Before Hajun's duchy existed . . . prosperous, powerful . . . holding a place of importance in the Ancar realms that Hajun's cousin, the king, fully recognized: the king might hold control of the plains and the trade coming from them, but it was up to Hajun to keep that trade moving in and out of the kingdom of Ancas.
And now Hajun's chief wizard echoed rumor of a Sabirn rebellion, some alliance of powerful wizards.
Hajun gnawed his lip. "I want you to keep me advised on this, Jorrino. I want to hear everything you hear, is that understood?"
The wizard bowed. "I do, Your Grace."
"And, whatever it's worth, keep wishing this weather onto someone else. For our trade's sake."
"Aye, lord." The wizard bowed again and returned to his place.
"Sabirn?" a deep voice asked.
Hajun glanced sidelong at his eldest, Brovor—like looking at himself twenty years back: the same height, blond hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Like himself if only, Hajun thought, Brovor could find more use for his brain and less for his physical strength. The days when lords ruled by might of arms were fading; more often now, prosperity settled on the lord who was smart enough to use diplomacy to get what he wanted. The nurturing of trade, not the conduct of war, was the new business of princes. . . .
"Speaking of Sabirn," Brovor said, leaning toward Hajun. "Did you hear about the near riot in the slough?"
"Damned nasty. Several of the Guard knocked about."
"They got the bastard who started it," Brovor said, "and he was Sabirn. Nailed his butt to the wall, from what I heard."
Hajun lifted an eyebrow. "I thought it was a crowd out of hand, a crowd chasing down a thief."
"Ah, but the thief was Sabirn." Brovor poured himself another glass of wine, took a long drink, and belched. "We ought to burn all of them. Damned demon-worshippers!"
At which Saladar stared meaningfully at the ceiling, lost in thought. "Saladar," Hajun asked sharply of his youngest. "What's your opinion?"
"Regarding the Sabirn or the riot?" Saladar's smile did not touch his eyes. "I certainly don't agree with Brovor."
"And why not?" Brovor leaned on one brawny arm. "You never were much of a warrior, brother."
"Hush, Brovor," said the duchess. "Saladar's matched you in every feat of arms he's been set to."
"Fah!" Brovor took another gulp of his wine. "Book-reading. Scribbling."
"Saladar?" Hajun said, ignoring his eldest son's grumbling. "Why don't you agree with Brovor?"
"Slaughter the Sabirn? Who would we find to sweep the streets, then?" Saladar asked, smiling again. "Or collect the slops? I say, keep the Sabirn around. They have their uses."
Brovor made a rude noise. "I say kill them all. Let the commons sweep and slop. Then you won't have to worry about rumors. Or the dole." He reached for the pitcher of wine.
"Enough wine," Hajun said quietly, stopping his son's hand. "You don't want to trip over yourself when you leave the table."
Brovor's face went red. He took a deep breath, but subsided back into his chair.
"Tomorrow's your name-day feast." Hajun released his son's shoulder. "Surely you don't want to wake with a headache that will keep you from enjoying your festivities."
"No." Brovor's eyes wavered slightly. "But you won't mind, sire, if I celebrate tonight with my friends. . . ."
Hajun sighed, his eyes flicking down the tables at his eldest scion's company. Stories had filtered back to him of the parties Brovor had attended in the company of these young lords.
"I won't keep you from it," he said, as Brovor relaxed. "But in your cups, do possibly remember the ceremony at the temples starts not that long after midday. If nothing else, grant your future subjects the sight of a man fully in control of himself."
Brovor nodded, then grinned widely. "I won't disgrace you, Father, and I won't trip over my own feet. I promise."
"Let him have his night," Tajana said, a smile softening her face.
"I'll be back before the midnight bell, Father." Brovor grinned again. "Don't wait up for me."
"Ladirno, what do you think . . . about the Sabirn wizards?" Ladirno glanced sidelong at the alchemist who had spoken. "Do you believe it?" the other pressed him.
"I reserve my judgment." Ladirno met his colleagues eyes. The man who sat to his left was elegant as any lord in the Duke's hall, his black robes as rich, if more somber. "And you, Wellhyrn?"
Wellhyrn's lips curled. "Sabirn? Wizards with the power to bring down a kingdom. If malice could serve—"
"I wonder what our Sabirn-lover would say about this?" asked one of the younger alchemists.
Ladirno shrugged. "One has to guess what Duran's thinking. Years since he's been to court."
"Maybe there's a reason." Wellhyrn waved a languid hand. "If anyone might know what's going on with the Sabirn—"
"He hires them to go out into the country with him to gather herbs," said the other alchemist.
Another: "Maybe he's sleeping with them."
Wellhyrn snorted: "Herbs. Midwifery, next."
Ladirno said: "With his father banned from court—"
"Consorting with Sabirn. A man of the Profession should have standards—"
"What does he do?"
"Midwifery. He runs an apothecary." Ladirno reached for his wine-cup and drank. "He's been making his living that way for over thirty years. Lives in a garret. Looks twice his age. Deals for pennies. By now, it's probably the only thing he knows."
Wellhyrn leaned forward on the table, his arms crossed before him. His eyes glittered in the torchlight. "He'd have money, he'd have a good deal else if he weren't out to spite the Profession. He's got his father's books, the gods know what he's got. He deals for pennies, he hands it out free, hands physic to any beggar in the quarter. Free! Hands out his cures, tells them to midwives—the gods know who they poison, who knows what he hands out? Or think what would happen if he stumbled across some great alchemistic secret. Gods, he'd hand it out on the streets."
"A fool." The younger alchemist chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "And where would the Profession be, colleagues, if we all gave away our secrets?"
"Folk poisoning each other all over town. Burning the town down to melt metals. We're highly trained, my friends, the gods only know what this fellow is."
Ladirno said: "He doesn't experiment. As Wellhyrn said, the only thing he's interested in is medicine."
"Oh, aye . . . and look what he did with his great discovery." Wellhyrn toyed with one of the heavy gold rings that graced his right hand. "The fool discovers a cure for the sexual pox, and what does he do, but come to court and tells everyone. Now any quack doctor can treat the pox. Think of it! Duran could have made himself richer than all of us combined if he'd kept the cure to himself."
"Thank the gods he's a fool." The older alchemist scratched at his beard. "He could imperil all Targheiden if he does discover something big in alchemy. There's no sense of professional ethics in the man."
Ladirno shrugged. "Small danger. Right now he's so damned poor he's barely making ends meet."
The light in the hall brightened as the sun slid out from behind the clouds. Wellhyrn leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs out under the table.
"I'm off to the harbor," he said. I'm expecting a shipment. Come with me, Ladirno?"
Ladirno contemplated the long walk from the upper city to the wharfs. "Ah, why not. We've been cooped up long enough as it is with these damned storms."