But there were hopeful signs. Today, for instance, Brovor and Saladar were not feuding—an unusual but welcome sight.
"Your Grace . . ."
The door to the hall had opened: his steward entered, paused, and ushered two black-clad men into the room: Ladirno and Wellhyrn. Hajun smiled in greeting, though his heart was not in it. He wanted nothing to do with their speeches or demonstrations today; but—in a slow day—they promised, perhaps, diversion. . . .
"Wellhyrn, Ladirno," he called out, stirring in his chair. "You attend me in vile weather, gentlemen. I do commend your faithfulness."
The two alchemists bowed and approached the dais, past the idle courtiers, conversations briefly paused, the eternal estimating glances following whoever walked that route. Wolves, Hajun thought, estimating the town dogs.
"Dreadful day, isn't it?" Hajun gestured Ladirno and Wellhyrn to be at ease, hardly interrupted his signing of permissions and warrants, thick on the desk.
"The river's beginning to flood the Slough," Wellhyrn said. "As I'm sure Your Grace has heard. . . ."
"Good riddance." Hajun signed another document and blotted it, guarding his sleeve. "Surely there's something else going on in Targheiden besides the floods."
Ladirno glanced at Wellhyrn and bowed slightly, lowered his voice. "If it please Your Grace, we've come here today for a reason."
"Aside from keeping me company while the storms rage? Laudable. I need diversion."
Neither man reacted to his sarcasm, and Hajun felt briefly cheated. Town dogs indeed.
"A matter somewhat touching the Guild," Ladirno continued, leaning a bit forward in his chair. "Something—of great -delicacy—"
"So tell me, man. Don't let me die of old age before you get around to it."
This time a faint flush stole across Ladirno's face. Hajun chided himself for being snappish: Ladirno and Wellhyrn were hardly responsible for the vile weather. He smiled quickly, to pass off his words as levity.
"It involves the Sabirn, lord," Ladirno said, "and one of your court."
"Oh?" Hajun's quill stopped on its way to the inkwell. "One of my—court?"
Wellhyrn cleared his throat, attempted to whisper: "One of our colleagues—"
Hajun beckoned him up a step on the dais. Both advanced anxiously.
"One of our colleagues," Wellhyrn said, "a member of this court—at least—in entitlement, if not in fact."
Hajun felt his wife's eyes on him, and lowered his voice. "Who's involved?"
"Duran vro Ancahar."
Hajun let out his breath. "So. Duran's hardly one of the luminaries of this court," Hajun said. "In fact, it's been a long time since he's even darkened my door."
Ladirno nodded and gestured quickly. "That may be true, lord, but he has access here. As well as to the Guild."
"He's been known for years—to have contacts among the Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, keeping his voice as low as his companion's. "Being his colleagues, as Ladirno said, we have a professional -responsibility to report—" The young man glanced around, and lowered his voice further. "—possible involvement in the dark arts."
Hajun blinked. "Duran?"
"There's perhaps reason he keeps to Old Town, that he's—ignored your late father's generous restoration of his rights. He goes off into the hills with the Sabirn. He's taken a Sabirn into his house. There are rumors—" Wellhyrn coughed. "—of moral nature. He ignores his priest—his closest associates are Sabirn."
"Why?"
"Why indeed, Your Grace," Wellhyrn said. "In this most unusual summer—in this year of disasters—why these nightly visitors, why these strange associations, why this sudden distance from his priest?"
"Which is strange," Ladirno said. "Duran's always seemed to be religious in his own way."
"Huhn." Hajun studied the two alchemists. There was something going on here, something that lurked beneath the surface of their ready concern. He had not seen that concern evidenced so obviously before. Maybe there was a great deal going on he had not paid close attention to.
"Its a matter of concern," Wellhyrn said. "Understand: we know this man. We mark changes in him. And considering his discovery, his trade in—medicines certain individuals might have reason to want in extreme secret—there's such a chance for blackmail. Understand, Your Grace, we've no proof. But we've abundant witnesses of his Sabirn contacts. This boy—a storyteller at a certain tavern—whom he entertains late, behind closed doors—an Ancar nobleman, Your Grace. In these anxious times . . ."
"Your Grace," said Ladirno, spreading his hands, "it's well known that all Sabirn practice the dark arts in one way or another. Their very gods . . ."
Hajun nodded. He looked up at the windows—at the perpetual, unnatural spatter of rain.
Wellhyrn said softly: "I know you've been concerned, lord, by the weather. As have we all. Uncommon. Malicious. Flooding in the Slough."
"The necromancer they hanged," Ladirno said, softer still, "Your Grace, she was Sabirn. But not the only Sabirn."
"All Targheiden knows you've lost ships," Wellhyrn said. "If it were a plot—how better to undermine the duchy? Even the kingdom itself . . ."
Hajun stared at the two men, forcing his face expressionless.
"Why would Sabirn," Wellhyrn said, "woo someone like Duran? And why doesn't he return to court?"
"Jorrino, Chadalen," Hajun said, beckoning the two of his court wizards in the hall. "Master Jorrino. Master Chadalen. These two gentlemen have suggested Sabirn agency turning the weather against me. Is there any chance of this being true?"
Chadalen was a tall fellow, his dark blond hair and blue eyes speaking of mixed Ancar heritage. He bowed slightly. "Anything is possible, Your Grace."
Jorrino, the elder of the two wizards, shook his head. "We're aware of the hanging. But whether it's so—I can't answer. We simply don't know enough about them to say for sure. It's very difficult to locate a wizard by his effects—unless you know his motives, Your Grace."
Hajun leaned on the armrest of his chair and propped his chin in his hand. Everyone knew the Sabirn for demon worshippers, down to the last child of them. He remembered their dark, silent faces, seen from his remote viewpoint of royal carriage or shipboard. He remembered their soft, unintelligible language, the way they seemed to drift from shadow to shadow—servants, even in the highest houses, clinging to dark, ancient gods, even those who professed to convert—one always had to doubt—
"Lord?"
He looked up: the two wizards and the alchemists were watching him, waiting for some reaction.
"Could the Sabirn be responsible for the bad turn in the weather?" he asked.
"It's certainly possible." Jorrino shrugged. "They operate outside the jurisdiction of the Temple. We've thought mostly of foreign enemies. But—if there are secrets we've not yet met, I suppose—I suppose if one truly dealt in the dark arts, which we do not, Your Grace! Being gods-fearing men—one might indeed gather enough power to control the weather."
Hajun frowned. Gods above! If the rumor about the Sabirn wizards was true, could they be behind the bad luck that had been plaguing his trade fleet? Was it possible they were powerful enough to ill-wish him in such a fashion despite his wizards—who confessed to their own impotence against forbidden, ungodly magics—