But he heard the gossip they left in their wake. He heard people mutter—sorcery . . .
"Duran."
He looked up: Ithar stood at his side, a mug of ale in one burly hand.
"Mind if I join you?"
Duran shook his head and gestured to a chair.
"Saw them snot-nosed rich boys tryin' to bother you," Ithar said, sitting down. "Don't you let 'em get to you, Duran. Them kind ain't worth more than fish food." His dark eyes sparkled. "An' maybe the fish'd spit 'em back."
"Sometimes it's hard to ignore them," Duran admitted. "Them and their money."
Ithar cocked his head. "Why?"
"Hladyr only knows. I can't think of anything I'd want from them."
"Fah! You just remember that them kind don't never do nothin' for anyone but themselves. They may have all the money an' importance, but they can't take it with 'em."
Duran drew a deep breath. "I think you're right, Ithar, but there are times when I'd like to punch their smirking faces in, and me, a gentleman."
"Don't waste your time. You got better things to do." Ithar crossed his arms on the tabletop. "That Sabirn boy of yours workin' out?"
He looked hopefully at Ithar. So maybe the damage was not that widespread. "Aye. I wish I'd thought to hire someone long ago. I never thought I had the money for it"
"An' Sabirn come cheap."
Duran nodded. "I've been doing all right lately than I've seen in years. I might be able to buy some better equipment for the shop if things keep going so well. I might want some smithing. . . ."
"Be glad of the work. But you just be careful, Duran. An' you tell that boy of yours to keep his head down an' never look like he's doin' anythin' but run for you. You understand?"
"Zeldezia's been talking again."
"It's not only that," Ithar said. "It's that hanging—"
"The boy's nothing but an orphaned kid! He's damn sure no wizard, let alone any—"
"No, no. I didn't mean it that way." Ithar lowered his voice. "We ain't seen no necromancers in years, Duran. Not in years. Now they go an' find themselves one that's probably been spellin' the weather . . . bringin' on the storms and such . . . An' maybe that's it an' now it'll stop—"
"I don't believe anyone can control the weather," Duran said. "Not even the Duke's wizards, else he wouldn't have lost so many ships at sea."
"Ah, but what if his enemies got themselves a bunch of wizards to counteract his wizards? Eh? What then?"
Duran closed his eyes. What had caused his father to fall from power and the friendship of the Duke? Was it wizards again?
"You just keep yourself out of trouble, Duran . . . an' keep an eye on that lad. Whatever that necromancer did, she got caught at it."
"Or, she was an easy one to blame for the bad weather," Duran suggested. "Some poor old soul—"
"Duran. Duran, lissen to me. That necromancer they hung?—She was Sabirn."
Duran left "The Swimming Cat" earlier than was normal for him, while the rain was still falling and lightning played in the heavy clouds. He ran across the street, stood in the windy space beneath his second story overhang, and cursed the key that stuck in the lock. The warm feeling of late afternoon had disappeared from his heart, leaving coldness behind . . . a coldness next to fear.
Gods above and below! If Targheiden's folk decided that Sabirn were at fault for the weather—
He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it behind the door, absent-mindedly patted Dog, who stepped outside to his nightly duties all oblivious to hazards—
He resolved to say something to Kekoja in the morning, warn the boy—gods, how did one explain such lunacy to a boy?—warn the boy to keep the lowest profile he could.
And himself? Damn. He was Ancar. His personal danger was negligible. He was no courtier, had no enemies with political reasons—he refused to be a coward, could not turn back from what he had done, from hiring Kekoja . . . honor forbade that. Pride did. He could not desert the boy—or fling him off, out of some stupid, weaseling fear—
By the time Duran had lit his lamp, Dog came back into the shop, stopping in the doorway and shaking the rainwater from his coat. He sat down, scratched at one ear, then jumped to his feet and whirled about.
"Sor Duran."
Old Man stood in the doorway beneath the overhang . . . Old Man, and Kekoja.
"Come in," Duran said, wiping his hands on his tunic. Gods hope there was no problem. He tried to tell himself it was other-wise, a personal business. Gods, who might be seeing him here, from the "Cat's" door? "Come in, you'll drown out there."
He lit the lamp hanging above the counter and turned up the wick in the other. Old Man and Kekoja came into the shop, shook the worst of the rain from their cloaks, and sat down on the floor.
"What can I do for you?" Duran asked, coming round the counter to face his guests.
Old Man's dark eyes were steady in the lamplight. "You left early tonight, Sor Duran. I've come to tell you that story I promised you."
A sense of guilt washed over Duran—for all his fears. For a woman hanged . . . For thinking—instantly—why? What will the neighbors think?
"Please." He shut the door against the rain—wondering again who might see, as if that door being shut—made it clear it was no case of Old Man being customer. But he hated cowardice. "Can I get you tea?"
"Tea, yes, thank you," Old Man said; and Duran got the pan he used for tea, lit a spill, and fired up the little apothecary's stove at the end of the counter—while Old Man settled into the only chair, while Kekoja settled cross-legged at his feet—
Like some personage with his escort.
"Thank you," Old Man said, when Duran brought the tea, and sipped it while Duran found himself a seat on the stool, his own cup in hand. . . .
"This is a story I doubt our neighbors would appreciate," Old Man said after several sips. "You've asked me several times what things were like before our empire fell. Well, I thought I'd tell you a story about those last days, if you want to listen."
Duran's heart beat in fear. "Of course I'll listen." He realized in his panic what Old Man was offering—he knew what he ought to do, and set the teacup down on the counter at his elbow. "Did your grandson tell you I keep such stories written down? To prevent their being lost? Do you mind?"
"No. Write anything you like."
Duran hurried behind his counter and pulled out a sheet of coarse paper and a stick of charcoal. Seating himself on his stool, the paper on the counter, he took up the teacup again, poised himself anxiously to take notes.
Old Man smiled and began his story. At the first, it seemed a mere recounting of old myths, old accounts reassuringly -familiar—agreeing with what the Temple held the world was like a thousand years ago: the barbaric Armu had pushed eastward across the Irdanu River into Pesedur, thrust out of their homelands themselves by the tall, fair Ancar. Kingdom after kingdom fell to Armu hordes and Ancari armies, all advancing toward the west and the heart of the Empire.
Then Jarrya fell, the breadbasket of the inner world, and the Ancar came southward into the Sabirn peninsula—toward the capital, where authority tottered—as at sea, Sakar harbored pirates and worse, sitting poised to do any kind of damage they could to failing shipping . . . taking advantage of the Empire's weakness, adding to that weakness by raiding ships, ruining mercantile houses . . . increasing poverty and dissent—
Duran dutifully made brief notes, interested that once Targheiden had been called Cerinde and that fabled Sakar was now known as the Sacarres. But of greater matters, secret matters, he heard nothing he had not been told before, albeit in pieces and disconnected as a whole.