But children got sick, old folk took spells: an apothecary did have night calls, and they were generally the bad ones.
Duran opened the peephole, discovered two cloaked men on his doorstep, hoods drawn up so he could not see their faces in the lamplight. "What's the matter?" he called out. "Who is it?"
"Business," one said. The accent was uptown. "Discreet business, dammit, open."
One made the best judgment one could of such visitors. Duran carefully unlocked the door, pulled it open. Dog stood to one side, fur raised along his spine, growling deep in his throat.
"Call off your cur," one of the men said: the voice was young, cultured, and arrogant. The other said: "We won't hurt you."
Duran lifted the lamp higher, but the hoods still shadowed the faces. "Dog, . . . back off, that's a good fellow. Go on now. Go lie down."
Dog growled again, retreated to the center of the shop. Duran stepped back and gestured the two men inside. "How may I help you?" he asked, setting the lamp down on the counter.
"We hear you have the cure for the pox."
So, Duran thought, two highborn, most likely. Highborn with highborn liaisons. No wonder they had come to his shop in the dark of night, cloaked to protect their anonymity.
"Aye," he said, closing the door. "I have the cure. Which of you has the pox?"
A pause. Then the taller of the two tapped his chest.
"So," Duran said. "Please bear with me. I must ask you certain questions, and I'm afraid they'll be rather personal. Be assured, Sor . . . I mean no disrespect."
"Ask," he said gruffly.
Duran sighed quietly and lit the hanging lamp above the counter. "How are you certain you have the disease?"
"I . . . I visited a whore," the fellow said, sounding frightened and belligerent at the same time. "Two tendays ago. Today I noticed a sore."
"Where?"
The tall man gestured briefly at his crotch.
"Is it weeping?"
"Aye. Somewhat."
"Have you visited this whore before?"
"No."
"Do you know anyone else who has?"
"No." The man folded his arms. "Listen, fellow, are you going to cure me or talk to me all night?"
Duran ducked his head, a small bow. "Please don't be upset. The questions are to help you."
The tall man's companion set a hand on the fellows arm. "Easy, m'lord. I know this man's reputation. Trust him. He's the one who discovered the cure."
Lord, was it? Duran tried again to get a glimpse of the man's face, but failed.
For a long moment, the tall man stood with face downcast, then moved his shoulders slightly in an attempt to relax. "This man looks familiar," he said at last, looking up at his comrade: one could see a young squarish chin.
Duran tried to place his voice, but could not. "Perhaps you've seen me in the market."
"Hardly." The chin jutted. "I don't frequent such places."
"Ah, well." Duran spread his hands and omitted to mention the young man's consorting with whores. "Perhaps somewhere else, then. But that's no matter. You want to be cured of the pox, and with this disease time is of the essence. You said you visited the whore some twenty days ago. Have you noticed any swelling since then?"
The young lord nodded briefly. "Some."
"Around your groin area?"
A pause. "Aye."
"Anywhere else?"
"No.—It's only a slight swelling."
"Does your sore hurt?"
"No." The chin went squarer and squarer.
Duran thought a moment. The disease had obviously not advanced beyond its first stages, much easier then to effect a cure. "I'll treat you," he said, looking up slightly into the man's hidden face, "but you'll have to agree to return for further treatment. This is very important. You must return each time for a new application of the paste. Do you understand?"
"Why?" The belligerence entered the young lord's voice again. "Why can't you give me enough of this paste of yours to treat the pox myself?"
"Because it will kill you if it's misused."
"Gods! What kind of medicine is this?"
Duran kept his voice very level. "This is a particularly virulent disease. It calls for a cure equally strong. I can't agree to treat you unless you return to me for subsequent applications: omitting that, we'd as well not begin."
"He not lying, lord," the tall man's companion said. "I've heard what he says about this treatment before. Remember Khaldori . . . his doctor told him the same thing. Trust him, m'lord. We can find excuse to get back, your father won't find out."
Khaldori? Duran blinked, but kept all expression from his face. Old Lord Khaldori, Duran knew all too well from his early days at court: he had heard sniggering rumor that Lord Khaldori's son had picked up the pox not a year past.
And his visitors spoke so casually of a member of the Khaldori family.
"All right." The tall man sighed quietly. "I've no choice, and I'm told you're the discoverer of this cure. Get on with it then, man. I'll pay you."
Duran dipped his head in a small bow. "I have no doubt. But I do want to impress on you certain things: you realize you're highly contagious now, don't you?"
The young lord glanced sidelong at his companion. "So others have led me to believe." He swallowed heavily, and a note of fear entered his voice.
"And that this is extremely serious. Consequences—"
"I haven't waited too long, have I?"
"No, I don't think so. But don't be tricked by the pox. It can seem very mild at first. Untreated, it can kill you surely as any sword or spear. Not mentioning—"
"I'm ready. Do you want me to remain standing?"
"It would be easier to treat you that way." Duran walked around his counter to the shelves that ran up the wall. He pulled the stool over to one side, and climbed it. The lamplight cast his shadow against the shelves, but he knew exactly what he was hunting for.
"This won't hurt, will it?" asked the young lord.
Duran picked up his sealed jar of mercury paste and carefully descended the stool. "No," he said turning to face the tall man. "Not excessively."
The other fellow had stepped back into a darkened corner to give his companion some privacy. Duran set the jar down on the counter and slowly opened the lid, while the young man wrapped a scarf the more closely about his lower face.
"Don't worry," he said quietly, taking a thin paper wand from the shelf behind him. He dipped the end of the wand in the paste: he saw eyes beneath the hood, dark and anxious. "I've cured far worse cases than yours."
The two young lords left as heavily cloaked as they had arrived. Duran watched them go, standing in his doorway, Dog sitting vigilant at his side. The light from the torches outside "The Swimming Cat" dimly lit the two figures walking away down the street. Duran turned to go inside, then halted. Snatches of what the two men said as they walked away came to him on the breeze.
" . . . my father would kill me if . . ."
"Don't worry." This from the shorter man.
The other young noble had said something, only the last of which Duran could understand. " . . . my brother would say."
"How's Sal to know? He's not . . ."
Duran stiffened, and very slowly drew back into his shop. His pulse beat in his ears and he felt his face go hot. Sal? Saladar?
That was the Duke's youngest son.
Which would make the tall young man—
Brovor. Heir to the duke of Targheiden.
Duran's mouth went dry. He had just treated the second most important man in the Duchy for the pox. For a disease that, if left untreated, could have robbed the Duke of his chosen heir.