"I doubt the boy has anything to do with powers—dark or light. He's a frightened kid—"
"Duran. This boy—this boy sleeping in your house—is an agent of deception. Of temptations—"
Duran snorted. "Why? Because they're dark, short, and speak a different language? This is a fourteen-year-old—"
"They're wizards. Demon-worshippers. Dealers with the dark. They reject the worship of Hladyr."
"Were they ever invited to worship him?" Duran asked.
Vadami's face tightened. "They could come to the Temple if they wanted to . . . if they evidenced a sincere desire to change their ways. But none of them has ever done that. They've no souls. They can't repent."
"That's for priests to say," Duran said, making a desperate effort to avoid controversy. "They're servants in all the noble houses. I see no difference in principle. . . ."
"What's wrong with you, Duran? Of course there's a difference. They're servants. But you deal with them, you trade with them. . . ."
Duran spread his hands. "They're the only help I can afford—when I can afford it at all."
For a moment, Duran thought that he might have broken through the priest's narrow view of things, but Vadami's face hardened. "So you take this boy into your employ—"
"Not my employ!"
"They're already starting to bespell you, just like Zeldezia said. Duran, I'm warning you. Don't have anything to do with the Sabirn! If you do, you'll be denying Hladyr and all his works. You know the Book of the Shining One, where it says:
Duran rubbed his eyes wearily. "I received an excellent education in my father's house. I know the words of the Book, too, like:
Vadami frowned deeply; from the expression in his eyes, he hardly expected to be met verse with verse.
"You twist things. You twist them into that you want to believe. Beware arrogance. Most of all beware arrogance. The holy words don't apply here."
Duran worked sweating hands, searched for persuasive argument. "I'd not quarrel, Father. I assure you—I'll be in Temple."
"I fear for your soul, Duran. I truly do. You're better educated than folk hereabout: and because of that you can use the holy words—but don't misuse them. I urge you, urge you most strongly, don't let the Sabirn fool you. They're minions of darkness. I'm afraid for your soul, Duran, I'm afraid for all those around you."
"I'll be careful, Father."
"Surely, with all your learning, you've heard stories of their wizards? There was one named Siyuh—feared in all the northlands. They say that Siyuh and his followers could make fire leap from their hands—a pact with the Dark—"
"A thousand years ago."
"Will you wager our soul on it?" The priest shook his robes free, stepped off to the walk, and looked back at Duran. "Please, Duran . . . as you hope for Hladyr's heaven . . . have nothing more to do with the Sabirn. Don't think I'm persecuting you. I'll be offering up daily prayers for you."
"Thank you, Father."
"Hladyr save. Good evening."
The priest turned and walked away down the darkened street.
Duran stood, numb a moment. Dog came ambling out of the shadows, sat down, and nuzzled at his hand.
O Lord Hladyr, Duran thought, Shining One, maker of all things. If you are Lord of everything . . . are you also Lord of hate?
Behind him—muffled by the shut door, he heard a footstep.
Gods! Brovor!
Duran opened the door without letting Dog in, slipped hastily inside—
"Took your own damn time, didn't you?" Brovor walked out of the shadows. "What was that?"
"I'm sorry. It was the local priest. He's the last one I'd think you'd want to know you're here."
"Damn!"
"He's gone," Brovor's companion said. "Lord, let's be out of here."
"I needn't remind you," Brovor said, "of discretion."
"I am," Duran said, "discreet."
Brovor dug in his purse. Laid down a gold piece. A second.
"One," Duran said. "One is enough, lord. Discretion is part of the charge."
A moment the blue eyes stared at him above the muffling cloak—straight at him. Sweat ran on Duran's ribs.
"Who's upstairs?"
"A sick old man, lord. Quite deaf."
Brovor stared, fingering his sword-hilt. At last, he nodded briefly, motioned to his comrade, left.
Duran stared at the closed door, long after the two young lords had gone. Gods! Vadami on his doorstep, the Duke's heir hiding in his shop, the Sabirn boy upstairs! His knees were shaking, now that he was alone. Dog settled down by the counter, another one of the butcher's bones between his paws, his tail wagging slowly back and forth. Duran smiled bleakly.
"Dog, you have the answer to an easy life, don't you? When things start getting bad, go off into some corner, curl up with a good bone, and watch the world go by."
Dog wagged his tail again and gnawed at his dinner. Duran shook his head. One moment's thought, one moment's recollection on Brovor's part, and Brovor might remember him—Brovor might think he had motives—
Brovor seeking a state marriage, on which peace or war might depend—
And a Sabirn boy in the question—he wondered if Zeldezia had any idea what she might have done by telling about the Sabirn boy. He doubted it. Zeldezia more than likely never thought beyond the moment she spoke.
But who might Vadami tell—and where might it go? Duran rubbed his bearded chin. Again, he did not think he was dealing with a malicious soul; Vadami was merely . . . pious.
And if Vadami told one of his superiors, he might find himself in the temple answering questions. On the other hand, if Vadami told some of his secular friends, they might—
Duran squared his shoulders. No use trying to foretell the future. For his entire adult life he had walked a fine line between respectability and notoriety: an alchemist without Guild connections could hope for little else.
Best, he thought, best try to put the best face on things—do things in the open, where it regarded the boy—
Daylight on a sore—worked some cure. So might public exposure of a situation—the boy in some ordinary, harmless context—stop the speculations.
He stooped, patted dog on the head, took the lamp, and walked back to the stairs, up the steps—
To the door where Kekoja sat up in the bed and set aside a—Duran stared. A book? Gods!
The boy—reading?
He set his lamp down on his desk and faced Kekoja. The Sabirn lad stared back, his eyes dark pools in the lamplight.
"Sorry," Duran said. "That took me longer than I thought. What were you reading?"
Kekoja's eyes wavered. "Just looking at the pictures."
Duran walked over to the bedside and picked up the book. It was one of his philosophy books, a rather dry treatise by a fellow named Artoni who had written several centuries in the past. Duran lifted an eyebrow and ruffled the pages.