Tutadar blinked rapidly. "That's somethin', ain't it, when an Ancar noble says he been proud to know Old Town rats like us."
"This Ancar noble's one of those rats, too, courtesy of the old duke."
Thunder rumbled loudly. Duran and Tutadar both flinched.
"I confess," Tutadar muttered, "I don't trust these storms no more. They been gettin' real nasty.—An' I know you ain't goin' to agree, an' I know you're going to hate me for sayin' it, but I still think Sabirn're involved somehow."
"I can't seem to convince you, can I?"
Tut shook his head. "Now, I will admit they ain't all bad. I never did mind Old Man. An' that kid who been workin' for you, he never been nothin' but polite to me. But that don't take into consideration the rest of 'em. I can't. I can't like 'em, I can't deal with 'em. . . ."
"I wish I could make you understand," Duran said. "I hope someday you'll find a reason to believe that because a man's different doesn't make him a bad fellow—just different."
"They're too different. They're spooky."
Duran smiled and took another sip of his ale. "Enough of this gloomy talk. I don't' want to go home with a bad taste in my mouth. I like you too much, Tut."
Thunder rumbled again. "Sounds like you're going to go home with rain on your head. 'Less you want to stay 'round here."
"I'm afraid not." Duran sighed, gulped down the rest of his ale. "I think I'll be going to bed early tonight."
"Probably not a bad idea." The innkeeper shoved his chair back from the table and stood. "You take care of yourself, hear? An' don't you go givin' me any money for your fish. The meal's on me."
The sound of a rock thrown against the shutter of his apartment woke Duran from a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and stood. Fully dressed, he walked through the darkness to the back window, and threw open the shutters.
It was raining again—which actually reassured him, for no one in his right mind would be out on the streets in this downpour.
"Hsst! Duran!"
Kekoja's voice. Duran could make out the Sabirn lad standing directly below the window, along with another man. Duran waved, and felt his way back across the room, while rain blew in on the gusts.
The last few small items were packed—everything in four remaining baskets. He lifted one, grunting slightly under its weight: the last of his books and writings, this one. Walking back to the opened window, he carefully balanced the basket on the sill, tying the rope about it for a sling.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head, hand held over his eyes to shield off the rain. "Heavy!"
Kekoja waved and Duran eased the basket out of the window, bracing himself against the wall below it with his knees and feet. Gently as he could, he lowered the basket into Kekoja's hands, then watched Kekoja untie the long rope. The other man took up the basket on his shoulder and trotted off into the darkness and falling rain.
Duran hauled up the rope, returned to his baskets, and readied the next to be lowered—a lighter one: it contained all his clothes, his blankets, and what linen he possessed. He lowered the basket out of the window, Kekoja untied it, shouldered it and with a wave, disappeared around the corner into the deserted street. It would be some time before the two Sabirn returned, so Duran dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in the water-laden draft, and stared off into the darkness. Lightning flashed overhead, subdued, and the thunder that followed, a gentle rumble. Thank Hladyr. Conditions could not have been better for the task at hand. Maybe something was going right. Maybe the gods did not disapprove what he was doing.
They showed no lights: the bedroom was dark. Even so, he saw the long, narrow room in his mind's eye as if the sun were shining. It was his last night here. The last time he would sleep in his own bed. The last time he would listen to the homely creaks and groans of the building—his home, his shop—
A wave of sadness filled his heart. If only things had turned out differently. If only his neighbors could see that the Sabirn were little different than themselves.
If only. If only Hladyr could come down from heaven and walk among men again: it would take a miracle of the same magnitude to turn the hearts of his neighbors.
He heard the scuff of steps on wet cobble. He stood, looked out to see Kekoja and his companion returned from whatever hole they had nearby. He prepared the next basket, his alchemist's tools, mainly vials and beakers.
"Fragile!" he whispered down. "Glass!"
Kekoja received the basket: his partner took it. The last, then. Duran hauled the rope up, tied it to the last basket—and this was the hardest to see go—this contained his father's weapons, the sword, the daggers, all had been passed down from father to son for generations of Ancahar noblemen. Heirlooms of the heart—his mother's carefully wrapped jewelry: he had never sold them—no matter how desperate things became.
Maybe things would have been different if he had. With those jewels, he could have bought a far better shop and not lived so near to the edge of poverty.
Maybe.
The sword, the jewels, his father's notes—all that was -irreplaceable.
"Hssst!" He saw Kekoja lift his head. "You sleep on this one, hear? Take care of it."
Kekoja lifted his hands, received the basket—and the rope, this time.
Duran stood in the window after they had gone—realizing suddenly he was standing in a house bereft of everything he owned . . . everything that was valuable to him. All of it carried away to gods know what destination in the hands of the Sabirn. And he had to trust them. He had no choice. He was empty-handed now. They had everything.
Name-brothers, Old Man had said. Old Man had talked about trust. About friendship. But so had Tut. So had his neighbors—once.
He sighed and drew the shutters. There. It was done. He could not turn back now; he had committed himself to the most unsettling future he had ever chosen in his life.
"Oh, gods!" He rested his eyes against his hand in the dark, shook his head. Brovor. Brovor would have to seek another doctor to treat his pox. He had to do that. He had only a few treatments left, but it was vitally important he receive them. Brovor had to understand that—and he dared not, dared not send any message to him.
There was Mother Garan. Who would help her? Thunder rumbled distantly. The rain poured down outside the window, the sound of it hitting the roofs and pavement, unnatural, malevolently persistent.
At least Kekoja had gotten the baskets away. Duran thanked the gods for this one small favor.
And prayed for Brovor's good sense, and an old woman's comfort.
At this late hour, in this downpour, the few souls on the streets walked briskly to their destinations. A fool would be standing here in the rain: but Ladirno did—in the shadows of the alley across the street from Wellhyrn's rooms. He could not sleep. His instincts, his curiosity, had finally driven him out at this ungodly time of night to take up this watch—
All because of the threat Wellhyrn had made.
Ladirno had no idea what Wellhyrn proposed to do to Duran, but if it was against the law, he wanted to know. He had suspected Wellhyrn in the past of shady dealings he had never been able to prove—but in this, for various reasons—
This time if Wellhyrn was being a fool, he fully meant to disassociate himself—leave Wellhyrn to twist in the wind, if that was the case.
He froze, leaned closer against the walclass="underline" a man approached Wellhyrn's building, obviously taking his time and appearing slightly drunk. Ladirno glanced up at the doorway, and saw Wellhyrn step outside. Head bowed, a purposeful gait to his walk, Wellhyrn left the doorway and stepped directly into the other man's path. The two of them collided, and the drunk staggered, nearly knocked from his feet. Ladirno held his breath, hoping to hear something . . . anything.