The plot . . . always the plot.
When one of those little, dark people looked at him, he had always shuddered.
"Chadalen . . . if the Sabirn are ill-wishing this weather on Targheiden, can you and your colleagues deflect their power?"
Chadalen looked worried. "We can only try, Your Grace. -Perhaps—abandoning our concentration on foreign enemies, directing our attention much closer to home—may make us of more effect."
Hajun rubbed his eyes, looked again at the four men facing him: the two alchemists' faces betraying nothing of what passed in their thoughts; the two wizards, impressive in their dark robes, equally expressionless.
Damn! He felt forced into a corner, beset with maybe and might-be.
Duran was hardly a threat to Ladirno's position, or Wellhyrn's, for that matter. They had no reason for professional jealousy. Duran had bothered no one, never tried to ease his way back into favor.
But consorting with Sabirn, leaning toward use of the dark arts, and of possibly plotting the end of Ancar rule over Targheiden—could a son's bitterness over his father's exile go that far?
Hajun took a deep breath. "So be it," he said and sat up straight in his chair. "I'll bring Duran in for questioning."
CHAPTER NINE
The common room of "The Swimming Cat" stood almost empty; most of the customers were travelers marooned at the inn by the storm. The neighborhood folk had left a while ago, rain or no rain, to return to their shops and finish out their business day.
Duran sat at his table, taking longer than normal for his lunch. Lunch. He smiled to himself. Hiring Kekoja as his runner had given him enough of a profit that he had decided he could afford lunch. It was fish, to be sure, but it was warm, and the ale that had accompanied it tasted ever so much better than water.
Tut walked up, a mug of ale in his hands. He had finally finished setting out clean mugs behind the bar, and supervising the cleanup of the tables after his noontime customers had left. Now it was Tut's turn to sit for a while, to relax before preparing his staff for the dinner crowd.
"So," he said, sitting down at Duran's table. "That kid of yours doin' real fine for you, ain't he? I can't remember a time when you been in here for a meal other than breakfast or dinner."
Duran nodded. "Aye, Tut. I can afford a mug of ale every noon now, a hot lunch now and again. And perhaps a meat pie for dinner, who knows?"
Tut took another swallow of ale and lowered his voice. "Keep your eyes on that Zeldezia. She been goin' around talkin' 'bout you again."
"Hladyr bless! Now what?"
"She been sayin' you're comin' close to demon-worship yourself. She says even the good priest ain't been able to change your mind."
"Gods, why doesn't she stay out of my business. That boy doesn't bother her at all—he's never been around when she's come to my shop. Why can't she leave me alone?"
Tutadar dipped one fingertip in a puddle of spilled ale, and drew an idle pattern on the tabletop. "'Cause you don't pay her no mind, Duran. She don't like people who pay her no mind. Now if you were to tell her you'd think 'bout what she been tellin' you, maybe she'd leave you alone."
"For a while."
"For a while," the innkeeper agreed. "But you don't tell her what she wants to hear, you see? You ignore her, an' go on 'bout livin' your life, fine as you please. That must be eatin' at her."
"Why can't she bother someone else?" Duran asked. "You'd think she'd grow bored with me."
A wide grin crossed Tut's face. "You're a challenge. I don't think she's ever met anyone who don't pay her no mind." He gestured briefly. "The rest of us . . . we just tell her what she wants to hear an' then go on 'bout our business. You tell her what she don't want to hear."
Life was an eternal compromise in Old Town. One compromised with what one bought, not having the money to afford better. Where one lived was a compromise, for the same reason. And, as Tut had said, dealing with people one met or had to deal with on a daily basis, was an eternal compromise.
Duran had learned many lessons living in Old Town, but compromising what he believed in was something he found the hardest. It galled him even more to give in on something when it made, or should have made, no difference to anyone else one way or the other.
"Maybe so," he admitted, "but, gods, Tut!"
"Hey," Tut said, "you want to shut her up, there's one way."
"What's that?"
"Sleep with 'er."
"Good gods, Tut!"
Tut shrugged. "'At's what she wants."
"And then I'd have her for good and all. Thank you, no!"
"Long as you don't—she's got nothin' to do but stew an' be religious. Mostly it's that Sabirn kid. I been tellin' you that, an' I thought you understood."
"I do understand, but, gods, she should be able to see the lad isn't driving her business away, that no one in the neighborhood has had anything stolen. None of the other neighbors are put out by his working for me—"
Tutadar looked down into his ale, swirled it a few times, and slowly lifted his eyes. "It ain't exactly that way, Duran."
A cold chill ran Duran's spine. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Guess I am," Tutadar said softly.
"By the gods! What is it that they're upset about now? I thought between me, you, and Ithar, they'd calmed down."
"They had," Tut said, shaking his head, "but Zeldezia been talkin' necromancy and demon worship. An' nobody's real comfortable with that—"
"Me either, Tut, and you know it."
Tutadar met Duran's eyes. "I know it. I knowed you for years and you never been into the dark arts that I could see, but them Sabirn dabble in demon worship all the time."
"I'm sure they have their own forms of wizardry. So do we. You use what works in this world, and wizardry works. Up to a point." He leaned his elbows on the table. "Beyond that point, it's only conjecture. Period. I've yet to see anyone use wizardry the way it's portrayed in the sagas and poems. That's storytellers' fables. If such things really could work, don't you think we'd see evidence of it all around us?"
"Well, you got a point. But most folk don't have your mind, Duran. We never been educated like you. We can only believe what we hear."
"Have you seen any wizardry lately . . . real wizardry, not street-seller wizardry?"
"No. Can't say I have. But Zeldezia, she been talkin' 'bout the dark arts, not somethin' you'd see everyday."
"Dandro's hells! Just because some people are different from others, does that mean they're evil?"
"I s'pose not. But, I still don't like them little people 'round my inn." The innkeeper lifted a hand. "An' before you start in on remindin' me I still let Old Man stay here, you know what I think 'bout that. He's old an' crippled, an' he don't bother no one. I'm talkin' the young ones, the ones who don't like us any more'n we like them. Who's to say they ain't using the dark arts?"
"You think the boy who works for me is a demon worshipper?"
Tutadar's gaze wavered. "Maybe not him . . . he always been polite and nice to me when I seen him. But that don't mean other Sabirn ain't makin' pacts with demons. You ain't forgotten that necromancer they hung outside town, are you?"
Duran sighed. "No. I haven't forgotten. And I've warned the boy what happened, told him to be very quiet and very polite—"
"He better be quiet, if he knows what's good for 'em. If the neighbors suspect he been involved in anythin' smackin' of sorcery, they'll take it out on you."