duke said, his voice gone very cold. "You've not been asked to speak."
Wellhyrn subsided, his face gone white with shame.
"All of which is getting us nowhere," the Duke said, leaning back in his high seat. "Wellhyrn, Ladirno. You told me you fear Duran may be involved in the dark arts. The key words here are 'may be.' You've no proof beyond hearsay. Is this true or false?"
"To our own concern, Your Grace—" Ladirno said. Wellhyrn seemed to have lost the faculty of speech.
"The priest Vadami has spoken to Duran about consorting with the Sabirn, and Duran has—for his own reasons, reiterated here—refused to comply. This is the central substance of your accusations. True or false?"
"True, Your Grace.—But—"
"None of you has proven that Duran is guilty of anything more than speaking with the Sabirn, and that in the course of master to servant. True or false?"
"On the surface, true, Your Grace, but his writing—"
The Duke turned to his wizard and his priest. "I find no guilt in this man, either of performing the dark arts, or of lying. Do you concur?"
"We find no cause, Your Grace," the priest said. "We have ways of seeing such things. He's telling the truth as he sees it."
The wizard nodded. "I don't sense he has ever dabbled in the dark arts, Your Grace, and we wizards have ways of seeing that, too."
Duran let loose his pent-up breath, his eyes fixed on the Duke's face.